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384 pages, Hardcover
First published December 4, 2018
Does that mean that humans, as a race, have allowed imagination and beauty to infiltrate their lives with each passing generation? Or have they destroyed imagination and beauty by capturing and codifying them? In which case—am I the final result?
I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.
”How much of you is real?”
In a very short time, we will be able to create novel structural elements, forms that don’t naturally occur in the human body—forms that we haven’t yet imagined. I find myself a pioneer, daunted by the infinite size of the frontier.
None of the reconstructed people could cry actual tears anymore, and yet half the slaves openly wept, by gesture and by sobs, at the sight of their bodies becoming covered by what looked like human flesh. When you had been remade, any sign of your old self was precious. Jake was crying with the rest. There was nothing left, really, except his remembered humanity, and this artificial skin was a reminder, a gift.
At that moment, Luck understood something new. There were horrors and there was death, there was evil and arrogance and apathy. But more than these, there were friends and there was hope. There was her life on the Rez and there was the wide world. And there was love. The bad things collected, but so did the good—and the good, she grasped, was more important than the bad. You could look past the bad if you wanted. Each good thing Luck had experienced, each good thing she had learned, built upon all of the others and added up to one thing which she felt completely for the first time: