XPost: alt.usage.english, rec.arts.books, rec.arts.sf.written   
   From: g@crcomp.net   
      
   Steve Hayes wrote:   
   > The True Melissa wrote:   
   >>Verily, in article <10lk4a9$2le82$3@dont-email.me>, did   
   >>noone@nowhere.com deliver unto us this message:   
   >>> > Niffenegger, Audrey. 2005. The time traveler's wife.   
   >>>   
   >>> Drek. A nonsensical attempt to outdo Nabokov's Lolita. Pathetic romance   
   >>> with handwavium time travel as a distraction.   
   >>   
   >>Huh, I enjoyed that one. It's not SF; it's a love story. Read as a love   
   >>story, it's nice IMO.   
   >   
   > It's more than a love story. It's based o  fictional science, without   
   > which it wouldn't work. I enjoyed it too,   
      
   Great observation! Here's a pertinent excerpt:   
      
       As I enter Dr. Kendrick's office, he is making notes in a file.   
       I sit down and he continues to write. He is younger than I   
       thought he would be; late thirties. I always expect doctors to   
       be old men. I can't help it, it's left over from my childhood   
       of endless medical men. Kendrick is red-haired, thin-faced,   
       bearded, with thick wire-rimmed glasses. He looks a little bit   
       like D. H. Lawrence. He's wearing a nice charcoal-gray suit and   
       a narrow dark green tie with a rainbow trout tie clip. An   
       ashtray overflows at his elbow; the room is suffused with   
       cigarette smoke, although he isn't smoking right now.   
       Everything is very modern: tubular steel, beige twill, blond   
       wood. He looks up at me and smiles.   
           "Good morning, Mr. DeTamble. What can I do for you?"   
       He is looking at his calendar. "I don't seem to have any   
       information about you, here? What seems to be the problem?"   
           "Dasein."   
           Kendrick is taken aback. " Dasein? Being? How so?"   
           "I have a condition which I'm told will become known as   
       Chrono-Impairment. I have difficulty staying in the present."   
           "I'm sorry?"   
           "I time travel. Involuntarily."   
           Kendrick is flustered, but subdues it. I like him. He is   
       attempting to deal with me in a manner befitting a sane person,   
       although I'm sure he is considering which of his psychiatrist   
       friends to refer me to.   
           "But why do you need a geneticist? Or are you consulting   
       me as a philosopher?"   
           "It's a genetic disease. Although it will be pleasant to   
       have someone to chat with about the larger implications of the   
       problem."   
           "Mr. DeTamble. You are obviously an intelligent man...I've   
       never heard of this disease. I can't do anything for you."   
           "You don't believe me."   
           "Right. I don't."   
           Now I am smiling, ruefully. I feel horrible about this,   
       but it has to be done. "Well. I've been to quite a few doctors   
       in my life, but this is the first time I've ever had anything   
       to offer in the way of proof. Of course no one ever believes   
       me. You and your wife are expecting a child next month?"   
           He is wary. "Yes. How do you know?"   
           "In a few years I look up your child's birth certificate.   
       I travel to my wife's past, I write down the information in   
       this envelope. She gives it to me when we meet in the present.   
       I give it to you, now. Open it after your son is born."   
           "We're having a daughter."   
           "No, you're not, actually," I say gently. "But let's not   
       quibble about it. Save that, open it after the child is born.   
       Don't throw it out. After you read it, call me, if you want   
       to." I get up to leave. "Good luck," I say, although I do   
       not believe in luck, these days. I am deeply sorry for him,   
       but there's no other way to do this.   
           "Goodbye, Mr. DeTamble," Dr. Kendrick says coldly. I   
       leave. As I get into the elevator I think to myself that he   
       must be opening the envelope right now. Inside is a sheet of   
       typing paper. It says:   
               Colin Joseph Kendrick   
               April 6, 1996 1:18 a.m.   
               6 lbs. 8 oz Caucasian male   
               Down Syndrome   
      
   --   
   Don.......My cat's  )\._.,--....,'``.                     veritas    _|_   
   telltale tall tail /,   _.. \   _\  (`._ ,.               liberabit   |   
   tells tall tales.. `._.-(,_..'--(,_..'`-.;.'              vos         |   
      
   --- SoupGate-Win32 v1.05   
    * Origin: you cannot sedate... all the things you hate (1:229/2)