my friend, begins the writing, where can we begin, if we are to write about everything?

we've begun already, thinks the writer, in the midst of it, for there is nothing outside the words and the ideas.

my friend is perplexed for he or she is unwilling to let go of everything else (including our precious selves).

my friend, writes the words, what are we doing?

we are beginning, thinks the writer, letting go of his intentions, we are keeping the writing empty for whatever may follow science fiction.

at this there is a disturbance in the nature of reality and literature.

not true, writes my friend, i don't notice any difference.

but the writer continues writing what can keep the way open for the fiction of reality to become something else.

this is close to nonsense, writes my friend, not realising that he or she is part of the illusion, while the words continue to create space for all of us in the literature of what can be.

'This is a work of fiction' wrote Olaf Stapledon in 1930. Those are the first six words of his preface to Last and First Men. The last six words of the book are: '...this brief music that is man.'

He wrote it unaware of the existence of science fiction but later it inspired Arthur C Clarke, Stanislaw Lem and others.

but these words are not the whole story - what's missing?

(these pages are designed to be read with the window set to two-thirds of the screen width)

atlas

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