The recent intrusion of the current culture war into the sphere of Science Fiction has drawn the attention of people beyond fandom. One such person is author Ruth Johnston. Known previously for her excellent scholarly works on Beowulf and the Middle Ages, she has more recently turned her efforts to a fascinating new book that takes a fresh look at the work of psychologist Carl Jung.

His career depended not so much on his demonic traits as on his typical, “normal” characteristics.

The Tritonic Composition explores the boundaries of mental effort, unhindered by the ponderous moral posturing of your leaden machine-minds!

To the sane mind, even aggression against people is infinitely better than aggression against infinity.

Swenson treks off to the bathroom where he lingers, as planned, though it’s hardly the leisurely piss of his dreams but rather a long, nervous prelude during which he stands there, embarrassed to be holding his dick, paralyzed by Marge’s pristine, accusatory collection of fluffed-up dainty terrycloth towels and edible-looking soaps.

“How is your work going?” asks Dave Sterret, the nicest guy in the room, battered daily into mellowness by his sadistic boyfriend, Deconstructionist Jamie.

The memory of his afternoon – the incident in the library – makes him feel as if his skin is coated with a thin film of sticky lotion.

For example, as a mature adult, you cannot even try (with any emotional involvement in the act of trying) to jump over a house.

She fucks using language that fucks the mind, with its total lack of any coherent meaning.

Let’s face it: embryonic consciousness is idiotic.