"Harlan Ellison - Stalking the Nightmare" - читать интересную книгу автора (Ellison Harlan)

FOREWORD
INTRODUCTION: Quiet Lies The Locust Tells
Grail
The Outpost Undiscovered By Tourists
Blank...
The 3 Most Important Things In Life
Visionary
Djnn, No Chaser
Invasion Footnote
Saturn, November 11
Night of Black Glass
Final Trophy
!!!The!!Teddy!Crazy!!Show!!!
The Cheese Stands Alone
Somehow, I Don’t Think We’re In Kansas, Toto
Transcending Destiny
The Hour That Stretches
The Day I Died
Tracking Level
Tiny Alley
The Goddess In The Ice
Gopher In The Gilly
I don’t have much patience with the facts, and any writer is a congenital liar to begin with or he
wouldn’t take up writing…I write to say No to death…an artist is a creature driven by demons.
He don’t usually know why they chose him and he’s usually too busy to wonder why…

--WILLIAM FAULKNER
STALKING THE
NIGHTMARE
 FOREWORD
Stephen King
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 allover 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
throw away.”
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.”