Daryl Gregory
Award-winning author of Revelator, The Album of Dr. Moreau, Spoonbenders, We Are All Completely Fine, and others. Some of his short fiction has been collected in Unpossible and Other Stories.
He's won the World Fantasy Award, as well as the Shirley Jackson, Crawford, Asimov Readers, and Geffen awards, and his work has been short-listed for many other awards, including the Hugo, Nebula, and Sturgeon awards . His books have been translated in over a dozen languages, and have been named to best-of-the-year lists from NPR Books, Publishers Weekly, Kirkus, and Library Journal.
He is also the writer of Flatline an interactive fiction game from 3 Minute Games, and comics such as Planet of the Apes.
He's a frequent teacher of writing and is a regular instructor at the Viable Paradise Writing Workshop.
“You remember Ernest Angley? TV healer. He’d slap people’s foreheads—whap!—and they’d flop over, quivering like fish.” She hooted in laughter. “I used to love watching him. It was like professional wrestling for Baptists.”
“Jesus, he 's blogger," Pax said. "Arrest him, Deke.”
“Maybe everyone in the world was this inconsistent, this fragmented. All we could see of each other -- all we could see of ourselves -- was a ragged person-shaped outline, a game of connect-the-dots without enough dots.”
“The question, then, was how long could a human being stay awake? Keith Richards could party for three days straight, but I wasn't sure if he counted as a human being.”
“I met him in the hospital.' I saw the eyebrow raise in my peripheral vision. 'Yeah, that hospital. He believes that powerful telepaths are secretly in charge of the planet, and that they're possessing people for their own entertainment.' 'Powerful telepaths...' Lew said. 'Slan,' I said. Lew burst out laughing. 'You mean you didn't know that Slan was nonfiction?' I said. 'Bertrum belongs to an organization that believes that Van Vogt intentionally--' 'What did you say--Van Vaht? It's Van Voh.' 'No, it's not. You've gotta pronounce the T at least.' 'What, Van Vote? Don't be an idiot. I bet you still say Submareener.' 'My point--,' I said. 'And Mag-net-o.' '--is that Bertrum thinks Van Voggatuh used fiction to cloak the truth.' 'As opposed to say, your friend, P.K. Dick, and Whitley Strieber, and--' 'Streeber.' 'And L. Ron Hubbard, who just made shit up and said it was the truth.' 'Exactly.' Lew nodded. 'I find your ideas intriguing and I'd like to subscribe to your newsletter. What's the name of this fine organization?' 'It gets better,' I said. "The Human League." 'No way.' 'I'm not sure they realized the name was taken.' 'My god, Lew said. 'It's the perfect cover for an elite fighting force -- an eighties New Wave band! This is so Buckaroo Banzai.”
“Divine essence?' I said. 'Hey, I'm Fat Boy, I'll possess a guy and make him eat ten pounds of chocolate in one sitting! Yeah, that's divine, that's fucking deep, that's like ...' I couldn't think what that was like. It was like something, though.”
“We'd understood from high school on that it was Lew's job to make good grades, find a high-paying career, buy a two-story house in the suburbs, and generally become Dad. It was my job to fuck up. Occasionally this annoyed me, but most of the time I was comfortable with the division of labor. Lew's job was nearly impossible, and mine came naturally.”
“If this is what it's like to be human, he thought, no wonder the world is so fucked up.”