For the Love of Dystopia (or How I Learned to Let Go and Hate Utopia)

I have an odd fondness for dystopian stories. It's the kind of predilection that makes one wonder about one's stability. What is there to love in the corroded landscapes of 1984, The Road, or Dark City? Perhaps this fondness stems from the fact that I feel there is a lot to be learned from pain, but I think that there is more to this fascination. For the idealist who grows more and more aware of reality, this present life is a dystopia. To read or view these gloomy visions of alternate futures is simply seeing this current world in a metaphor. And often, buried deep within the Children of Men or V for Vendetta's of modern literature, is a seed of hope. It doesn't glow very brightly, sometimes it has to be unearthed, but it flickers dimly under the soil, waiting to blossom. For those of us who dream of change and justice and fairness, we cling to that flicker and bring it back with us into our own barren landscapes, with a renewed sense of action and even faith. Here's to V and Evey, to a father protecting his son, to John Murdoch, and to a mother with a miracle. Here's to dystopia.