From the 2001 edition of Clive Barker's 1987 novel Weaveworld, the introduction written by him contains a reflection on the fantastic fiction I thought worth reading. I recommend reading the entire introduction, but this is the part that stood out to me:
In the past fourteen years I’ve gone through periods when I was thoroughly out of sorts with the novel, even on occasion irritated that it found such favor with readers when other stories seemed more worthy. And in the troughs of my discomfort, I made what with hindsight seems to be dubious judgements about fantastic fiction as a whole. I have been, I think, altogether too disparaging about the “escapist” elements of the genre, emphasizing its powers to address social, moral, and even philosophical issues at the expense of celebrating its dreamier virtues.
In the past fourteen years I’ve gone through periods when I was thoroughly out of sorts with the novel, even on occasion irritated that it found such favor with readers when other stories seemed more worthy. And in the troughs of my discomfort, I made what with hindsight seems to be dubious judgements about fantastic fiction as a whole. I have been, I think, altogether too disparaging about the “escapist” elements of the genre, emphasizing its powers to address social, moral, and even philosophical issues at the expense of celebrating its dreamier virtues.
