"Harlan Ellison - The Essential Ellison - A 50 Year Retrospec" - читать интересную книгу автора (Ellison Harlan)

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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