Chirchik state pedagogical institute of tashkent region the faculty of humanitarian subjects

Space Opera
A subgenre of science fiction in which there is swashbuckling action and epic, panoramic settings. These stories often contain over-the-top characters, themes, and plots. There is usually a romantic and/or melodramatic approach to storytelling, and the plot contains a lot of adventure. The plot doesn't always stay true to the accepted laws of science, mathematics, or the nature of space as we know it.
SpyFi
A subgenre of science fiction in which there is espionage, high-tech duels, and over-the-top gadgets. There is less focus on the science behind the gadgets as what can be done with them. The plot often focuses on the glamour, adventure, and daring attitude of spies (think, James Bond), including romantic interludes with beautiful women.
Steampunk
A subgenre of that is generally set in Victorian times, with the use of steam power as advanced technology. There is minimal scientific detail and the gadgets are often best described as retro-futuristic. These stories contain a sort of reimagining of the capabilities of modern technology through a Victorian lens, and create an alternate history.
Time Travel
In this subgenre of science fiction, the main characters travel through time. Sometimes, this can mean the character(s) move to a point in time that is in the future; sometimes, they can travel to a point in time that is the past. There is also a trend in these novels for characters to move to travel to parallel or alternate universes in an unknown time.
Utopia
A subgenre in which humanity lives in a utopia and technology has removed society's problems. In many of these stories, war and sickness have been done away with, often through advanced technology. There is often much discussion of social implications and exploration of social sciences, approaching topics such as: What does a Utopia look like? Is one person's Utopia the same as another's?

2.2.Brain Evenson’s contribution to the science genre of fiction

Brian:  In terms of how my writing is categorized, initially it felt weird to me when people talked about my writing as horror, but that was partly because my sense of what horror was was a little naive and dated. As I read more contemporary horror, it started to make sense to me. So, by this point, I don't have a strong feeling about how my writing should be categorized. Probably in some way that acknowledges both the genre and the literary elements to some degree. I've even played with that a little with my career: Immobility was accepted by both a literary press and by Tor, a science fiction press. I went with Tor, partly because I wanted to muddle those boundaries just a little, and because I was curious to see if people would read the book differently if it was published by an SF publisher.
I think horror was the first so-called non-literary thing that people suggested I was, and so that's stuck with me. Ellen Datlow had a short paragraph on my first book, Altmann's Tongue, in the 1995 Year's Best Fantasy and Horror, and then in 2003 The Wavering Knife was a finalist for an International Horror Guild Award - an award which, to my surprise, it won. The horror audience has been really supportive of my work. But yes, that question of whether they're really horror novels is definitely something I've thought about. What I decided, after looking more closely at the field, is that there are substrands of horror - the weird, for instance, or the Aickmanesque strange tale - that I do feel a lot of affinity with. Also certain writers whose work I really like: Thomas Ligotti for instance, though he's also not your "normal" horror writer. Or individual stories I like very much, like James Tiptree Jr.'s "Painwise" (another writer who doesn't quite fit any mold) or Dennis Etchison's "It Only Comes Out at Night" or Algernon Blackwood's "The Willows". Peter Straub makes the argument in Poe's Children that there's a "new horror" going on that maybe doesn't act quite like how we believe horror should act. Certainly I identify with many of the authors he includes in that volume, about half of them normally thought of as literary and half more genre-y. But I probably have more in common, both locally and globally, with writers like Cormac McCarthy and Blake Butler.

I think probably what horror readers identify with most is the way the reality of my work is always contingent, always subject to slipping out from under their feet. And there's a kind of intense bleakness to some of what I do, coupled with an odd sense of humor that probably appeals. Maybe some of them respond to the way I approach violence--but I often write violence with so little affect that maybe that's not it. I think that with some horror writers it becomes all about affect and suffering, and I often don't find that interesting. For me it's more about dismantling our idea of what it means to be human and then seeing what's left afterward... John Clute (see The Darkening Garden) would argue that I write terror rather than horror, and I think that's probably right.

Ben: So, I've read your novel Last Days for the month I dedicated to horror on my site and while it was much more terror than horror like you pointed out, but it hit me in the face like a goddamn hammer. There are so MANY intriguing things about this book, I don't know where to start. The people in this book. They don't talk to each other! They do, but they don't tell Kline (the protagonist) anything. The entire premise operates on faith and coercion. Why did you decide to systematically obfuscate every common variable of investigation fiction in Last Days? Because I can't stop thinking about it since I finished the novel.

Brian: I've taught a couple of times a class I designed which is about the origins of detective fiction--we start at J. Sheridan LeFanu and end with Dashiell Hammett since after Hammett detective fiction can never be the same. What's great about it is the way that a bunch of the stories very early on just don't act quite like detective stories. Even things we take for granted today, like the importance of clues, just hadn't occurred to people, and in the place of logic and deduction leading to the solution of the crime a lot of those early stories demand a confession from the villain--so the detective tries to put the character in a position where, from fear or other reasons, they can't help but confess. I think I was thinking about a lot of those things as I was working on Last Days, and thinking about directions that detective fiction and noir could have gone in but mostly didn't. Also, the whole faith and coercion thing, and the way people in the cults all seem to have a common understanding of the way things are and what should be done but rarely inform Kline of this is pretty closely based on the insularity of Mormonism - the way so much went unspoken and unquestioned but was, at the same time, what really drove the culture...
Well, I think that as it developed it became increasingly committed to the idea that solving the crime was the most important thing. And of course that's important, but that's not the only thing, or even the primary thing, that a detective story can be about. You look at something like Dashiell Hammett's Red Harvest, which for me is one of the most amazing noirs out there, and it's about a detective who comes into a community that has a kind of precarious balance. He's hired to investigate a murder, then told he doesn't have to do it after all, but he very pigheadedly insists on doing it and basically destroys everything around him, all for no real satisfaction or reward--we're told at the end that his boss gives him "merry hell" for doing what he did--but just out of a kind of perversity or doggedness. That's amazing! So, the crime is kind of beside the point at a certain moment; it's more about a man slipping and sliding through very difficult territory and turning different parts of a community against itself. That's something I see Last Days responding to. Ultimately, like the continental op in Red Harvest, Kline feels that once you achieve a certain momentum, you should give in to that juggernaut rather than resist it. But instead of different factions within a town it's different sects of a religion, and that brings other sorts of things along with it. That's, I guess, one of the things I mean.
I think you're right about that. I find religion fascinating, particularly in terms of the way in which a strong religion can modify the way a person perceives and responds to reality. That can be incredibly problematic, but it's also really intriguing, and perhaps suggests things about the way in which we interact with reality as a whole. We're never interacting with reality directly, there's always something of filter that's there, even it that filter is only the fact that our perceptions can't take reality in in all its complexity. I find religion at once very frightening and very seductive--they offer to think for you in some senses, they give you a model for organizing your life, they potentially give you alibis for your failings. But they also seem to have the goal of making you a better person, of making you ethically conscious. I guess I'm less interested in religion than I am in the way that individuals interact with religion, the complex relation of acceptance and resistance that they engage in when they become involved.
 I feel pretty strongly that reality is constructed, but I also feel the self it constructed, so it ends up being a little bit of a chicken-egg problem. I think we interact with a reality that we at least partly construct and that we kind of assume that we're interacting with the same reality that other people are until we're made to realize that we're not. Even something as straightforward as color is so personal and so uniquely processed. Every relationship I've had before my current marriage has been with someone who was convinced that I didn't see at least one shade of color right and that they did--and this included someone who was legally blind. Which is why I know my wife is the right person for me: because we share the same delusion about what colors the world actually is...
In The Warren? I don't want to reveal too much or suggests there's one right answer, but I will say I see it more as something decided on by X and the others that came before him in the face of scarcity and being in a situation where everything is breaking down. Previously, the implication is that their minds would be stored in what they call "the monitor" after their short lives reach their end, and that they'd be selectively imprinted with information. But when the monitor starts to go one of the makes the choice to fill X's head with not only selective information but as full a range of personality as possible as a way of trying to preserve them. But, of course, his brain's not sufficient for that, and it leads to all sorts of complications and to a sort of artificially induced schizophrenia. (It may also be complicated by the fact of whether X is the same as or different from those who have come directly before him--that's probably the subject of another novella.)
Yes, I wondered about that too - I wasn't at all sure how the book would be received, particularly since it was being published as part of Tor.com's science fiction novella line and was quite a bit more "out there" than a lot of the books published in that line. I was pretty concerned that science fiction readers wouldn't know what to think of it. That was one of the reasons I dedicated the book to Gene Wolfe - I figured that'd give SF readers a model for how they might approach the book. But I really didn't know if it'd fall flat or not: I knew it was possible to write a book that has a foot in SF, and a foot in the weird, and a foot in the literary that wouldn't work for readers in any of those areas... But, so far, the reception has been really good.
I think probably every artist has their own private sense of whether something is a success or failure and it may not match up to reader's responses. There are one or two stories I've written that everybody seems to like but which I don't think of as my best efforts. On the other hand, there are a few things that almost nobody talks about that I feel are as good as anything I've done and which were important in getting me to a new stage as a writer. I guess that for me is the key: if writing a story or novella or novel changes the way I think about writing from there on out, it's a success and something I wouldn't want to be without.
I tend to like work that has an impact on me, that keeps on working on me after I've closed the covers of the book, and I think that's the kind of book I try to write for my readers as well. I don't know if entertain is exactly the word for that, but it's work that you have an experience with, and and experience you can't quickly shake. I think you and I have very similar tastes in movies, and it's reflected in those movies as well - difficult films that are entertaining on one level and engaged in dérangement on another level - derangement, disruption, disturbance. In terms of education, in most cases I don't think that's my primary purpose, though I do have strong feelings about institutions, particularly patriarchal religious institutions, and that can't help but seep into my fiction. Basically, I think institutions are very problematic, particularly when they begin to make you act "for the good of the institution" but against your own interest or against the interest of individual members. But I see that as being secondary to my commitment to tell a story, to create a mood, to make the narrative work.