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Gardens of the Moon

A Tale of the Malazan Book of the Fallen

Steven Erikson

This novel is dedicated to

I. C. Esslemont

worlds to conquer worlds to share

Acknowledgements

No novel is ever written in isolation. The

author wishes to thank the following for their

support over the years: Clare Thomas, Bowen,

Mark Paxton-MacRae, David Keck, Courtney,

Ryan, Chris and Rick, Mireille Theriacelt,

Dennis Valdron, Keith Addison, Susan, David

and Harriet, Clare and David Thomas Jr, Chris

Rodell, Patrick Carroll, Kate Peach, Peter

Knowlson, Rune, Kent and Val and the kids,

my tireless agent Patrick Walsh, and Simon

Taylor, one terrific editor.

Preface to Gardens of the Moon redux

There is no point in beginning something without ambition. In so many aspects of my life I have held to that notion, and it has led to more than one fiery crash

through the years. I still recall, with some bitterness, the response Cam (Ian C. Esslemont) and I received when flogging our co-written feature film and television

scripts: 'Wonderful! Unique! Very funny, very dark... but here in Canada, well, we just can't budget for this stuff. Good luck.' In many ways, it was what followed

by way of advice that proved the most crushing. 'Try something ... simpler. Something like everything else out there. Something less ... ambitious.'

We'd walk out of meetings frustrated, despondent, baffled. Did we really hear an invitation to mediocrity? Sure sounded like it.

Well, screw that.

Gardens of the Moon. Just to muse on that title resurrects all those notions of ambition, all that youthful ferocity that seemed to drive me headlong against a wall

time and again. The need to push. Defy convention. Go for the throat.

I like to think I was entirely aware of what I was doing back then. That my vision was crystal clear and that I was actually standing there, ready to spit in the face of

the genre, even as I reveled in it (for how could I not? As much as I railed against the tropes, I loved reading the stuff). Now, I'm not so sure. It's easy to ride on

instinct in the moment, only to look back later and attribute cogent mindfulness to everything that worked (while ignoring everything that didn't). Too easy.

In the years and many novels since, certain facts have made themselves plain. Beginning with Gardens of the Moon, readers will either hate my stuff or love it.

There's no in-between. Naturally, I'd rather everybody loved it, but I understand why this will never be the case. These are not lazy books. You can't float through,

you just can't. Even more problematic, the first novel begins halfway through a seeming marathon – you either hit the ground running and stay on your feet or you're

toast.

When challenged with writing this preface, I did consider for a time using it as a means of gentling the blow, of easing the shock of being dropped from a great

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