LINKDING

Summary: <blockquote>“You really do a nice bird,” said Hua from her stepstool above Chimalus. He noticed a strand of black hair sticking to her cheek. She brushed it with the back of her hand which left a brown streak matching the branch she worked on. “It’s tough to get the tailfeathers right,” Chimalus said. “My name means Bluebird. Did you know that?” “How appropriate.” Hua leaned back and studied his work. “It’s American Indian, right? Do you know what tribe?” She braced her elbow against the unpainted wall below her tree then added a detail. The mural so far stretched along the hallway to their right until it curved up out of sight. To their left, unpainted metal, punctuated by doors and a corridor curved up too. Chimalus never shook the feeling he rested at a wheel’s bottom, like the bottom of a hamster wheel. A chatting couple strolled toward them, but neither glanced at the painting as they passed.</blockquote> ➤ about a stowaway on a generation ship ➤ also about art and being part of a community of amateur artists whose work is worthwhile ➤ I loved the details about the problems with microbial growth in a closed system full of humans who are constantly shedding skin particles, and that the main character sees it as an important job to be part of the clean-up ➤ the future is unknown but worth being a part of ➤ 7k words in length

<blockquote>Ludmila’s vision of “the place” seemed to have been etched deep into her consciousness as it continued to exert a supreme influence on her life. It was a place that appeared at once utterly real and completely imaginary, and she devoted her life to painting it. Each painting formed a discrete fragment of its landscape; yet taken as a whole, her oeuvre constructed an impossibly detailed and vivid sense of the spellbinding place that so clearly inhabited her mind. Journalists never stopped asking her, “What do you call this place, Ludmila?” But her response, as well as the flustered and somewhat apologetic look on her face, were always the same: “There is a name for it, in my head, but it’s as if I can’t say it out loud.”</blockquote>

<blockquote>“And what exactly am I supposed to have done?” He sighed. “Oh, don’t make me say it,” he said, “it sounds so silly. And, like I just said, I can’t prove it. Sure, I can point out that in the last year, forty-six people, rich and famous and influential people, who’ve had their portraits painted by you have suffered catastrophic strokes, leaving them paralysed and catatonic. But you would then point out, equally truthfully, that sixty-seven equally rich, famous and influential people have also been painted by you and are as fit as fiddles. And then you’d challenge me to tell the jury exactly how you’re supposed to have done these dreadful things, and I’d just shrug and admit I don’t have a clue, beyond basic philosophical and theological theory.” He was looking past me, at the bookshelf; Pacatian, and Saloninus’s Existence and Reality. I winced. A bit like hanging the murder weapon on your wall, mounted on a little plaque.</blockquote>