On quiet nights, they say, you can hear the wood creak and groan under the weight of all the many, many squid people. The squid people sing their songs to the sea, songs in slow, mournful, painful bellows. The sea doesn't want them, and the city doesn't want them either.
[...] SF writers and readers have a certain amount of luxury to get angry about their genre. All we have to do is point to our amazing subversive history and say, "You know, that book/short story was groundbreaking. Where's our next big mind-expanding/consciousness-raising work?"
Except that Johnny Hallyday is a rock star in France, and, somehow, that turns out to make all the difference.
Headcutting is old as woodcutting
