Harlan Ellison - No Doors, No Windows

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No Doors, No Windows
Harlan Ellison
AN [e- reads ] BOOK
New York, NY
No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, or
mechanical, including photocopy, recording, scanning or any information storage retrieval system, without
explicit permission in writing from the Author.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s
imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locals or persons, living or dead,
is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1975 by Harlan Ellison
First e-reads publication 2002
www.e-reads.com
ISBN 0-7592-4354-9
For Years of Friendship,
for Forcing Open Doors and
Busting Out Windows,
This One, with Love, for
JOE L. and CHARLOTTE HENSLEY
“I feel it’s tremendously satisfying to use the cinematic art to achieve something of a mass emotion; if
you’ve [written] a picture correctly, in terms of its emotional impact, the Japanese audience should
scream at the same time as the Indian audience.”
Alfred Hitchcock
Table of Contents
Introduction: Blood / Thoughts
One — The Whimper of Whipped Dogs
Two — Eddie, You’re My Friend
Three — Status Quo at Troyden’s
Four — Nedra at ƒ:5.6
Five — Opposites Attract
Six — Toe the Line
Seven — Down in the Dark
Eight — Pride in the Profession
Nine — The Children’s Hour
Ten — White Trash Don’t Exist
Eleven — Thicker than Blood
Twelve — Two Inches in Tomorrow’s Column
Thirteen — Promises of Laughter
Fourteen — Ormond Always Pays His Bills
Fifteen — The Man on the Juice Wagon
Sixteen — Tired Old Man
Introduction
Blood / Thoughts
“Writing has nothing much to do with pretty manners, and less to do with sportsmanship or restraint …
“Every fictioneer re-invents the world because the facts, things or people of the received world are
unacceptable. Every fiction writer dreams of imposing his invention upon the world and winning the
world’s acclaim. (Such dreams are known as delusions of grandeur in pathology but tolerated as
expressions of would-be genius in bookstores and libraries.) Every writer begins as a subversive, if in
nothing more than the antisocial means by which he earns his keep. Finally, every fantasist who
cannibalizes himself knows that misfortune is his friend, that grief feeds and sharpens his fancy, that hatred
is as sufficient a spur to creation as love (and a world more common) and that without an instinct for
lunacy he will come to nothing.”
GEOFFREY WOLFF, 1975
What are we to make of the mind of humanity? What are we to think of the purgatory in which dreams
are born, from whence come the derangements that men call magic because they have no other names
for smoke or fog or hysteria? What are we to dwell upon when we consider the forms and shadows that
become stories? Must we dismiss them as fever dreams, as expressions of creativity, as purgatives? Or
may we deal with them even as the naked ape dealt with them: as the only moments of truth a human calls
throughout a life of endless lies.
Who will be the first to acknowledge that it was only a membrane, only a vapor, that separated a Robert
Burns and his love from a Leopold Sacher-Masoch and his hate?
Is it too terrible to consider that a Dickens, who could drip treacleand God bless us one and all, through
the mouth of a potboiler character called Tiny Tim, could also create the escaped convict Magwitch; the
despoiler of children, Fagin; the murderous Sikes? Is it that great a step to consider that a woman
surrounded by love and warmth and care of humanity as was Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley, wife of Percy
Bysshe Shelley, the greatest romantic poet western civilization has ever produced, could herself produce
a work of such naked horror asFrankenstein? Can the mind equate the differences and similarities that
allow both anAnnabell Lee and aMasque of the Red Death to emerge from the same churning pit of
thought-darkness?
Consider the dreamers:all of the dreamers: the gloriousand the corrupt:
Aesop, Attilla; Benito Mussolini and Benvenuto Cellini; Chekhov and Chang Tao-ling; Democritus,
Disraeli; Epicurus, Edison; Fauré and Fitzgerald; Goethe, Garibaldi; Huysmann and Hemingway,
ibn-al-Farid and Ives; Jeanne d’Arc and Jesus of Nazareth; and on and on.All the dreamers. Those
whose visions took form in blood and those which took form in music. Dreams fashioned of words, and
nightmares molded of death and pain. Is it inconceivable to consider that Richard Speck — who
slaughtered eight nurses in Chicago in 1966, who was sentenced to 1,200 years in prison — was a
devout Church-going Christian, a boy who lived in the land of God, while Jean Genet — avowed thief,
murderer, pederast, vagrant who spent the first thirty years of his life as an enemy of society, and in the
jails of France where he was sentenced to life imprisonment — has written prose and poetry of such
blazing splendor that Sartre has called him “saint”? Does the mind shy away from the truth that a Bosch
could create hell-images so burning, so excruciating that no other artist has ever evenattempted to copy
his staggeringly brilliant style, while at the same time he produced works of such ecumenical purity as
“L’Epiphanie”?All the dreamers. All the mad ones and the noble ones, all the seekers after alchemy and
immortality, all those who dashed through endless midnights of gore-splattered horror and all those who
strolled through sunshine springtimes of humanity. They are one and the same. They are all born of the
same desire.
Speechless, we stand before Van Gogh’s “Starry Night” or one of those hell-images of Hieronymous
Bosch, and we find our senses reeling; vanishing into a daydream mist ofwhat must this man have been
like, what must he have suffered? A passage from Dylan Thomas, about birds singing in the eaves of a
lunatic asylum, draws us up short, steals the breath from our mouths; and the blood and thoughts stand
still in our bodies as we are confronted with the absolute incredible achievement of what he has done.
The impossibility of it. So imperfect, so faulty, so broken the links in communication between humans,
that to pass along one corner of a vision we have had to another creature is an accomplishment that fills
us with pride and wonder, touching us and them for a nanoinstant with magic. How staggering it is then,
tosee, toknowwhat Van Gogh and Bosch and Thomas knew and saw. To live for that nanoinstant what
they lived. To look out of their eyes and view the universe from a never before conquered height, from a
dizzying, strange place.
This, then, is the temporary, fleeting, transient, incredibly valuable, priceless gift from the genius dreamer
to those of us crawling forward moment after moment in time, with nothing to break our routine save
death.
Mud-condemned, forced to deal as ribbon clerks with the boredoms and inanities of lives that may never
touch — save by this voyeuristic means — a fragment of glory … our only hope, our only pleasure, is
derived through the eyes of the genius dreamers; the genius madmen; the creators.
How amazed … how stopped like a broken clock we are, when we are in the presence of the creator.
When we see what his singular talents — wrought out of torment — have proffered; what magnificence,
or depravity, or beauty, perhaps in a spare moment, only half-trying; they have brought it forth
nonetheless, for the rest of eternity and the world to treasure.
And how awed we are, when caught in the golden web of that true genius — so that finally, for the first
time we know that all the rest of it waskitsch; it is made so terribly, crushingly obvious to us, just how
mere, how petty, how mud-condemned we really are, and that the only grandeur we will ever know is
that which we know second-hand from our damned geniuses. That the closest we will ever come to our
“Heaven” while alive, is through our unfathomable geniuses, however imperfect or bizarre they may be.
And is this, then, why we treat them so shamefully, harm them, chivvy and harass them, drive them
inexorably to their personal madhouses, kill them?
Who is it, we wonder, whoreally still the golden voices of the geniuses, who turn their visions to dust?
Who, the question asks itself unbidden, are the savages and who the princes?
Fortunately, the night comes quickly, their graves are obscured by darkness, and answers can be
avoided till the next time; till the next marvelous singer of strange songs is stilled in the agony of his
rhapsodies.
On all sides the painter wars with the photographer. The dramatist battles the television scenarist. The
novelist is locked in combat with the reporter and the creator of the non-novel. On all sides the struggle
to build dreams is beset by the forces of materialism, the purveyors of the instant, the dealers in
tawdriness. The genius, the creator falls into disrepute. Of what good is he? Does he tell us useable
gossip, does he explain our current situation, does he “tell it like it is”? No, he only preserves the past and
points the way to the future. He only performs the holiest of chores. Thereby becoming a luxury, a
second-class privilege to be considered only after the newscasters and the sex images and the
“personalities.” The public entertainments, the safe and sensible entertainments, those that pass through
the soul like beets through a baby’s backside … these are the hallowed, the revered.
And what of the mad dreams, the visions of evil and destruction? What becomes of them? In a world of
Tiny Tim, there is little room for a Magwitch, though the former be saccharine and the latter be noble.
Who will speak out for the mad dreamers?
Who will insure with sword and shield and grants of monies that these most valuable will not be thrown
into the lye pits of mediocrity, the meat grinders of safe reportage? Who will care that they suffer all their
nights and days of delusion and desire for ends that will never be noticed? There is no foundation that will
enfranchise them, no philanthropist who will risk his hoard in the hands of the mad ones.
And so they go their ways, walking all the plastic paths filled with noise and neon, their multifaceted
bee-eyes seeing much more than the clattering groundlings will ever see, reporting back from within their
torments that Nixons cannot save nor Wallaces uplift. Reporting back that the midnight of madness is
upon us; that wolves who turn into men are stalking our babies; that trees will bleed and birds will speak
in strange tongues. Reporting back that the grass will turn blood-red and the mountains soften and flow
like butter; that the seas will congeal and harden for iceboats to skim across from the chalk cliffs of
Dover to Calais.
The mad dreamers among us will tell us that if we take a woman (that most familiar of alien creatures that
we delude ourselves into thinking we rule and understand to the core) and pull her inside-out we will have
a wondrousness that looks like the cloth-of-gold gown in which Queen Ankhesenamun was interred.
That if we inject the spinal fluid of the dolphin into the body of the dog, our pets will speak in the riddles
of a Delphic Oracle. That if we smite the very rocks of the Earth with quicksilver staffs, they will split and
show us where our ghosts have lived since before the winds traveled from pole to pole.
The geniuses, the mad dreamers, those who speak of debauchery in the spirit, they are the condemned of
our times; they give everything, receive nothing, and expect in their silliness to be spared the gleaming axe
of the executioner. How they will whistle as they die!
Let the shamans of Freud and Jung and Adler dissect the pus-sacs of society’s mind. Let the rancid evil
of reality flow and surge and gather strength as it hurries to the sea, forming a river that girdles the globe,
a new Styx, beyond which men and women will go and from whence never return. Let the rulers and the
politicians and the financiers throttle the dreams of creativity. It doesn’t matter.
The mad ones win persist. In the face of certain destruction they will still speak of the unreal, the
forbidden, all the seasons of the witch.
Consider it.
Please: consider.
Enough philosophy. The preceding, in different forms, was an essay I wrote in defense of the nightmare
vision. Its title has changed from “Black / Thoughts” to “Dark / Thoughts” (for obvious contemporary
reasons), to “Blood / Thoughts,” which I think will remain on the piece forever. I’ve rewritten it and used
it as the opening of the introduction to this, my first collection of suspense stories,per se, because it
speaks directly to the intent of the works in this book: to scare you, to keep you guessing, and to
demonstrate how much fear can be generated in lives that have been bent and twisted so there are no
exits.
It’s a special pleasure to have a book of suspense stories published, at last. Even though a large segment
of my weirdo readership knows me as a “sci-fi writer” (and God how I hate that ghastly neologism! If
you ever want to see my lips skin back over my teeth like those of a rabid timber wolf, just use that
moron phrase in my presence), I was writing a good deal more detective and suspense fiction than
fantasy when I began my career. But that was in the middle and late Fifties, when there was a hot
truckload of magazines publishing that kind of fiction.Manhunt, The Saint Mystery Magazine,
Mantrap, Pursued, Guilty, Suspect, Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, Mike Shayne Mystery
Magazine, Trapped, Terror, Murder!, Hunted, Crime and Justice, boy the list just went on endlessly
with one lousy imitator after another; and of course, in a class by itself,Ellery Queen’s Mystery
Magazine .
But that was twenty years ago, and with the exception ofEQMM (still indisputably the fountainhead of
significant mystery fiction throughout the civilized world), most of the magazines I listed above are dead.
Crumbling yellow pulp relics in my files, dropping brittle little triangles from page corners.
After having been tagged a writer of sf for so many years — and having fought the categorization for the
past ten or twelve — with the help of Pyramid Books I’m breaking out of the corner at last. And it feels
good. Not only because I want to be judged on the merits of what I write, as opposed to being judged
as a representative of a genre that means one thing to one reader and quite another thing to someone
else, but because it permits the publication of a book like this. (The fight isn’t quite over yet, either. Nine
chances out of ten, when you bought this book it was in among the giant cockroach and berserk vacuum
cleaner books. It was in the “sf section,” right? And it isn’t even remotely a book of sf stories. Oh, there
are four stories out of the sixteen that could be called fantasies, but I guarantee thatnowhere in these
pages will you find a spaceship, a robot, an android, a mad scientist, a death ray, a bug-eyed monster, an
ecology parable, a malevolent computer, an alternate universe, an insect big enough to eat a city, a
menace from interstellar space, a lost race of super-scientific villains or even a mention of the planet
Mars. But there it was, right between a Philip K. Dick novel on one side, and a Philip José Farmer novel
on the other. Now those are pretty heavyweight guys in whose company to languish, waiting for you to
come along to buy me, but it’s a ripoff. They write sf, theysay they write sf, if you buy one of their books
with sf on the cover you’ll begetting sf of a high order, and no one will feel cheated. But think how
annoyed all those dudes are gonna be who picked up this book, paid for it, got it home and are now
reading what you’re reading. “What,” they’ll be saying, their fingers balling up into fists, “what the hell is
this? Not sf? Not my nightly fix of extrapolation? No sci-fi to wile away the hours?” And they’ll read, oh,
say, “Pride in the Profession,” which is a story about a little guy who always wanted to be a hangman,
and they’ll finish the story and — even if they liked it — they’ll hurl this book against the wall. “I been
robbed!” they’ll shriek. And I don’t blame them. If I go to a massage parlor for a massage, and some
nice young woman suggests we perform acts of a personal nature one would have to really stretch the
word “massage” to include, well, I’d be annoyed also. If I buy a can of pineapple, I don’t want to spill
beets out into my plate. I am dead against false advertising. Yet there NO DOORS, NO WINDOWS
was, right smack in the middle of the sf shelves. So. In the name of fair business practices, I urge you to
buttonhole the management of the newsstand or bookstore where you purchased this nifty tome, and
insist on the following: “Mr. Owner [you should say], the books of Harlan Ellison that are being published
by the wonderful Pyramid Books cover the full spectrum of Mr. Ellison’s multifarious literary talents and
virtually horizonless range of interests. Each one is numbered.” And then you point out to him or her — in
which case it would be Ms. Owner — the big series number in the “O” of the name ELLISON on the
front cover. “These books are not always speculative fiction [you will continue, I hope, dashedly cleverly
avoiding that nasty phrase we agreed you’d never use again]. Some of them are contemporary novels;
some are nostalgia fiction of the world as we knew it in the Fifties; some are autobiography; some are
television essays; and this one I hold in my hand is a superb collection of crime and suspense fictions.”
Then the Owner, not a bad sort, but sadly in need of guidance, will moan, “But Ihave to categorize
everything, otherwise the assholes who never read anything but their specialty wont be able to find what
they want. See, over here, ten thousand gothics. You can tell they’re gothics because there’s a scared
lady in a nightgown running away from a dark house on a rainswept mountaintop, and there’s only one
light lit in an upper storey of the mansion, see? And here … fourteen hundred nurse novels, all with
apple-cheeked angels of mercy staring covertly at interns with naked lust in their clear blue eyes. And
here … violence series novels: The Slaughterer, The Crusher, The Kung Fu Brigade, The Pillager, The
Hardy Boys.” And he or she will take you on a tour of the westerns, the classics, the sexy historicals —
all with titles like THE FALCON AND THE HYACINTH or THE PLUME AND THE SWORD or
THE DIKE AND THE FINGER — the fact science books, the metaphysical books — where forty-two
versions of the few lines Plato wrote about Atlantis have been rewritten and re-rewritten by shameless
hack popularizers in direct steals of Ignatius Donnelly and that poor coocoo, Madame Blavatsky — the
self-help books, the cookbooks, the stiffeners with their wonderfully exotic titles like SUCK MY
BUTTONS and WHIP GIRL, the war novels, the detective books and, if it’s a fairly large stock, the
movie star biography books cheek-by-jowl with all those handy reference works on how to shoot a
movie in your spare time, by people like Jerry Lewis and Peter Bogdanovitch, at least one of whom [to
borrow a phrase from John Simon] does not exist. And thenyou can release the poor Owner from this
labyrinth of spatial immurement by saying, “But sir, or ma’am, you have merely fallen prey to the
outmoded theory of commercial marketing distinctions. Mr. Ellisontranscends such pitiful categories. His
work is one with the ages; something for everyone; no home should be without a full set of all nineteen of
his handsome Pyramid Books with their delicious Dillon covers; his work uplifts, it enthralls, it ennobles, it
clears up acne and the heartbreak of psoriasis; babies cry for more! Why not start a Harlan Ellison
section, right here in the very forefront of your shop, directly next to the cash register, whose charming
tinkle win be heard ever more frequently with Ellison product chockablock beside the Dyna-Mints and
TV Guide, where your unenlightened flock can grab a stack of meaty titles as they would a life preserver
in a turbulent sea? Mr. Ellison is a category unto himself.Sui generis! Oh do, do, kind sir or madame!
Make this a better world in which to live. Put Ellison where he belongs: all by himself.” And having said
that, the Owner will, with tears in eyes, clasp your hand and thank you for the pristine lucidity of your
thinking.
(And I won’t have to argue with Tom Snyder that when I do theTomorrow Show he shouldn’t have a
flash-card overprinted on my beaming image that says HARLAN ELLISON, SCI-FI GUY.)
Where was I? Oh, yeah. A book of suspense stories, and how nice it is to finally get noticed as a writer
who’s written lots of other things than fantasy.
It began, I suppose, when the Mystery Writers of America awarded me the Edgar Allan Poe statuette
last year for the Best Mystery Story. The funny thing is, the story isn’t even a mystery. Not in the terms
usually associated with mysteries. The yarn is the lead-off piece in this book, “The Whimper of Whipped
Dogs.” And for those of you who bought THE OTHER GLASS TEAT [Pyramid A3791] and who read
a script I wrote for the now-defunct TV series,The Young Lawyers, a script with the same title, be
advised they have no connection. I just liked the title, “The Whimper of Whipped Dogs.” The story is …
well, I’ll hold off on that till I hit the section of this introduction where I tip you to the background or
impetus that caused me to write the various pieces included here.
In any case, what I was getting at is that “Whimper” is a fantasy, not a mystery. In the usual sense.
Though I guess there must have been a sufficiently weighty suspense element in the story to convince the
judges of MWA that it belonged on the ballot. (One tiny horn-toot: I beat out a story by Joyce Carol
Oates for the award. Hot diggity!)
So here we have twenty years’ of my writing, all across the board from western stories and mystery
fiction to critical literary essays and occasional columns of contemporary events, and they keep labeling
me a “science fiction writer.” Very frustrating, particularly when my compatriots in the literature of the
fantastic keep pointing out, “Ellison isn’t a science fiction writer,” and they’re right; and there’s no reason
whythey should have to suffer denigration because they’re held responsible for the berserk stuff I write.
Also,my books shouldn’t have to suffer the kind of dumb reviews from the hinterlands — such as the
New YorkTimes — that say, “Well, this was a good book, but it certainly isn’t sf,” not to mention the
treatmentanything labeled sf gets from “serious” reviewers who will wax ecstatic about the nine millionth
nostalgic novel dealing with Jewish or Italian home life in the poorer sections of Brooklyn or tike Bronx,
in the late Thirties, but who turn up their patrician noses at anything with fantasy in it. Unless it’s by an
accepted “serious” writer. Like Ira Levin or Fred Mustard Stewart or one of the many other nameless
(and frequently talentless) clowns who’ve just last week discovered such fresh and untapped themes as
exorcism, cloning, diabolic possession or reincarnation. If I had a dime for every half-assed novel
published in hardcover since 1967 when Levin stumbled across ROSEMARY’S BABY, that deals with
a supernatural or fantasy theme in cornball terms that would get it rejected fromThe Magazine of
Fantasy & Science Fiction, I’d have a lotta dimes to make obscene phone calls to the know-nothing
publishers who lay out fifty grand a whack to reprint them in paperback.
But then, I’m just an unhappy, bitter, sour grapes writer who resents the hell out of popularizers who get
fat on worn-out themes sf / fantasy passed by twenty years ago, right?
So how come I ain’t pissed at John Fowles or John Barth or Vladimir Nabokov or Michael Crichton or
Jorge Luis Borges or even Ira Levin? Answer: because they’rewriters, dammit, and they bring freshness
and talent even to tired ideas.
Thass why!
This has wandered rather far afield, I now realize. (If you want an eight-hour diatribe on the state of the
market situation for a writer today, just drop in a slug, wind me up and aim me in the direction of The
New York Literary Establishment.) Suffice to say, it ain’t all as terrific as it looks from the outside. Being
labeled a science fiction writer today guarantees you a certain amount of readership, but it denies you an
even larger group. For a writer who cares about what work comes out with his or her name on it, who
fights to keep expanding his or her talent, and who wants freedom to experiment while making a decent
living and providing entertaining books for as wide an audience as possible, having a category tag
slapped on can be pure death.
So. A book of suspense stories. Filled with visions of murder, mayhem, deceit, fear, psychopathia, crime
and rotten interpersonal relationships. Your basic light-time reading fare. Something to make you laugh at
your own nasty life struggles. No matter how bad you’ve got it,believe me, you haven’t got it as tough as
Beth O’Neill in “Whimper” or poor old Mr. Huggerson in “Status Quo at Troyden’s” or quick-tempered
Hervey Ormond in “Ormond Always Pays His Bills.”
I’ve been talking a lot lately about the condition of fear by which many of us judge the value of our
existences. In THE DEADLY STREETS (last month’s Pyramid paperback offering of the
Ellison-of-the-Month Club) I did an introduction touching on the subject, and I’d like to share with you a
letter I received yesterday that speaks to the same situation.
A word about my mail. There’s an ever-increasing amount of it these days, which is nice on the one hand
because many people feel so comfortable in these books that they take the introductions and the
comments as an invitation to chat; but it’s a drag on the other hand, because I’m averaging about 200
pieces a day, and even with two associates helping me out, justopening the mail has become a long,
arduous chore each day. I tried sending out a long form letter for a while, but that was costing a fortune
and it only encouraged the correspondents to write another letter. Iread everything, but I’ve just simply
decided to hell with it: I can’t reply to all that mail and still keep writing. And since it’s the stories and
comments that make people want to write in the first place, that’s wheremy writing time should be spent,
not in responding to questions about writing, my life, the correspondent’s life, how to write a teleplay,
how to get an agent, where the Clarion Writers’ Workshop will be this year, why more of my books
aren’t available in Kankakee or Billings, what my sexual proclivities might be, or why and how the
letter-writer feels we aresimpatico because the both of us hate a) Richard Nixon, b) Rod McKuen
poetry, c) the military-industrial-CIA-FBI-IRS complex and / or d) movies starring Cybill Shepherd. I
refuse to read stories submitted for my august opinion. For a lot of different reasons, but most
prominently because I’m too deep into myown stuff to play teacher to amateurs. I used to send the
following rejection note, but I don’t even do that any more:
A CHINESE REJECTION SLIP
Illustrious Brother of the Sun and Moon:
Behold thy servant prostrate before thy feet! I kowtow to thee and beg that of thy graciousness
thou mayest grant that I may speak and live. Thine honored manuscript has deigned to cast the
light of its august countenance upon me. With raptures I have perused it. By the bones of my
ancestors, never have I encountered such wit, such pathos, such lofty thought! With fear and
trembling I return the writing. Were I to publish the treasure thou hast sent me, the Emperor
would order that it be made a standard of excellence and that none be published except such as
equaled it. Knowing literature as I do, and that it would be impossible in ten thousand years to
equal what thou hast done, I send thy writing back by guarded servants.
Ten thousand times I crave thy pardon. Behold! My head is at thy feet and I am but dust.
Thy servant’s servant,
Wan Chin (Editor).
Note: author unknown.
So the point of this digression is to plead with younot to write to me unless you want to give me money.
And since that eliminates 99% of you, all that remains is for me to express my gratitude for yourwanting
to write me, even if it was only to tell me what a bastard I am. But we’ll get along much better if we keep
the communication a telepathic one. You just shoot the good vibes in my direction, I’ll pick up on them,
it’ll spur me to more and better stories, and we’ll both come out happier and more productive. Please!
(God, I’m scatterbrained here. I keep going off into every little byway of thought that presents itself. Like
one of my lectures. Very free-form. But let me wrench myself back to the topic of fear and lay that letter
on you.)
I’m having it set by the typographer exactly as I received it. Hold it! Another digression, but to the point.
摘要：

NoDoors,NoWindowsHarlanEllisonAN[e-reads]BOOKNewYork,NYNopartofthispublicationmaybereproducedortransmittedinanyformorbyanymeans,electronic,ormechanical,includingphotocopy,recording,scanningoranyinformationstorageretrievalsystem,withoutexplicitpermissioninwritingfromtheAuthor.Thisbookisaworkoffiction...

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