Michael Swanwick's Blog, page 193
May 27, 2012
Nothing To Say
.
It's Sunday. No blog today.
*
It's Sunday. No blog today.
*
May 26, 2012
Aelita Complete
.
Aelita is over. It wound up today with a picnic. Which seemed appropriate since I'm currently reading the new translation of the restored text of Arkady and Boris Strugatsky's Roadside Picnic.
First, however, the group went to White River Cemetery to visit the graves of Vitaly Bugrov and Igor Khalymbadga. both of whom were very important to Urals science fiction. Bugrov was an important bibliographer who assembled the first comprehensive list of Russian science fiction. Khalymbadga was the founder of Aelita and the first editor of Urals Pathfinder magazine. The graveyard, like so many in Russia, was a forest, thronged with trees and grave markers. The gravestones were cleaned and flowers laid down. Then, after a respectful visit, we moved on.
Our destination was the monument marking the dividing line between Asia and Europe. That's it up above. But first we had to stop at the Memorial Complex for Victims of Political Oppression, honoring those killed in the Terror from the Thirties through the early Fifties. Nobody really enjoyed this but it being there, we had a moral duty to stop. The complex, a small portion of which you can see below, is chiefly a memorial list of the names of 18,474 people from Sverdlovsky Oblast and the Urals Region who were killed for political reasons during Stalin's rule. Some of them were shot at the site of the memorial.
We all returned to the bus in a somber mood.
Finally, the picnic! Food, good company, and lots of talk. You've been there yourself, so you know. The formal highlight of the picnic was the awarding of the Aeliter Award. Or rather awards. There was an Aeliter Award for most drunkenness during the convention and an Aeliter Award Second Class (which I persist in thinking of as the Aelhalfliter Award) as well, the first of which was filled with wine which the recipient had to down immediately.
I shall resist documenting the winners' names because they might someday apply for work with an employer who reads English. Nor will I mention the name of the foreign national who was given an Aeliter Third Class medallion. I'm sure it was only bestowed out of a misplaced sense of kindness anyway.
Immediately above: Note the plastic flies on the tip and base of the first-class Aeliter.
*
Aelita is over. It wound up today with a picnic. Which seemed appropriate since I'm currently reading the new translation of the restored text of Arkady and Boris Strugatsky's Roadside Picnic.
First, however, the group went to White River Cemetery to visit the graves of Vitaly Bugrov and Igor Khalymbadga. both of whom were very important to Urals science fiction. Bugrov was an important bibliographer who assembled the first comprehensive list of Russian science fiction. Khalymbadga was the founder of Aelita and the first editor of Urals Pathfinder magazine. The graveyard, like so many in Russia, was a forest, thronged with trees and grave markers. The gravestones were cleaned and flowers laid down. Then, after a respectful visit, we moved on.
Our destination was the monument marking the dividing line between Asia and Europe. That's it up above. But first we had to stop at the Memorial Complex for Victims of Political Oppression, honoring those killed in the Terror from the Thirties through the early Fifties. Nobody really enjoyed this but it being there, we had a moral duty to stop. The complex, a small portion of which you can see below, is chiefly a memorial list of the names of 18,474 people from Sverdlovsky Oblast and the Urals Region who were killed for political reasons during Stalin's rule. Some of them were shot at the site of the memorial.
We all returned to the bus in a somber mood.
Finally, the picnic! Food, good company, and lots of talk. You've been there yourself, so you know. The formal highlight of the picnic was the awarding of the Aeliter Award. Or rather awards. There was an Aeliter Award for most drunkenness during the convention and an Aeliter Award Second Class (which I persist in thinking of as the Aelhalfliter Award) as well, the first of which was filled with wine which the recipient had to down immediately.
I shall resist documenting the winners' names because they might someday apply for work with an employer who reads English. Nor will I mention the name of the foreign national who was given an Aeliter Third Class medallion. I'm sure it was only bestowed out of a misplaced sense of kindness anyway.
Immediately above: Note the plastic flies on the tip and base of the first-class Aeliter.
*
May 25, 2012
Aelita Day Three (With Reward Results)
.
The Aelita Awards ceremony was held today. Up above are the big three. From left to right: The Ivan Yefremov Memorial Award, the Vitaly Bugrov Memorial Award, and the Aelita itself.
And the winners were . . .
The Aelita Award, for great contribution for the development of Russian science fiction and fantasy went to Russian-born Israeli writer Pavel Amnuel.
The Ivan Yefremov Memorial Award, for great contribution to critical studies, went to Andre Sinitsin.
The Vitaly Bugrov Memorial Award, for great contribution in the creation of story collections and nonfiction, went to Sergey Chekmaev.
The Order of the Knights of Science Fiction and Fantasy, for great contribution to the development of fandom, went to the staff of the website "Russian Fantastika."
Europe-Asia, for writers who reflect Ekaterinburg and the Urals in their work, went to Vladimir Molotilov.
The Order of Kindness and Light, for writers who promote in their work ideas of humaneness, kindness, and a positive attitude toward humanity, went to . . . oh drat, I cannot read my handwriting. I'll find out in the morning, correct this post, and add the information in tomorrow's post.
The winner of the short story contest was Kira Kalilinina.
The winner of the story in 100 minutes contest, a competition that was held yesterday in only an hour and forty minutes, was Julia Furzikova.
And finally, the Master of Sci-Fi and Fantasy Award, given to a foreign writer who, well, you know, went to (cough) me.
And now it's midnight here in Ekaterinburg and I have to get up early tomorrow. So I'll post more then. Good night, all.
*
The Aelita Awards ceremony was held today. Up above are the big three. From left to right: The Ivan Yefremov Memorial Award, the Vitaly Bugrov Memorial Award, and the Aelita itself.
And the winners were . . .
The Aelita Award, for great contribution for the development of Russian science fiction and fantasy went to Russian-born Israeli writer Pavel Amnuel.
The Ivan Yefremov Memorial Award, for great contribution to critical studies, went to Andre Sinitsin.
The Vitaly Bugrov Memorial Award, for great contribution in the creation of story collections and nonfiction, went to Sergey Chekmaev.
The Order of the Knights of Science Fiction and Fantasy, for great contribution to the development of fandom, went to the staff of the website "Russian Fantastika."
Europe-Asia, for writers who reflect Ekaterinburg and the Urals in their work, went to Vladimir Molotilov.
The Order of Kindness and Light, for writers who promote in their work ideas of humaneness, kindness, and a positive attitude toward humanity, went to . . . oh drat, I cannot read my handwriting. I'll find out in the morning, correct this post, and add the information in tomorrow's post.
The winner of the short story contest was Kira Kalilinina.
The winner of the story in 100 minutes contest, a competition that was held yesterday in only an hour and forty minutes, was Julia Furzikova.
And finally, the Master of Sci-Fi and Fantasy Award, given to a foreign writer who, well, you know, went to (cough) me.
And now it's midnight here in Ekaterinburg and I have to get up early tomorrow. So I'll post more then. Good night, all.
*
May 24, 2012
Aelita Day Two (in Which I Decline to Compete for a Coveted Award)
.
I'm still being lionized in Russia. This can't be good for my karma; but I have to admit it feels great to my ego. I'll probably have to put in several lifetimes as a mule to even the books.
Today there was an interview at the Itar Tass television station, followed by the launch of Aelita 008 , the fiction anthology associated with the convention, followed by a session where attendees could ask questions of me and of Pavel Amnuel.
Finally, there was a bookstore signing at 100000 Books. That's the actual name of the bookstore and so far as I can tell it's strictly descriptive. It brought home to me what a terrible thing it is not to be able to read Russian. There were so many books I wanted to dip into! The fans there asked many, many questions of me, Pavel, and Alexei Glushanovsky. It was a lively, wide-ranging and intelligent conversation.
Earlier, in the television studio, I noticed that there were forty framed photos of celebrities who had been interviewed on camera there, heavy hitters like Boris Yeltsin and his ilk. Among which was one single science fiction writer, a former guest of Aelita, who was . . .
No, no, not me. It was Robert Sheckley. The man's a literary god in Russia. They really get him there. Here's a terribly amateurish snapshot to prove I saw it:
After the events, a batch of us went to a cafe in the park to eat, drink, and talk, talk, talk. Convention organizer Boris Dolingo told me that among the convention's awards was an informal one dubbed the Aeliter, for the heaviest drinker of the convention. "No foreigner has ever won it," he told me. "Perhaps you'd like to try to be the first?"
Me? Get into a drinking competition with an entire convention's worth of Russians? "Oh my goodness, look at the time!" I said. "It's after eight o'clock. I really should be in bed."
And because you (would have) demanded it (had you known to ask) . . .
Here's a photo of some of the science fiction volumes in 100000 Books:
Top: At 100000 Books. Glushanovsky (left) and Amnuel (right).
*
I'm still being lionized in Russia. This can't be good for my karma; but I have to admit it feels great to my ego. I'll probably have to put in several lifetimes as a mule to even the books.
Today there was an interview at the Itar Tass television station, followed by the launch of Aelita 008 , the fiction anthology associated with the convention, followed by a session where attendees could ask questions of me and of Pavel Amnuel.
Finally, there was a bookstore signing at 100000 Books. That's the actual name of the bookstore and so far as I can tell it's strictly descriptive. It brought home to me what a terrible thing it is not to be able to read Russian. There were so many books I wanted to dip into! The fans there asked many, many questions of me, Pavel, and Alexei Glushanovsky. It was a lively, wide-ranging and intelligent conversation.
Earlier, in the television studio, I noticed that there were forty framed photos of celebrities who had been interviewed on camera there, heavy hitters like Boris Yeltsin and his ilk. Among which was one single science fiction writer, a former guest of Aelita, who was . . .
No, no, not me. It was Robert Sheckley. The man's a literary god in Russia. They really get him there. Here's a terribly amateurish snapshot to prove I saw it:
After the events, a batch of us went to a cafe in the park to eat, drink, and talk, talk, talk. Convention organizer Boris Dolingo told me that among the convention's awards was an informal one dubbed the Aeliter, for the heaviest drinker of the convention. "No foreigner has ever won it," he told me. "Perhaps you'd like to try to be the first?"
Me? Get into a drinking competition with an entire convention's worth of Russians? "Oh my goodness, look at the time!" I said. "It's after eight o'clock. I really should be in bed."
And because you (would have) demanded it (had you known to ask) . . .
Here's a photo of some of the science fiction volumes in 100000 Books:
Top: At 100000 Books. Glushanovsky (left) and Amnuel (right).
*
May 23, 2012
Aelita Begins!
.
The opening ceremonies for Aelita were held yesterday, with the usual short speeches and introductions and a concert by local band Ivanka. Who were, quiet frankly, terrific. But then, any music that includes a didgeridoo and a balalaika is going to be inherently interesting. Then a party at the Museum of Literary Life of the Urals in the Twentieth Century (a fascinating place with a room dedicated to a virtual display about UralsSF writers, some of whom were present) hosted by the American Consulate. Food and wine, accompanied by very good literary conversation, with me hurriedly jotting down the names of recommended writers.
And there I am above with Pavel Amnuel, Aelita Award laureate and now an Israeli author. It was a pleasure and an honor to meet him.
And I should mention that . . .
I either owe an apology to Ekaterinburg or to the seductive powers of the Internet for implying that it might be difficult for me to get onto the Web here. Eight years ago, it was so. Now, free Wifi is pretty much everywhere. So the only limit to my posting is going to be how busy I am.
Terribly busy, I hope. I want to accomplish as much as possible while I'm here.
And tomorrow . . .
I'll let you know about the first full day of the convention. And also (if I have the time and bandwidth) post a picture or two from this morning's stroll and my discovery of Engels Park.
*
The opening ceremonies for Aelita were held yesterday, with the usual short speeches and introductions and a concert by local band Ivanka. Who were, quiet frankly, terrific. But then, any music that includes a didgeridoo and a balalaika is going to be inherently interesting. Then a party at the Museum of Literary Life of the Urals in the Twentieth Century (a fascinating place with a room dedicated to a virtual display about UralsSF writers, some of whom were present) hosted by the American Consulate. Food and wine, accompanied by very good literary conversation, with me hurriedly jotting down the names of recommended writers.
And there I am above with Pavel Amnuel, Aelita Award laureate and now an Israeli author. It was a pleasure and an honor to meet him.
And I should mention that . . .
I either owe an apology to Ekaterinburg or to the seductive powers of the Internet for implying that it might be difficult for me to get onto the Web here. Eight years ago, it was so. Now, free Wifi is pretty much everywhere. So the only limit to my posting is going to be how busy I am.
Terribly busy, I hope. I want to accomplish as much as possible while I'm here.
And tomorrow . . .
I'll let you know about the first full day of the convention. And also (if I have the time and bandwidth) post a picture or two from this morning's stroll and my discovery of Engels Park.
*
The Year of the Three Monarchs
.I'm in Russia! The plane touched down in Ekaterinburg just after a rainstorm ended and the sun came out. There was a rainbow in the sky and my friend Boris Dolingo, who picked us up, said, "You were greeted by rain! In Russian that's a good meaning."
Now I'm sitting in the Bolshoy Ural Hotel, reading the new translation of Roadside Picnic , and there's music in the park across the street. Aelita starts tomorrow and I am content. I'll do my best to find time to blog about it.
Meanwhile, here's my latest publication. The Sword & Sorcery Anthology, edited by David G. Hartwell and Jacob Weisman, plonked down on my doorstep half an hour before I left Philadelphia, and it contains "The Year of Three Monarchs," three linked short-shorts written by yours truly.
There's an interesting story behind it: I donated three unwritten short-shorts to a charity auction and Jacob Weisman ended up high bidder. I'd specified that the winner got both the original typescripts and the right of first publication and control over them for something like three years before the rights reverted to me. Jacob told me he was embarrassed by how cheaply he'd gotten the rights, but that's okay. It wasn't his fault that other people weren't feeling generous that day.
Read the book, though. It looks great! And when you read my stories, reflect that they could have been yours.
*
May 22, 2012
Gardening Versus Travel
.
Two of the great attractors in life are the garden and the horizon. Unhappily, they are at odds and one must choose which one to neglect. So for the next ten days I'll be neglecting the garden. As of your reading this I should be in Ekaterinburg, probably sleeping off a very long flight but possibly awake again already and exploring the city.
When I'm home again on June 1, I'll start work restoring the garden to its proper state. In the meantime, I've added two more plants to the Shoe Garden in the backyard. It's still a work in progress but when it's done I expect it will be magnificent.
And as always . . .
I'll try to keep you posted while I'm in Russia. But that may not be possible. If it isn't, I promise to give you a tour of some of the highlights on my return.
Above: Traveling shoes.
*
Two of the great attractors in life are the garden and the horizon. Unhappily, they are at odds and one must choose which one to neglect. So for the next ten days I'll be neglecting the garden. As of your reading this I should be in Ekaterinburg, probably sleeping off a very long flight but possibly awake again already and exploring the city.
When I'm home again on June 1, I'll start work restoring the garden to its proper state. In the meantime, I've added two more plants to the Shoe Garden in the backyard. It's still a work in progress but when it's done I expect it will be magnificent.
And as always . . .
I'll try to keep you posted while I'm in Russia. But that may not be possible. If it isn't, I promise to give you a tour of some of the highlights on my return.
Above: Traveling shoes.
*
May 21, 2012
In Which I Receive a Brand New Award
.
I am fresh back from the Nebula Awards weekend, where I had the great pleasure of presenting the Nebula for Best Novel to Jo Walton for Among Others . Primary among those she thanked was her mother, "for being an evil person" and giving her novel/memoir a powerful villain. To understand which you'll simply have to read the book.
There were a great many pleasures to the weekend. Hanging with my best buds Eileen Gunn and Geoff Ryman, for instance. Or getting to call brand-new Grand Master (and old friend) Connie Willis an underachiever in front of her assembled peers. Listening to Marianne wonk about anthrax, Bubonic plague, and other favorites on the Epidemic Disease panel. Schmoozing with dozens of people I like enormously. Driving home in the company of Gardner Dozois and Susan Casper and talking about Life, Literature, and Everything.
But my personal highlight came when I was chatting with Geoffrey A. Landis and admired the little Space Shuttle pin he had affixed to his name tag. "You like it? I'll give it to you," he said. "I can buy another."
"I was hoping that it meant you'd been nominated for an award I wasn't familiar with. Like those little rockets they give Hugo nominees."
"I'll tell you what," Geoff said. "I'll make it an award -- the Geoffrey A. Landis Pretty Good Author Award! Which I now bestow upon you."
And with a flourish, he gave it to me.
I can't tell you how pleased I am with this award. I like Landis and I admire his fiction and from what I can tell his work as a NASA scientist is pretty damn cool. So this is a welcome honor.
There's the award up above, transferred to my own badge for safe keeping.
(Those of you who caught Geoff's reference to the Jerry Oltion Pretty Good Fiction Award may award themselves an extra ten points.)
And as always . . .
I'm on the road again. If you're reading this anytime after noon today, I'm on my way to Russia. I'll try to keep you posted, but as history teaches us, there are no guarantees in Russia.
*
I am fresh back from the Nebula Awards weekend, where I had the great pleasure of presenting the Nebula for Best Novel to Jo Walton for Among Others . Primary among those she thanked was her mother, "for being an evil person" and giving her novel/memoir a powerful villain. To understand which you'll simply have to read the book.
There were a great many pleasures to the weekend. Hanging with my best buds Eileen Gunn and Geoff Ryman, for instance. Or getting to call brand-new Grand Master (and old friend) Connie Willis an underachiever in front of her assembled peers. Listening to Marianne wonk about anthrax, Bubonic plague, and other favorites on the Epidemic Disease panel. Schmoozing with dozens of people I like enormously. Driving home in the company of Gardner Dozois and Susan Casper and talking about Life, Literature, and Everything.
But my personal highlight came when I was chatting with Geoffrey A. Landis and admired the little Space Shuttle pin he had affixed to his name tag. "You like it? I'll give it to you," he said. "I can buy another."
"I was hoping that it meant you'd been nominated for an award I wasn't familiar with. Like those little rockets they give Hugo nominees."
"I'll tell you what," Geoff said. "I'll make it an award -- the Geoffrey A. Landis Pretty Good Author Award! Which I now bestow upon you."
And with a flourish, he gave it to me.
I can't tell you how pleased I am with this award. I like Landis and I admire his fiction and from what I can tell his work as a NASA scientist is pretty damn cool. So this is a welcome honor.
There's the award up above, transferred to my own badge for safe keeping.
(Those of you who caught Geoff's reference to the Jerry Oltion Pretty Good Fiction Award may award themselves an extra ten points.)
And as always . . .
I'm on the road again. If you're reading this anytime after noon today, I'm on my way to Russia. I'll try to keep you posted, but as history teaches us, there are no guarantees in Russia.
*
May 18, 2012
Dead Again
.
Is there any editor ever whom I've loved so much as Jim Turner? I can't think of one. Of an afternoon, I'd be minding my own business, working, when the phone would ring. A brisk, no nonsense voice would say"Listen, Swanwick, I don't have time for any of your nonsense. I just want an answer to my question and then I'll hang up."
"Hello, Jim. It's good to hear from you," I'd say, knowing that if I played my cards right I could keep him on the line for hours. Mind you, there are vanishingly few people I'd care to talk to on the phone for hours. Jim was one of them. "Have you read the new Lucius Shepard story?" I'd ask in faux innocence.
"No! What?? Is it any good?" Jim would ask in a fit of paranoid worry that maybe somehow -- and this would the worst possible thing in the world for him because he loved Shepard's fiction above all others -- Lucius had lost it.
Which of course Lucius most emphatically had not. But by then I had my hooks in him and bang! there would go the afternoon.
One day Jim called me. "Listen, Swanwick, I have no time for your nonsense. I just want to know if --"
"Hello, Jim. It's good to hear from you. I just wrote a zombie story."
"Yeahyeahyeah. What I wanted to ask you was --"
"It's a really good zombie story, Jim."
"Yeahyeahyeah. I'm sure it is. Anyway --"
"Aren't you going to ask me what its title is, Jim?"
An exasperated pause Then, "All right, Swanwick. What is its title?"
"I called it 'The Dead.'"
There ensued a very, very long pause, more expressive than the ten best pauses you've ever heard in your life. Then, in a tone that went beyond exasperation, Jim said, "You cannot give the title of the single.most famous story in the English language to a . . . zombie story!"
"Well, it's a really good zombie story," I replied mildly.
And all of that is prologue to . . .
You can now hear "The Dead" -- my story, not James Joyce's -- at The Drabblecast. Just click here.
And as always . . .
I'm on the road again! This weekend I'll be at the Nebula Awards. And on Monday I fly off to Ekaterinburg where I'll be a guest at Aelita, Russia's oldest science fiction convention. If I'm unable to update this blog as frequently as usual next week . . . well, there's the reason why.
Above: "His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead."
*
Is there any editor ever whom I've loved so much as Jim Turner? I can't think of one. Of an afternoon, I'd be minding my own business, working, when the phone would ring. A brisk, no nonsense voice would say"Listen, Swanwick, I don't have time for any of your nonsense. I just want an answer to my question and then I'll hang up."
"Hello, Jim. It's good to hear from you," I'd say, knowing that if I played my cards right I could keep him on the line for hours. Mind you, there are vanishingly few people I'd care to talk to on the phone for hours. Jim was one of them. "Have you read the new Lucius Shepard story?" I'd ask in faux innocence.
"No! What?? Is it any good?" Jim would ask in a fit of paranoid worry that maybe somehow -- and this would the worst possible thing in the world for him because he loved Shepard's fiction above all others -- Lucius had lost it.
Which of course Lucius most emphatically had not. But by then I had my hooks in him and bang! there would go the afternoon.
One day Jim called me. "Listen, Swanwick, I have no time for your nonsense. I just want to know if --"
"Hello, Jim. It's good to hear from you. I just wrote a zombie story."
"Yeahyeahyeah. What I wanted to ask you was --"
"It's a really good zombie story, Jim."
"Yeahyeahyeah. I'm sure it is. Anyway --"
"Aren't you going to ask me what its title is, Jim?"
An exasperated pause Then, "All right, Swanwick. What is its title?"
"I called it 'The Dead.'"
There ensued a very, very long pause, more expressive than the ten best pauses you've ever heard in your life. Then, in a tone that went beyond exasperation, Jim said, "You cannot give the title of the single.most famous story in the English language to a . . . zombie story!"
"Well, it's a really good zombie story," I replied mildly.
And all of that is prologue to . . .
You can now hear "The Dead" -- my story, not James Joyce's -- at The Drabblecast. Just click here.
And as always . . .
I'm on the road again! This weekend I'll be at the Nebula Awards. And on Monday I fly off to Ekaterinburg where I'll be a guest at Aelita, Russia's oldest science fiction convention. If I'm unable to update this blog as frequently as usual next week . . . well, there's the reason why.
Above: "His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead."
*
May 17, 2012
The Gods of the Valley are not the Gods of the Hills
.
Did you know that from 1777 to 1791, Vermont was an independent nation? Did you know that for years before that it was a functioning anarchy? It's a fascinating story and if you buy me a drink I can tell it to you whole. Oversimplifying wildly, the land in what is now Vermont was legally owned by New York land barons. The people who settled there, however, had bought New Hampshire land grants and believed the land was theirs.
Vermont's greatest hero, Ethan Allen is best known for taking Fort Ticonderoga during the American Revolution and for his reply when its general, roused from his sleep and still in his nightgown, demanded to know in whose name he was being called upon to surrender -- "In the name of the Great God Jehovah and the Continental Congress!" Though, he being an atheist, historians suspect he said something equally colorful but less printable.
Earlier, however, during a legal confrontation with the land barons' lawyers, who were trying to flatter him into cutting a deal, Ethan Allen sternly proclaimed, "The gods of the valleys are not the gods of the hills." In retrospect, this was the moment when Vermont came into being.
All of which is necessary background so you will understand why, when I was asked to choose a theme for last year's Ragged Warmer, a writing competition for young writers in Russia, I suggested: The gods of the valleys are not the gods of the hills.
I have just now learned that the winner of Ragged Warmer was Katerina Dovzhuk for her story "The Kachibey Opera House." Her story was published in the very fine Russian science fiction magazine Esli (its name means "If").
My sincerest congratulations to Ms Dovzhuk -- or, more properly, I should say to Katerina Bochilo, since she married not long after winning the competition. Since I also had my first story appear the same year as my wedding, I cannot help thinking this is a good omen. May Ms Bochilo go on to become twice as successful a writer as me. But may I first become twice as successful as writer as Pushkin.
Above: The summit of the Ethan Allen monument in Greenmount Cemetery, Burlington, a place I visited many times in my youth. Allen is buried somewhere in the cemetery but no one knows exactly where.
*
Did you know that from 1777 to 1791, Vermont was an independent nation? Did you know that for years before that it was a functioning anarchy? It's a fascinating story and if you buy me a drink I can tell it to you whole. Oversimplifying wildly, the land in what is now Vermont was legally owned by New York land barons. The people who settled there, however, had bought New Hampshire land grants and believed the land was theirs.
Vermont's greatest hero, Ethan Allen is best known for taking Fort Ticonderoga during the American Revolution and for his reply when its general, roused from his sleep and still in his nightgown, demanded to know in whose name he was being called upon to surrender -- "In the name of the Great God Jehovah and the Continental Congress!" Though, he being an atheist, historians suspect he said something equally colorful but less printable.
Earlier, however, during a legal confrontation with the land barons' lawyers, who were trying to flatter him into cutting a deal, Ethan Allen sternly proclaimed, "The gods of the valleys are not the gods of the hills." In retrospect, this was the moment when Vermont came into being.
All of which is necessary background so you will understand why, when I was asked to choose a theme for last year's Ragged Warmer, a writing competition for young writers in Russia, I suggested: The gods of the valleys are not the gods of the hills.
I have just now learned that the winner of Ragged Warmer was Katerina Dovzhuk for her story "The Kachibey Opera House." Her story was published in the very fine Russian science fiction magazine Esli (its name means "If").
My sincerest congratulations to Ms Dovzhuk -- or, more properly, I should say to Katerina Bochilo, since she married not long after winning the competition. Since I also had my first story appear the same year as my wedding, I cannot help thinking this is a good omen. May Ms Bochilo go on to become twice as successful a writer as me. But may I first become twice as successful as writer as Pushkin.
Above: The summit of the Ethan Allen monument in Greenmount Cemetery, Burlington, a place I visited many times in my youth. Allen is buried somewhere in the cemetery but no one knows exactly where.
*
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