Bill Brydon

“If my nightmare is a culture inhabited by posthumans who regard their bodies as fashion accessories rather than the ground of being, my dream is a version of the posthuman that embraces the possibilities of information technologies without being seduced by fantasies of unlimited power and disembodied immortality, that recognizes and celebrates finitude as a condition of human being, and that understands human life is embedded in a material world of great complexity, one on which we depend for our continued survival.”
― N. Katherine Hayles, How We Became Posthuman: Virtual Bodies in Cybernetics, Literature, and Informatics

“We do not know a planet that is home. We are always home. It is our job to see and map and learn languages and stories and carry them from place to place.”
― Nalo Hopkinson, So Long Been Dreaming: Postcolonial Science Fiction & Fantasy

“In light of recent events—genocide in East Africa, the collapse of democracy throughout the continent, the isolation of Cuba, the overthrow of progressive movements throughout the so-called third world—some might argue that the moment of truth has already passed, that Césaire and Fanon’s predictions proved false. We’re facing an era where fools are calling for a renewal of colonialism, where descriptions of violence and instability draw on the very colonial language of “barbarism” and “backwardness” that Césaire critiques in these pages. But this is all a mystification; the fact is, while colonialism in its formal sense might have been dismantled, the colonial state has not. Many of the problems of democracy are products of the old colonial state whose primary difference is the presence of black faces. It has to do with the rise of a new ruling class—the class Fanon warned us about—who are content with mimicking the colonial masters,”
― Aimé Césaire, Discourse on Colonialism

“What you doing? Stop leave me. Jesus. Bit me. Below the neckline of the dress. The. Bite. Hurt that. My breast. Through the stupid white my bothered skin. See blood come. Rings I think of teeth flower. You. Don’t. You don’t. Again. My lovely girl my love my. He says. Look at me. I’ll always have you in the end. Because I love you. Shut up. Best. So so so so? Well fuck you then. He says. Wipe up that. Put your bra. Fucking state you’re in. Don’t know a man loves you. Don’t know. Fucking mental that you. Dirty cunt like him. Well I liked it and I fucked it and I wanted it some more. You fucking. Shut your. Caught my, the roots, in my scalp like they’ll rip me. Coming. Uncle loving coming. Coming. We to. Home.”
― Eimear McBride, A Girl is a Half-Formed Thing