you know, I read the Omelas story at last (the proper one, the real one) and came away from it with a gnawing sense of irritation at the storyteller within Le Guin's tale. They start with trying to tell a story about a land of happiness, rapidly lose the thread because they can barely describe their happy land except by talking about what's missing (there's few laws, no kings, no priests, no cars, etc.) and finally it's like they get exasperated and go for broke. no more generic scenes of smiling faces in a shining city by the Sea, no more abstractions nor generalities—at last the storyteller is vivid and specific and forcible in their narrative, because it's about a horror.
whose failing is this? the invisible audience, for having no faith in visions of happiness without horror? or is it the storyteller's, whose visions are unconvincing until they're anchored in horror?
~Chara
