Samuel R. Delaney - Ay, and Gomorra

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file:///G|/Program%20Files/eMule/Incoming/Samuel%20R.%20Delaney%20-%20Ay,%20and%20Gomorra.txt

What can I say about Samuel "Chip" Delany? That he is

good? The bottom of this page testifies to the fact that we all

think so. He is a story-teller who here has projected something

quite different from those three who have preceded him in this

volume. I saved his story for this precise moment for a rea-

son. He is a gentleman, an artist. He is gifted with a peculiar

insight into the workings of the psyche and the English

language. This particular story, however, is very science fic-

tion; i.e., it expands upon, extrapolates, guesses at, a possible

thing. In this sense, it follows the rigorous, near-mathematical

dicta of science fiction critics, to witgiven this, one day,

then this follows, (im)pure and (un)simple.

But enough about the story, since you're about to read it. I

am of Polish origin, and therefore the words of the disaffected

Polish socialist Czeslaw Milosz occasionally ring in my head.

He once said something in his book. The Captive Mind, which

came to me strongly about a year ago when talking to Chip:

When, as my friend suggested, I stand before Zeus

(whether I die naturally, or under sentence of History)

I will repeat all this that I have written as my defense.

Many people spend their lives collecting stamps or old

coins, or growing tulips. I am sure that Zeus will be mer-

ciful toward people who have given themselves entirely

to these hobbies, even though they are only amusing and

pointless diversions. I shall say to him: "It is not my

fault that you made me a poet, and that you gave me the

gift of seeing simultaneously what was happening in

Omaha and Prague, in the Baltic States and on the

shores of the Arctic Ocean. I felt that if I did not use

that gift my poetry would be tasteless to me and fame

detestable. Forgive me." And perhaps Zeus, who does not

call stamp-collectors and tulip-growers silly, will forgive.*

Anytime, anywhere. Chip will write about that which moves

him strongly. He is a poet, with the gift of seeing simultane-

ously what is happening here, today, and there, tomorrow.

Whether that tomorrow ever materialize's is unimportant.

What is important is that he saw it and captured it, today, and

not even Zeus can take that away from him.

* "The Captive Mind," Czeslaw Mflosz, Vintage Books, N.Y.,

1955.

AYE, AND GOMORRAH

Samuel R. Delany

And came down in Paris:

Where we raced along the Rue de Medicis with Bo and

. Lou and Muse inside the fence, Kelly and me outside, making

faces through the bars, making noise, making the Luxem-

bourg Gardens roar at two in the morning. Then climbed out,

and down to the square in front of St. Sulpice where Bo tried

to knock me into the fountain.

At which point Kelly noticed what was going on around us,

got an ashcan cover, and ran into the pissoir, banging the

walls. Five guys scooted out; even a big pissoir only holds

four.

A very blond young man put his hand on my arm and

smiled. "Don't you think, Spacer, that you . . . people should

leave?"

I looked at his hand on my blue uniform. "Est-ce que tu es

an frelk?"

His eyebrows rose, then he shook his head. "Une frelk,"

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