Mi-a apărut în Galileo recenzia unuia dintre cele mai reuşite romane SF din 2013 – The Violent Century de Lavie Tidhar. The Violent Century este una dintre puţinele creaţii cu super-eroi scrisă pentru adulţi, şi nu pentru publicul lui Avengers, adică maturii imaturi, după cum bine spune Alan Moore:
I haven’t read any superhero comics since I finished with Watchmen. I hate superheroes. I think they’re abominations. They don’t mean what they used to mean. They were originally in the hands of writers who would actively expand the imagination of their nine- to 13-year-old audience. That was completely what they were meant to do and they were doing it excellently. These days, superhero comics think the audience is certainly not nine to 13, it’s nothing to do with them. It’s an audience largely of 30-, 40-, 50-, 60-year old men, usually men. Someone came up with the term graphic novel. These readers latched on to it; they were simply interested in a way that could validate their continued love of Green Lantern or Spider-Man without appearing in some way emotionally subnormal. This is a significant rump of the superhero-addicted, mainstream-addicted audience (…) I don’t think the superhero stands for anything good. I think it’s a rather alarming sign if we’ve got audiences of adults going to see the Avengers movie and delighting in concepts and characters meant to entertain the 12-year-old boys of the 1950s.
Cred că Ubermensch nemuritori reprezintă o modalitate grozavă de a vorbi despre secolul XX, iar mărturia lui Paul McAuley despre bunicul său, despre cum influenţează războiul toate generaţiile, chiar şi cele care nu erau născute pe vremea lui, nu face decât să întărească acest lucru:
I’m vague about most details of his war service because he never talked about it. It marked him for the rest of his life: he was a taciturn, solitary man, and spent much of his time working alone, as a gardener. It marked his wife, my grandmother too, and their children, my uncle and my mother (who because of my father’s war service had a deep interest in Lawrence of Arabia, but that’s another story). Wars cast long shadows. But on this day I like to remember him pottering in his vegetable patch, in the green shade of a peaceful summer evening of the long ago. I like to think that digging was a kind of assertion. Not of victory, because that’s too strong a word, too loaded, but of nothing more than his survival of history.