by Neil Gaiman
That’s what these stories are about. Some of them are quite brilliant, and they sparkle and glitter and shine and wound and howl, and some of them aren’t; but in all of them you can see Harlan experimenting, trying new things, new techniques, new voices; craft and voices he’d later refine into the calm assurance of Deathbird Stories, his examination of the myths we live by; into the stories of Shatterday, in which he took apart, hard, the cannibalistic relationship between the writer and the story; or the bitter elegies of Angry Candy.
He knew his circle; and he dared to go outside it.
Being a preamble to Harlan is a strange and scary business. I take down the battered and thumbed and treasured paperbacks from the bookshelves and look at them and there’s Harlan on the back cover, with a pipe or a typewriter, and I wonder at how young he looks (it would be foolish to remark that Harlan is the youngest a-whisker-away-from-sixty-year-old I’ve ever met—it’s patronizing and implies that it’s a wonder that he’s still in full possession of his faculties and capable of telling the mah-jongg tiles apart; but he has a sense of wonder that’s been beaten out of most people by the time they hit their twenties, and a certain cyclonic energy that puts me in mind of my eight-year-old daughter, Holly, or of a particularly fiendish explosive device with a ferocious sense of humor; and more than that, he still has convictions and the courage of them): and I then realize the company I’m in, and I reread Stephen King’s introduction to Stalking the Nightmare and watch Steve making the same points I’m trying so haltingly to make, that it’s not about the personality, or the tales about Harlan, or even about Harlan the person. It’s not about the pleasure it gave me to hand Harlan the World Fantasy Award for Life Achievement, nor is it about the stunned expressions on the faces of the assembled banqueters, as they listened to his humble and gracious acceptance speech. (I lie through my teeth. Not humble. Not even gracious. Very funny, though. And they were stunned.)
Really, all it’s about is a shelf of books, and a pile of stories, written as well as he could write them when he wrote them, which is not beside the point; which is, in fact, the whole point.
And Harlan continues to write well and passionately and fiercely. I commend to your attention his story “The Man Who Rowed Christopher Columbus Ashore” in the 1993 Best American Short Stories collection—every bit as experimental as anything produced in the wildest excesses of the New Wave and entirely successful. He knows his circle. He is willing to explore outside it.
So, twelve stories follow.
These are not stories that should be forgotten; and some of you are about to read them for the first time.
Prepare to leave the circle with a more-than-capable guide.
I envy you.
* * *
This was my foreword to the 1994 Borderlands Press edition of Harlan Ellison’s The Beast That Shouted Love at the Heart of the World.
* * *
Banging the Drum for Harlan Ellison
Harlan Ellison, sir? Lor’ bless you. Of course I remember Harlan Ellison. Why if it wasn’t for Harlan Ellison, I doubt I’d even be in this line of work.
I first met Harlan Ellison in Paris in 1927. Gertrude Stein introduced us at one of her parties. “You boys will get on,” she said. “Harlan’s a writer. Not a great writer, like I am. But I hear he makes up stories.”
Harlan looked her in the eye, and told her exactly what he thought of her writing. It took him fifteen minutes and he never repeated himself once. When he finished, the whole room applauded. Gertie got Alice B. Toklas to throw us out into the rain, and we stumbled around Paris, clutching a couple of wet baguettes and a half a bottle of an indifferent Bordeaux.
“Where are the snows of yesteryear?” I asked Harlan.
He pulled out a map from an inside pocket, and showed me.
“I would never have guessed that was where they end up,” I told him.
“Nobody does,” he said.
Harlan knew all kinds of stuff like that. He was braver than lions, wiser than owls, and he taught me a trick with three cards which, he said, would prove an infallible method of making money if I was down on my luck.
The next time I saw Harlan Ellison was in London, in 1932. I was working in the music halls, which were still going fairly strong, though they weren’t what they used to be. I had worked up a mentalist’s act, in a small way. I wasn’t exactly bottom of the bill—that was Señor Moon and his Amazing Performing Budgerigar—but I was down there. That was until Harlan came along. He found me at the Hackney Empire vainly trying to intuit the serial number on a temperance crusader’s ten-shilling note. “Give up this mentalism nonsense, and stick with me, kiddo,” he said. “You’ve got a drummer’s hands, and I’m a man needs a drummer. Together, we’ll go places.”
We went to Goole and Stoke Poges and Accrington and Bournemouth. We went to Eastbourne and Southsea and Penzance and Torquay. We were doing literature: dramatic storytelling on the seafront to move and entertain the ice-cream-licking multitudes, wooing them away from the baggy-trousered clowns and the can-can girls, the minstrel shows and the photographer’s monkey.
We were the hit of the season wherever we went. I’d bang my drum to gather the people around, and Harlan would get up there and tell them one of his stories—there was one about a fellow who was the Paladin of the Lost Hour, another about a man who rowed Christopher Columbus ashore. Afterwards I would pass the hat around, or simply take the money from the hands of the stunned holidaymakers, who would tend simply to stand there when Harlan had finished, their mouths agape, until the arrival of the Punch and Judy man would send them fleeing to the whelk stall in confusion.
One evening, in a fish and chip shop in Blackpool, Harlan confided his plans to me. “I’m going to go to America,” he told me. “That’s where they’ll appreciate me.”
“But, Harlan,” I told him, “we’ve got a great career here, performing on the seafronts. That new dramatic monologue of yours about the chappie who had no mouth but had to scream anyway—there was almost thirty bob in the hat after that!”
“America,” said Harlan. “That’s where it’s at, Neil.”
“You’ll have to find someone else to work the seafronts of America with, then,” I told him. “I’m staying here. Anyway, what’s America got you won’t find in Skegness, or Margate, or Brighton? They’re all in a hurry in America. They’ll not stand still long enough for you to tell them one of your stories. That one about the mind-reading fellow in the prison, why it must have taken you almost two hours to tell.”
“That,” said Harlan, “is the simplicity of my plan. Instead of going from town to town, I shall write down my stories, for people to read. All across America they’ll be reading my stories. America first, and then the world.”
I must have looked a little dubious, for he picked up a battered saveloy from my plate and used it to draw a map of America with little arrows coming out of it on the table, using the vinegary tomato catsup as paint.
“Besides,” asked Harlan, “where else am I going to find true love?”
“Glasgow?” I suggested bravely (for I “died” once as a mentalist at the Glasgow Empire), but he was obviously no longer listening.
He ate my battered saveloy and we headed back to the streets of Blackpool. When we got to the seafront I banged my little drum until we had gathered together a small crowd, and Harlan proceeded to tell them a story about a week in the life of a man who accidentally telephoned his own house, and he answered the telephone.
There was almost fifty shillings in the hat at the end of that story. We split the proceeds, and Harlan caught the next train to Liverpool, where he said he thought he could work his passage on a steamer, telling stories to the people on board. There was one about a boy and his dog he thought would go over particularly well.
I hear he’s doing all right in the New World. Well, here’s to him. And as an occasional toiler in the fields of literature myself, I often have cause to remember, with pleasure, all the things I learn
ed back then from Harlan Ellison.
I’m still using them now.
Anyway, sir. Three cards. Round and round and round they go, and where they stop, nobody knows. Are you feeling lucky today? D’you think you can find the lady?
* * *
I wrote this for the ReaderCon 11 program book, 1999. It is not to be factually relied on.
* * *
On Stephen King, for the Sunday Times
I began life as a journalist, interviewing authors. I don’t do it any longer. But I’d never interviewed Stephen King. Cathy Galvin, then at the Sunday Times, called and asked if I would interview King for them. By perfect coincidence, I was in Florida writing a book, not far from where King was staying. I took a day off from my own book, and I drove west.
Preamble
THE SUNDAY TIMES asked me to write something small and personal about King and me for the contributors’ notes, and I wrote this:
I think the most important thing I learned from Stephen King I learned as a teenager, reading King’s book of essays on horror and on writing, Danse Macabre. In there he points out that if you just write a page a day, just 300 words, at the end of a year you’d have a novel. It was immensely reassuring—suddenly something huge and impossible became strangely easy. As an adult, it’s how I’ve written books I haven’t had the time to write, like my children’s novel Coraline.
Meeting Stephen King this time, the thing that struck me is how very comfortable he is with what he does. All the talk of retiring from writing, of quitting, the suggestions that maybe it’s time to stop before he starts repeating himself, seems to be done. He likes writing, likes it more than anything else that he could be doing, and does not seem at all inclined to stop. Except perhaps at gunpoint.
THE FIRST TIME I met Stephen King was in Boston, in 1992. I sat in his hotel suite, met his wife, Tabitha, who is Tabby in conversation, and his then-teenage sons Joe and Owen, and we talked about writing and about authors, about fans and about fame.
“If I had my life over again,” said King, “I’d’ve done everything the same. Even the bad bits. But I wouldn’t have done the American Express ‘Do You Know Me?’ TV ad. After that, everyone in America knew what I looked like.”
He was tall and dark haired, and Joe and Owen looked like much younger clones of their father, fresh out of the cloning vat.
The next time I met Stephen King, in 2002, he pulled me up onstage to play kazoo with the Rock Bottom Remainders, a ramshackle assemblage of authors who can play instruments and sing and, in the case of author Amy Tan, impersonate a dominatrix while singing Nancy Sinatra’s “These Boots Are Made for Walkin’.”
Afterwards we talked in the tiny toilet in the back of the theater, the only place King could smoke a furtive cigarette. He seemed frail, then, and gray, only recently recovered after a long hospitalization from being hit by an idiot in a van, and the hospital infections that had followed it. He grumbled about the pain of walking downstairs. I worried about him, then.
And now, another decade, and when King comes out of the parking bay in his Florida house to greet me, he’s looking good. He’s no longer frail. He is sixty-four and he looks younger than he did a decade ago.
Stephen King’s house in Bangor, Maine, is gothic and glorious. I know this although I have never been there. I have seen photographs on the Internet. It looks like the sort of place that somebody like Stephen King ought to live and work. There are wrought iron bats and gargoyles on the gates.
Stephen King’s house on a key in Florida near Sarasota, a strand of land on the edge of the sea, lined with big houses (“that one was John Gotti’s,” I learn as we pass one huge white high-walled building. “We call it murder mansion”), is ugly. And not even endearingly ugly. It’s a long block of concrete and glass, like an enormous shoe box. It was built, explains Tabby, by a man who built shopping malls, out of the materials of a shopping mall. It’s like an Apple store’s idea of a McMansion, and not pretty. But once you are inside the glass window-walls have a perfect view over the sand and the sea, and there’s a gargantuan blue metal doorway that dissolves into nothingness and stars in one corner of the garden, and inside the building there are paintings and sculptures, and, most important, there’s King’s office. It has two desks in it. A nice desk, with a view, and an unimpressive desk with a computer on it, with a battered, much sat-upon chair facing away from the window.
That’s the desk that King sits at every day, and it is where he writes. Right now he’s writing a book called Joyland, about an amusement park serial killer. Below the window is a patch of well-fenced land, with an enormous African spurred tortoise nosing around in it, like a monstrous ambulatory rock.
My first encounter with Stephen King, long before I met him in the flesh, was on East Croydon station in about 1975. I was fourteen. I picked up a book with an all-black cover. It was called ’Salem’s Lot. It was King’s second novel; I’d missed the first, a short book called Carrie, about a teenage girl with psychic powers. I stayed up late finishing ’Salem’s Lot, loving the Dickensian portrait of a small American town destroyed by the arrival of a vampire. Not a nice vampire, a proper vampire. Dracula meets Peyton Place. After that I bought everything King wrote as it came out. Some books were great, and some weren’t. It was okay. I trusted him.
Carrie was the book that King started and abandoned, and which Tabby King pulled out of the wastepaper basket, read and encouraged him to finish. They were poor, and then King sold Carrie, and everything changed, and he kept writing.
Driving down to Florida I listened, for over thirty hours, to the audiobook of King’s time travel novel, 11/22/63. It’s about a high school English teacher (as King was, when he wrote Carrie) who goes back from 2011 to 1958, via a wormhole in time located in the stockroom of an ancient diner, with a mission to save John F. Kennedy from Lee Harvey Oswald.
It is, as always with King, the kind of fiction that forces you to care what happens, page after page. It has elements of horror, but they exist almost as a condiment for something that’s partly a tightly researched historical novel, partly a love story, and always a musing on the nature of time and the past.
Given the hugeness of King’s career, it is difficult to describe anything he does as an anomaly. He exists on the border of popular fiction (and, on occasion, nonfiction). His career (writers do not have careers, most of us. We just write the next book) is peculiarly Teflon. He’s a popular novelist, which used to be, perhaps still is, a description of the author of a certain type of book: one that will repay you for reading it in pleasure and in plot, like John D. MacDonald (to whom King tips his hat in 11/22/63). But not just a popular novelist: it does not matter what he writes, it seems, he is always a horror writer. I wonder if that frustrates him.
“No. No it doesn’t. I have got my family, and they are all okay. We have enough money to buy food and have things. Yesterday, we had a meeting of the King Foundation [the private foundation King funds that gives to many charitable causes]. My sister-in-law, Stephanie, she organizes it and we all sit down and give away money. That’s frustrating. Every year we give away the same money to different people . . . it’s like chucking money into a hole. That’s frustrating.
“I never thought of myself as a horror writer. That’s what other people think. And I never said jack shit about it. Tabby came from nothing, I came from nothing, we were terrified that they would take this thing away from us. So if the people wanted to say ‘You’re this,’ as long as the books sold, that was fine. I thought, I am going to zip my lip and write what I wanted to write. The first time that anything like what you’re talking about happened, I did this book Different Seasons, they were stories that I had written like I write all of them, I get this idea, and I want to write this. There was a prison story, ‘Rita Hayworth and the Shawshank Redemption,’ and one based on my childhood called ‘The Body,’ and there is a story of this kid who finds a Nazi, ‘Apt Pupil.’ I sent them to Viking, who was my publisher. My editor was Alan D. W
illiams—dead many long years—terrific editor—he always took the work dead level. He never wanted to pump it. I sent them Different Seasons, and he said, ‘Well, first of all you call it seasons, and you have just written three.’ I wrote another one, ‘The Breathing Method,’ and that was the book. I got the best reviews in my life. And that was the first time that people thought, Whoa, this isn’t really a horror thing.
“I was down here in the supermarket, and this old woman comes around the corner, this old woman—obviously one of the kind of women who says whatever is on her brain. She said, ‘I know who you are, you are the horror writer. I don’t read anything that you do, but I respect your right to do it. I just like things more genuine, like that Shawshank Redemption.’
“And I said, ‘I wrote that.’ And she said, ‘No you didn’t.’ And she walked off and went on her way.”
It happens, over and over. It happened when he published Misery, his chronicle of toxic fandom; it happened with Bag of Bones, his gothic ghost story about a novelist, with nods to du Maurier’s Rebecca; it happened when he was awarded the National Book Foundation’s Medal for Distinguished Contribution to American Letters.
We’re not talking in the huge concrete shoe box house. We’re sitting by the pool in a smaller house the Kings bought on the same street, as a guesthouse for their family. Joe King, who writes under the name of Joe Hill, is staying there. He still looks like his dad, although no longer a clonal teenage version, and now has a successful career of his own as a writer of books and graphic novels. He carries his iPad everywhere he goes. Joe and I are friends.
In Bag of Bones, Stephen King has an author who stops writing but keeps publishing stockpiled books. I wonder how long his publishers could keep his death a secret?