What a difference a moment makes.
I speak, albeit obliquely, of a single, solitary sequence at the very outset of Kim Stanley Robinson’s last novel; a prologue so powerful, a passage so painstakingly picturesque, that I would have recommended 2312 right there and then, solely on the basis of its first few pages.
Some months later, I named 2312 my favourite reading experience of the year because there was, fortuitously, much more to it than a brilliant beginning. But even if the rest of the book had been utter rubbish... even if its characters had left me cold and its narrative had meandered meaninglessly... even if its themes and ideas had been realised with a heavy hand... even then, the lonely, lovely—no, glorious moment with which it opens would have lent the remainder incredible resonance.
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