The Saturday Review of Literature, March 27, 1943. This special issue honors the memory of Stephen Vincent Bensét, with contributions by his friends novelist Thornton Wilder, literary journalist Christopher Morley, playright Philip Barry, and many others. As I intend to write an essay on Benét’s fantasy fiction—such stories as “The Devil and Daniel Webster” and “By the Rivers of Babylon”—this was an especially fortuitous find.
A Touch of Sturgeon, selected and introduced by David Pringle. This tight and handsome hardcover features eight stories by Theodore Sturgeon, arguably the greatest short-story writer in the history of American science fiction, especially if you assign Ray Bradbury to fantasy. Pringle, who is British, chooses almost all the most famous works, from “Killdozer” and “Mr. Costello, Hero” to “The Other Celia” and “Slow Sculpture.” I’ve got paperbacks and a few hardbacks of pretty much Sturgeon’s entire oeuvre (though not the multi-volume complete stories available to those with deeper pockets than mine). But for some reason, there in the store, I suddenly felt in the mood to reread some of his short fiction and I liked the heft and feel of this attractive hardback. By the way, Sturgeon’s depiction of the mind of an idiot—in the opening section of his novel More Than Human—has always struck me as good as Faulkner’s in the Benji section of The Sound and the Fury. Heresy, I know.
Riders in the Chariot, by Patrick White. I read half of this novel by Australia’s Nobel Laureate years ago, but—unusually for me—put it aside and never went back to it. When I saw this pretty English first in a fine dj, I thought that I would give it another try.
Alfred Hitchcock Presents: Twelve Stories for Late at Night. This is just an ordinary paperback, but it contains many classic tales of science fiction and horror, including John Collier’s “Evening Primrose,” C. L. Moore’s “Vintage Season,” M. R. James’s “The Ash-Tree,” and Evelyn Waugh’s “The Man Who Liked Dickens.” I’ve enjoyed all these at one time or another. But this paperback also reprints Gouverneur Morris’s “Back There in the Grass,” which has been referred to as a classic lost-race story and the only thing the author is remembered for. Well, here was my chance to enjoy the story without shelling out serious money for Morris’s scarce collection It and Other Stories. Morris did have a flair for titles—one of his other books is called If You Touch Them They Vanish.
The Silver Stallion, by James Branch Cabell. This is still another first edition, one of 850 signed and numbered large-paper copies, of arguably Cabell’s best book. I first read it in the Ballantine Adult Fantasy series, edited by Lin Carter, but couldn’t pass up a signed copy for only $4. Though his output is uneven, Cabell is probably the most significant American writer of ironic high fantasy. He is, of course, generally remembered for the once scandalous Jurgen, which was banned in Boston and championed by H. L. Mencken.
Short Talks with the Dead and Others, by Hilaire Belloc. Published in 1926, this is—as far as I can tell—a collection of casual essays, rebound in ugly library bookcloth. Belloc is under a cloud these days—he was, more or less, anti-Semitic—but he was also a consummate English prose stylist (and one of the first serious writers to acclaim the genius of P. G. Wodehouse). I own a number of Belloc’s books, including The Path to Rome, and aim to read him at length one of these days.
The Murder League and The Tricks of the Trade, both by Robert L. Fish. Being a member of The Baker Street Irregulars, I tend to look out for Sherlockian material. As all Irregulars know, few send-ups of the sacred canon are as hilarious as Robert L. Fish’s The Incredible Schlock Homes: “To my mind, Watney, sabotage—next to the pilfering of coal—is the dirtiest of all crimes.” But Fish also wrote several mystery and thriller series, which I’ve never read. The Murder League is about three aging crime novelists who form a kill-for-hire organization; The Tricks of the Trade is the first novel about Kek Huygens, the world’s most successful smuggler. Needless to say, both books appear to share the lighthearted tone I favor in mysteries.
The Lunatic at Large, by J. Storer Clouston. Published in 1900 as part of Appleton’s Town and Country Library, this is apparently the first American edition of a book reissued a few years back by McSweeney’s. It’s a comic novel, about, well, an escaped lunatic, an arranged marriage, and I don’t know what else. Even though I possess the modern hardback, I always prefer to read books in their original editions whenever possible. Only those early formats possess the right feel, the right aura. Nonetheless, I won’t pay a lot for a book I already own in a perfectly good edition—unless the price is right. This one was.
Dream Days, by Kenneth Grahame, illustrated by Maxfield Parrish. Published in 1902, this is the first illustrated edition of an early collection of stories—the best known being “The Reluctant Dragon”—by the author of The Wind in the Willows. It comes with a richly decorated cover showing a castle keep covered with shrubs, while the interior photogravure reproductions of Parrish’s pictures represent the period’s very latest in print technology. A very handsome book and greatly underpriced, probably because the copyright page makes clear that it’s not the first printing. But that edition of 1898, which forgoes illustrations, is probably less desirable, at least for ordinary readers, than this one.
Mayfair, by Michael Arlen. This is a fine English 1925 first, in an Edmund Dulac jacket, of witty and cynical, and sometimes supernatural, stories, set among the bright young things of 1920s London. It includes the celebrated horror classic “The Gentleman from America.” I’ve never read Arlen at length, and this seemed a golden opportunity to own a proper first of one of his best books. I already have a copy, not a first, of his most famous, or infamous novel, The Green Hat.
The Servant, by Robin Maugham. I bought this slender volume largely because of the striking and rather ominous cover design by G. N. Fish. I did know that the novella was the source of a celebrated Joseph Losey film, with a Harold Pinter screenplay, which I haven’t seen. Years ago, however, I read Robin Maugham’s two books about his uncle, Somerset Maugham, and liked them both. The nephew never quite emerged from the elder Maugham’s shadow, but this novella, I suspect, will be a dark treat.
Well, I could go on and mention the copy of Hugh Lofting’s Doctor Doolittle in the Moon (which, I failed to notice, offered some illustrations hand-colored by a juvenile artist of limited talent), or the copy of Nelson Bond’s Mr. Mergenthwirker’s Lobblies and other Fantastic Tales, in a water-damaged dust jacket, or the first paperback edition of Ray Bradbury’s The Martian Chronicles, or the ex-library copy of Frederic Brown’s What Mad Universe (albeit with a good dj).
I know, I know—I probably shouldn’t have bought quite so many books, or settled for several that are in rather shabby condition. Still, all my purchases were of works I love already or that I have long wanted to read. I’m no investor: I only collect books and authors I care about. When, that hot Sunday afternoon, I finally left Wonder Book and Video my wallet was certainly lighter than when I arrived, but then so was my heart.
Readercon
Every July for the past several years I’ve flown to Providence, Rhode Island, for a midsummer getaway from work and family. The focus of this long weekend is Readercon, a science fiction and fantasy convention held at a Marriott hotel in nearby Burlington, Massachusetts, about an hour’s drive for one of my favorite couples, the writer and critic Paul Di Filippo and the knit-wear designer Deborah Newton.
A recent issue of Locus, the trade magazine of sf and fantasy, featured Paul on its cover, calling him the field’s great “chameleon,” the author of brilliantly imagined fiction, such as The Steampunk Trilogy (which popularized that term), Roadside Bodhisattva, and A Princess of the Linear Jungle, but also of humor pieces (some collected as Plumage from Pegasus), essays, serious reviews (many for a regular column for the online Barnes and Noble Review) and author profiles. His most recent book, written with Damien Broderick, is Science Fiction: The 101 Best Novels, 1985-2010.
Even Paul’s envelopes and book mailers are distinctive, since he decorate
s them with gonzo collages, somewhat reminiscent of those of Max Ernst in The Hundred Headless Women. Paul once sent me a book in a large brown mailer, its outside cover enhanced with a large still from an episode of I Love Lucy. Sitting at her breakfast table, Lucy is reading The Washington Post. There’s no trickery here. But Paul has inserted a thought balloon above Lucy’s head that says: “I never understand anything that Michael Dirda writes.” I look at this picture every day because, framed, it hangs above the bureau in my bedroom.
As for Deb: I once mentioned my friendship with her to one of our country’s best poets, who reacted with something close to speechlessness. I actually knew, had spoken with, eaten meals with, clasped the knitting hand of Deborah Newton. You would have thought that I’d said I was a pal of Hillary Clinton or Angelina Jolie. I soon learned that if you murmur Deb’s name to a serious knitter you should be prepared for a caesura of pure awe. Her books are knitting bibles.
When I travel to Providence, most years I join a number of other Di Filippo/Newton houseguests, usually including the SyFy Channel columnist Scott Edelman and writers Howard Waldrop and Michael Bishop. As you might guess, things grow maniacally festive even before we make the drive over to Burlington. But this year Mike couldn’t get away, Howard decided to fly in through Boston, and Scott was obliged to report on Comic-Con, which was being held this same weekend in San Diego. Still, Scott did send a life-sized cardboard cutout of himself and Paul propped it up outside the main hall of the Marriott.
The first time I made this Readercon pilgrimage I insisted that Paul stop en route so that I could pay my respects at the grave of H. P. Lovecraft, who spent most of his 46 years in Providence. This year Paul took me to the house where the visionary writer passed the last decade of his too-brief life. Should you be interested, as of July 14, there was a “Studio for rent” sign outside the front door. I can already see the kernel for a short story—M. Dirda moves in, but soon grows increasingly reclusive, explaining that he’s busy with researches into the suppressed Ur-text of The Necronomicon of the “mad Arab” Abdul Alhazred. When concerned friends finally knock at the door they discover the apartment inhabited by a gaunt, long-faced figure in old-fashioned black clothes. He explains that he is “subletting” from Mr. Dirda who was suddenly “called away.” The air in the room is stale, with a peculiar fetor. . . .
Hmmm. Too obvious.
But what is Readercon, you ask? Readercon provides a chance for writers, editors, critics, and scholars to gather together and discuss science fiction. There are no masqueraders, no media tie-ins, no Hollywood celebrities—look for these at Comic-Con. This is a highly literary convention, built around four- to six-person panels, a dealer’s room packed with new and used books, and a large hotel bar where people talk and drink late into the night.
When I say this is a serious conference, I mean it. Panels this year included: “Theological Debate in Fantasy and SF,” “The Works of Shirley Jackson,” “Genre Magazines in the 21st Century,” “The Future of Copyright,” “Book Covers Gone Wrong,” the “Speculative Poetry Workshop,” and perhaps 30 or 40 others. Peter Straub and Caitlin R. Kiernan were the two guests of honor. Regular attendees, besides those already mentioned, make up a who’s who of fantastika’s most honored writers and professionals—John Crowley, Samuel R. Delany, Ellen Datlow, David Hartwell, Michael Swanwick, Paul Park, Liza Groen Trombi, James and Kathryn Morrow, Joe and Gay Haldeman, Gregory Feeley, John Kessel, Kit Reed, Darrell Schweitzer, Jeff and Ann VanderMeer, Kathleen Ann Goonan, John Clute, Elizabeth Hand, Gordon Van Gelder, Graham Sleight, Kelly Link, and, a special treat this year, the doyenne of sf, Katherine Maclean. There are many others as well: This July, for instance, I ran into Bradford Morrow, editor of the literary magazine Conjunctions. Sometimes Junot Diaz comes, joking that he’s just Chip Delany’s driver. Alas, one pillar of the con, the brilliant, crotchety, and much-loved Barry Malzberg, was laid up in New Jersey this summer with severe knee and back ailments.
Every year I look forward to talking with most of these people, nearly all of whom I count as friends. But 2012 was different. Not only was I particularly busy with panels, but I also participated in a podcast, moderated by Karen Burnham, for Locus Magazine. For an hour and a half Locus’s senior critic Gary K. Wolfe and I talked about reviewing, the state of the field, the breakdown of genre barriers, and the forthcoming American Science Fiction: Nine Classic Novels of the 1950s. This two-volume Library of America set, which Gary edited, doesn’t publish until September, but you can already read essays about the chosen novels by William Gibson (on Alfred Bester’s The Stars My Destination), Neil Gaiman (on Fritz Leiber’s The Big Time), Connie Willis (on Robert A. Heinlein’s Double Star), and others at the website www.loa.org/sciencefiction. The aforementioned M. Dirda writes about Cyril Kornbluth and Frederik Pohl’s The Space Merchants.
This Readercon was different, too, in that I spent much of my time talking about old books, rather than new ones, with Robert Eldridge, Henry Wessells, and Robert Knowlton. All of them are professionally involved with the antiquarian book trade. Eldridge has been a cataloguer for the premier purveyor of collectible science fiction, L. W. Currey; Wessells works for the New York dealer James Cummins; and Knowlton is the manager for Contact Books in Toronto. The two Bobs also possess fabulous personal collections of rare fantasy, horror and sf—and seem to have read everything and remembered it all.
To spend time with these three isn’t just a treat, it’s an education. We chatted about such half-forgotten authors as Leonard Cline, Gerald Biss, Ann Bridge, Guy Boothby, Mervyn Wall, Frank Richardson and Kenneth Morris, discussed truly scarce novels such as Swept & Garnished by Donald Armour (a chilling work in need of a modern edition: see Eldridge’s enthralling essay in the Autumn 2011 issue of the journal Wormwood), discovered our common enthusiasm for Peter Washington’s Madame Blavatsky’s Baboon (a history of Theosophy), and recalled unexpected treasures found in unexpected places. There is no better conversation in the world than talking about books with longtime dealers and collectors.
But then this is the joy of a science fiction and fantasy convention. Writers and readers mingle, you can say hello to a favorite author and get his or her books signed, there are tables piled high with paperbacks, fanzines, and old pulps such as Thrilling Wonder Stories, and you might even pick up a tee-shirt for your youngest son emblazoned “Bow Down Before Your Robot Masters” or a belt buckle depicting H. P. Lovecraft’s dread Cthulhu. There are panels during the day and parties at night, and you are surrounded by people who share your own passions. Can life get any better?
Anyway, Readercon is over for this year, though I’m still recovering from its late nights and from downing more beer than I usually consume in a month. Happily, there’s the regional Washington, D.C., convention Capclave to look forward to in October and then, in early November, the World Fantasy Convention in Toronto. Not even Cthulhu could keep me from being at this last: Bob Knowlton has promised to show me his library.
Aurora
Last Thursday evening my wife and I drove to Ohio, where we both grew up. Not having been “home” for several months, we’d begun to feel the usual guilt that plagues members of a family who move “out of state.” No matter that we’d made that move more than 30 years ago.
En route, we listened to radio dramatizations of the adventures of Max Carrados, the blind detective invented by Ernest Bramah. (Bramah is almost as well known for his tall tales of Kai Lung, much prized for an artificial mock-Chinese style of the most punctilious politeness and irony.) The performances, starring Simon Callow, were excellent. At the end of each short mystery, an urbane announcer informed us that we had been enjoying “A Mr. Punch Production.” Since the only person I know with a particular fondness for the name “Mr. Punch” is my multi-talented friend Neil Gaiman, I wondered if this was one of his recent ventures. I do know Neil is a fan of Bramah’s contemporaries, Arthur Conan Doyle and G. K. Chesterton, so this seemed more than likely. I figured I’d drop hi
m a line the next day and just ask.
On Friday morning I said goodbye to my wife in Youngstown, where she would be helping her sister clean out their childhood home before putting it on the market, then drove to Lorain to visit my mother, who must now reside in an assisted living facility. I listened to music on the way—Arturo Benedetti Michelangeli’s exhilarating performances of the Ravel G Major Piano Concerto and the Rachmaninoff No. 4 in G Minor. Since this Ohio trip was a last-minute idea, my mother practically choked on a mouthful of chicken sandwich when I unexpectedly appeared at her door. As I sat down to talk to her, she insisted that I phone my sisters Sandra, Pamela, and Linda to tell them I was in town. Only the last answered her phone, and the first thing Linda said was something about terrible killings in Colorado and was that anywhere near where my son Chris lived.
As it happened, the Aurora movie theater is about a 15 minutes’ drive from my son’s apartment in Denver.
I called him. No answer. I left a message asking him to communicate as soon as possible. I called my wife. No answer, so I left her a message asking her to try to reach Chris. I then called Chris’s two brothers, neither of whom ever answers his phone when they see it’s only their father, and left still more messages. By this time, my mother was starting to tremble with fright and worry. She wasn’t quite keening, but she was close to it. While I tried to stay rational—he’s got summer school classes, why would he go to the movies in the middle of the week?—my fears and imagination began, inexorably, to kick in. I almost never text on my ancient cell phone but I laboriously managed to spell out “CALLASAP.” I never did figure out how to make word breaks.
Browsings Page 8