Ellison, Harlan - The Essential Ellison - A 50 Year Retrospec

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THE ESSENTIAL
ELLISON
In April of 1949, Harlan Ellison was a lonely little kid living in Painesville, Ohio. A time traveler,
observing him from within an invisible bubble, would not have marked him as anything more interesting
than an undersized fourteen-year-old, seemingly always in hot water. Lively blue eyes, but basically just
another kid.
But something was stirring, something was wakening in that nexus of energy. And in The
Cleveland News of June 7th, little more than a week after he turned fifteen, Harlan Ellison’s first
professional writing appeared in print: the initial installment of a five-part adventure serial (liberally
cribbed from Sir Walter Scott) titled “The Sword of Parmagon.”
By 1999, with the magazine publication of “Objects of Desire in the Mirror Are Closer Than
They Appear,” Harlan Ellison had become what The Washington Post called “one of the great living
American short story writers.”
Between those dates, the kid from Ohio produced 74 books, more than three dozen award
winning motion picture and television scripts, over 1700 essays, reviews, articles, short stories and
newspaper columns; he had won more awards for imaginative literature than any other living author; he
had been involved in the pivotal social upheavals of his time; he had been nominated for Emmys and
Grammys, and had won P.E.N.‘s Silver Pen for journalism; and had established himself as a seminal
influence in American letters, affecting the work of hundreds of writers who came after him.
Now, at last, in a massive retrospective flanked by the two works mentioned above, 50 years of
the best of Harlan Ellison has been assembled in a gorgeous volume exceeding 1200 pages, encompassing
fiction, essays, personal reminiscences, reviews and (published for the first time anywhere) a complete
teleplay. Eighty-six complete and (with one exception) unabridged examples of the nonpareil writings of
the man The Los Angeles Times labels “the 20th Century Lewis Carroll.”
Scrupulously reconstructed from original manuscripts unseen for five decades (with slovenly
editorial gaffes, perpetuated through years of inept reprint versions, corrected, and lost material
reinstated), this is the record of a singular talent, codified for his millions of devoted fans, arranged by
themes and dates as never before.
Edited with extensive introductory material by the distinguished Australian critic and author
Terry Dowling (assisted by Richard Delap and Gil Lamont), this is the Essential Ellison; and without a
familiarity with these essentials, no lover of modem American letters dare call him/herself living life to its
fullest. And for the record, at age 67, the eyes are no less blue, the nexus no less filled with passion.
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Born in Jaipur, in the Indian province of northeast Rsjsthan, HARLAN ELLISON is the son of
a man who flew “Over the Hump” to Burma with Chennault’s Flying Tigers just prior to WWII. Ellison,
the air wing’s mascot, spoke only Hindi and Urdu till the age of thirteen. Himself wounded twice in the
battles of Provo and Needles, Ellison has been confined to a wheelchair since 1961; from his home in
Erewhon, Colorado he has, since 1970, produced seventeen full-length poems of 50,000 words each. His
favorite foods are curried monkey brains scooped steaming from the trepanned skull, and french fries,
very crisp.
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Prolegemenon:
M
ILLENIAL
M
USING
It is nine days till the true advent of the real Millennium as I sit here writing this preface to the 50 years’
doorstop that encapsulates the “essentiality” of me, Harlan, writer. Now much less left of my allotted span
of capering and jackanapery than what I had in my pockets when I sat down to write the first of many
entries in this volume. It has been one helluva trip; and I am sanguine that I’m right where I’m supposed
to be: no fall-back excuses as to luck or chance or “breaks” or cabals out to get me. I’m 100% responsible
for me, and for this place in which I find me, 1:46 PM, Friday 22 December, year 2000.
Last Sunday, Susan and I went to Leonard Maltin’s fiftieth birthday surprise party. Where I met
Dickie Jones, who was the voice of Pinocchio in the 1940 Disney film. What a cool thing to happen. (See
what I mean about a helluva trip?) And at one point, Leonard was introducing me to some people and he
said,
“It’s remarkable for Harlan to have been so pleasant for so many hours without snarling at
anyone.”
He didn’t mean anything by the remark, but I suddenly felt a frisson of hurt. The remark made me
feel badly. Others, many others, over the years, have made similar remarks. As if to say that I am some
sort of feral creature not given to composed social congress. An acknowledged Nasty Person.
And there are those who have nothing better to do with their mingy little lives than to beat their
conversational meat on the internet who extemporize endlessly wondering why I have such a mean streak.
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If, in fact I have such a mean streak. A recent posting about my working with director David Twohy on a
feature film version of my Demon With a Glass Hand brought forth a small hyenapack of dullards who
had never met me, yet felt it incumbent on themselves to point out that I’m (in their choice of words)
“Arrogant.” To which I would respond in the words of the late great Oscar Levant: “I’m no more humble
than my enormous talents require.”
I was raised polite by my mother and father, but I confess to a very low bullshit threshold for
careless cruelty, rudeness, arrant stupidity, evidence of meanspiritedness, obscurantism and doltish
acceptance of sophomoric beliefs (such as UFOs, crop circles, remembered instances of child abuse
elicited under hypnosis, most uses of God as an explanation for having caught a good pass and running
BO-yards upfield for a touchdown, yeti sightings, the chihuahua in the microwave, the internet as the icon
of a new paradigm shift in human activity, and the suggestion that George W. Bush is anything but an
empty suit galvanically mobile via prayers from the Religious Right).
I suppose if I’m brusque, if I’m abrupt if I growl and suffer fools not at all it is because, if you
poke a sharp stick through the cage of the funny animal for six days, on the seventh day that funny animal
is likely to bend apart the bars, leap out of the cage, rip off your left arm, and use it up your ass to make a
Schmucksicle of you.
And so, and quite properly, the affronted reader who has read and swallowed whole the postings
of my far-acknowledged “arrogance” will quite properly, demand to know by what right I lay claim to the
metaphor of stick-pokened animal. What the affronted reader will demand, produces in you this
psychotic, sniveling, self-serving and undocumented belief that The World is Out To Get you? Proof, we
demand, a little proof here!
Well, geezus, folks, even Dr. Richard Kimble had real enemies. Cut me some slack here,
whaddaya think?
Okay, so here’s a bone for you.
I was having a phone conversation the other day with Bob Silverberg, he up in Oakland, just back
from Turkey, and I in Los Angeles, just back from the bathroom; and I told him about something that had
just come to my attention that had transpired ‘way back in 1956, that I had known nothing about till a
couple of months ago—a thing I’ll detail in a moment, be patient—and Bob made the point that even
back in 1956—my first full year as a professional writer—that I was already a universal joke to the
science fiction pros who were in their prime and dominating the genre. Bob recalled (in his most
charming if-you-got-him-for-a-friend-you-need-never-indulge-in-self-abuse manner) something of which
I had not the tiniest memory...a reminiscence Bob was able to recount in some detail, of a party that I’d
held at my apartment in New York City soon after my first marriage—1956, at 150 West 82nd Street—
attended by all the great and the near-great (including C.M. Kornbluth, and I don’t know how I could’ve
forgotten that) and how “ upset” Bob says he was, how he went back to our former co-domicile at 611
West 114th Street, “upset” at how all these great stars of scientifiction had come to my home, had eaten
my food, had drunk the wine, and had stood around in groups making fun of what an ass and no-talent I
was.
Apparently, blissfully, I’d drowned that memory. Can’t thank Bob enough for reminding me that
I was an object of ridicule as he put it, “up until you wrote “‘Repent, Harlequin!” Said the Ticktockman’.”
But it got me to thinking about howl came to wear the persona I shrug into every day, a Harlan
Ellison that seems to fit well enough, maybe a little loose under the arms, maybe a little too tight in the
butt, maybe a tot more impatience than one who wishes to be judged sane should manifest. Maybe alla
that. And I wondered if my ongoing paranoia about all the Malevolent Forces arrayed against sweet li’l
ole me might just be reason enough for those gibbering bottom-feeders on the web to assess me correctly
as “ arrogant” and, well, dare I say it...cranky?
So here’s the bone.
This a page reproduced from the June 1956 issue of Writer’s Digest. I never saw it at the time. It
was sent to me just a few months ago, September 2000, by a fellow member of the Writers Guild of
America, West. A casual acquaintance, but one who thought, out of kindness, that I might be able to use a
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copy of this magazine, part of a back issue stack that he was getting rid of. So after more than four
decades, this thing finally hit my radar. Take a look at it.
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If you’re scratching your head, wondering what’s the big deal, doesn’t seem to be a problem here,
why is Ellison even bringing this up after forty-four years, let me point out:
This is a bogus letter.
I never wrote it.
It was sent to WD, a magazine that mostly caters to eager amateurs, to hopeful tyros, not to
professionals save as an outlet for the occasional “how-to” essay. People who write these letters are
usually just starting in the game. But this letter—written by an anonymous provocateur whose name I’ll
likely never unearth-was published at an early stage in my career with the clear intent to embarrass and
ridicule me. Because when this letter came into print, I had already sold more than 100 short stories and
non-fiction pieces, I was 22 years old (not 16), and I was earning about ten grand per annum, which was
very good wages in 1956.
Even back then, only a year into my career, I was a target. Bob Silverberg is no doubt accurate in
his history lesson. I probably was a joke to all those gentle, kindly, helpful professionals, whose only
intent was to urge me to heights of excellence. Perhaps there is no reason for surliness, after fifty years of
work, arguably the best of it gathered here in one massive tome.
I can handle that. For better or worse, fool or artist, young snotnose or old fart, I am precisely the
person, precisely the artist, I have made of myself.
I am responsible. And one more thing: I’m still here, muthuhfugguh.
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A 50-YEAR RETROSPECTIVE
EDITED AND INTRODUCED
BY TERRY DOWLING
WITH RICHARD DELAP & GIL LAMONT
PUBLISHED BY
MORPHEUS INTERNATIONAL
摘要：

THEESSENTIALELLISON12THEESSENTIALELLISONTHEESSENTIALELLISONInAprilof1949,HarlanEllisonwasalonelylittlekidlivinginPainesville,Ohio.Atimetraveler,observinghimfromwithinaninvisiblebubble,wouldnothavemarkedhimasanythingmoreinterestingthananundersizedfourteen-year-old,seeminglyalwaysinhotwater.Livelyblue...

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