My brother was a wicked child: a class-ditching, prank-pulling, kegger-throwing hellion. At 38, he’s calmed down, but Castlevania gives an outlet to the wicked child in all of us, with its blood, bones, mummies, torture chambers, haunted clocktowers, and Death himself.
When your world is ruled by another,
you are forced to perform, to spit,
to jump,
to be cruel when all you want is to be beautiful.
The last time I played a Castlevania game was during the Reagan administration. So how in the hell do I know Alucard’s backstory? How do I know who Trevor Belmont is? This isn’t knowledge that arrives via osmosis, like talk radio or work conversation.
I leave a deep wound.
And between you and me,
nothing should be as crammable
as putty,
but when asked
what I mean to you
you didn’t blink once
We think video games are literature, and so why shouldn't there be literature about video games? That's the question we're hoping to answer here. Read more.
