Pure, hundred‑proof distillation of Ellison. A righteous verbal high. Here you will find twenty of his very best stories and essays, including the four‑part ‘Scenes from the Real World,” an anecdotal history of the doomed TV series, The Starlost , that he created for NBC; “Tales from the Mountains of Madness”; and his hilariously brutal reportage on the three most important things in life, sex, violence, and labor relations. With an absolutely killer foreword by Stephen King.
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About the Author
Harlan Ellison (1934–2018), in a career spanning more than fifty years, wrote or edited one hundred fourteen books; more than seventeen hundred stories, essays, articles, and newspaper columns; two dozen teleplays; and a dozen motion pictures. He won the Hugo Award eight and a half times (shared once); the Nebula Award three times; the Bram Stoker Award, presented by the Horror Writers Association, five times (including the Lifetime Achievement Award in 1996); the Edgar Allan Poe Award of the Mystery Writers of America twice; the Georges Melies Fantasy Film Award twice; and two Audie Awards (for the best in audio recordings); and he was awarded the Silver Pen for Journalism by PEN, the international writers’ union. He was presented with the first Living Legend Award by the International Horror Critics at the 1995 World Horror Convention. Ellison is the only author in Hollywood ever to win the Writers Guild of America award for Outstanding Teleplay (solo work) four times, most recently for “Paladin of the Lost Hour,” his Twilight Zone episode that was Danny Kaye’s final role, in 1987. In 2006, Ellison was awarded the prestigious title of Grand Master by the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America. Dreams with Sharp Teeth , the documentary chronicling his life and works, was released on DVD in May 2009. He passed away in 2018 at the age of eighty-four.
Date of Birth:May 27, 1934
Date of Death:June 28, 2018
Place of Birth:Cleveland, OH
Place of Death:Los Angeles, CA
Read an Excerpt
It drives my wife crazy, and I'm sorry it does, but I can't really help it.
All the little sayings and homilies.
Such as: There's a heartbeat in every potato; you need that like a hen needs a flag; I'd trust him about as far as I could sling a piano; use it up, wear it out, do it in, or do without; you'll never be hung for your beauty; fools' names, and their faces, are often seen in public places.
I could go on and on. I got a million of 'em. I got them all from my mother, who got them all from her mother. Little kernels of wisdom. Cosmic fortune-cookies, if you like.
They drive my wife absolutely BUGFUCK.
"But honey," I'll say in my best placatory voice (I'm a very placatory fellow, when I'm not writing about vampires and psychotic killers), "there's a lot of truth in those sayings. There really is a heartbeat in every potato. The proof of the pudding really is in the eating. And handsome really is as--" But I can see that it would be foolish to continue. My wife, who can be extremely rude when it serves her purpose, is pretending to throw up. My four-year-old son walks in from the shower, naked, dripping water all over the floor and the bed (my side of the bed, of course), and also begins to make throwing-up noises.
She is obviously teaching him to hate me and revile me. It's probably all Oedipal and sexual and neo-Jungian and dirty as hell.
But I have the last laugh.
Two days later, while this self-same kid is debating which card to throw away in a hot game of Crazy Eights, my nine-year-old son tells him, "Let me look at your hand, Owen. I'll tell you which card to throwaway."
Owen looks at him coldly. Calculatingly. Pulls his cards slowly against his chest. And with a humorless grin he says: "Joey, I'd trust you just about as far as I'd spring a piano."
My wife begins to scream and roll around on the floor, foaming, pulling her hair out in great clots, drumming her heels, crying out: "I WANT A DIVORCE! THIS MAN HAS CORRUPTED MY CHILDREN AND I WANT A FUCKING DIVORCE!"
My heart glows with the warmth of fulfillment (or maybe it's just acid indigestion). My mother's homilies have slipped into the minds of yet another generation, just as chemical waste has a way of seeping into the water table. I think: Ah-hah-hah-hah! Another triumph for us bog-cutters! Long live the Irish!
Another of this wonderful woman's wonderful sayings (I told you--I got a million of 'em; don't make me prove it) was "Milk always takes the flavor of what's next to it in the icebox." Not a very useful saying, you might think, but I suspect it's not only the reason I'm writing this introduction, but the reason I'm writing it the way I'm writing it.
Does it sound like Harlan wrote it?
That's because I just finished the admirable book which follows. For the last four days I have been, so to speak, sitting next to Harlan in the icebox. I am not copying his style; nothing as low as that. I have, rather, taken a brief impression of his style, the way that, when we were kids, we used to be able to take a brief impression of Beetle Bailey or Blondie from the Sunday funnies with a piece of Silly Putty (headline in the New York Times Book Review: KING OFFERS EERILY APT METAPHOR FOR HIS OWN MIND!!).
How do I know this is what has happened? I know because I have been writing hard for about twenty-five years now--which means (as Harlan, or Ray Bradbury, or John Crowley, or any other writer worth his or her salt will tell you) that I have also been reading hard. The two go together. I am always chilled and astonished by the would-be writers who ask me for advice and admit, quite blithely, that they "don't have time to read." This is like a guy starting up Mount Everest saying that he "didn't have time to buy any rope or pitons."
And part of the dues you pay while you're doing this hard reading, particularly if you start your period of hard writing as a teen-ager (as most of us did--God knows there are exceptions, but not many), is that you find yourself writing like whoever you're reading that week. If you're reading Red Nails, your current short story sounds like that old Hyborian Cowboy, Robert E. Howard. If you've been reading Farewell, My Lovely, your stuff sounds like Raymond Chandler. You're milk, and you taste like whatever was next to you in the refrigerator that week.
But this is where the metaphor breaks down ... or where it ought to. If it doesn't, you're in serious trouble. Because a writer isn't a carton of milk--or at least he or she shouldn't be. Because a writer shouldn't continue to take the flavors of the people he or she is currently reading. Because a writer who doesn't start sounding like himself sooner or later really isn't much of a writer at all, he's a ventriloquist's dummy. But take heart--little by little, that voice usually comes out. It's not easy, and it's not quick (that's one of the reasons that so many people who talk about writing books never do), but there comes a day when you look back on the stuff you wrote when you were seventeen ... or twenty-two ... or twenty-eight ... and say to yourself, Good God! If I was this bad, how did I ever get any better?
They don't call that stuff "juvenilia" for nothing, friends'n'neighbors.
Table of Contents
ContentsFOREWORD BY STEPHEN KING,
INTRODUCTION QUIET LIES THE LOCUST TELLS BY HARLAN ELLISON,
THE OUTPOST UNDISCOVERED BY TOURISTS,
SCENES FROM THE REAL WORLD: I THE 3 MOST IMPORTANT THINGS IN LIFE,
VISIONARY (WRITTEN WITH JOE L. HENSLEY),
DJINN, NO CHASER,
SCENES FROM THE REAL WORLD: II SATURN, NOVEMBER 11TH,
NIGHT OF BLACK GLASS,
THE CHEESE STANDS ALONE,
SCENES FROM THE REAL WORLD: III SOMEHOW, I DON'T THINK WE'RE IN KANSAS, TOTO,
THE HOUR THAT STRETCHES,
THE DAY I DIED,
3 TALES FROM THE MOUNTAINS OF MADNESS TRACKING LEVEL TINY ALLY THE GODDESS IN THE ICE,
SCENES FROM THE REAL WORLD: IV GOPHER IN THE GILLY,
Most Helpful Customer Reviews
Another strong collection of short stories from Harlan Ellison, with a few non-fiction essays thrown in as well. My favorites were "Grail," "!!!The!!Teddy!Crazy!!Show!!!," and the introductory "Quiet Lies the Locust Tells." On the other hand, a couple of semi-autobiographical fictions, "The Hour that Stretches" and "The Day I Died," didn't do much for me. Overall, I'd say this is a slightly less satisfactory collection than, say, Alone Against Tomorrow. Ellison is always thought provoking, frequently funny, and occasionally iconoclastic. The introduction from Stephen King was a nice plus, and the non-fiction essays were as entertaining as the best of the stories.
It's been 20 years since I first read this book, a book which changed my life by changing how I read and how I thought about writers and writing. Ellison's introduction probably had as big an influence on me as any other single thing I have ever read; it was high on a pedestal in memory. What's more, it holds up. "Quiet Lies the Locust Tells" is all on its own worth the price of admission. Add to that the eerie prescience of "!!!The!!Teddy!Crazy!!Show!!!", the wisdom and humour of "The 3 Most Important Things in Life," and the philosophical bent (what Robert J. Sawyer calls "phi-fi") of creepy, funny, bitter, hopeful stories like "Djinn, No Chaser" and "The Cheese Stands Alone" and you start to feel spoiled. The mix of stories and essays was my introduction to Ellison twenty years ago, and I am pleased to discover that my first impressions still ring true, even after all the changes to myself and the world.