When I was a little boy, in my neighborhood (and probably yours), there was a forlorn old house, in disrepair, badly in need of paint, grass unwatered and eight inches high, shutters leaning on hinges. All the kids in the neighborhood thought it was haunted. When we eventually discovered that an elderly woman was living there, naturally we assumed she was a 'real' witch. Nothing, before or since, has equalled the heart-racing excitement and thrill of wobblily standing in front of her ancient wood-frame abode in an eerie brown October twilight, in a brash, exotic Halloween frame of mind; with that energetic sense of wonder and youthful imagining. Imagine! What clipped black wings! What stroked and strange macabre things went on inside her marvelous cob-webbed black dwelling! Candles moved at hazy windows! Creaking doors squeaked. Porch swings swayed, rattled, and seemed to speak! What queer and miraculous cloven-hooved dreams were root-cellar spawned and mushrooming?
When she invited us in to her house two weeks later for hot apple cider, popcorn, and Trick-or-Treat, the bubble burst. She was just an ordinary nice old lady now. See? Horror loses everything, its thundering supernatural sense of wonder, its snakes, pumpkins, and windy midnight broomstick rides, when it is exposed, when the blood and guts are seen naked, in puddles, in the harsh yellow light of day. The bubble pops. The dream sours.
Let's keep horror magical, special.
Well, we hasten to add that the bubble really popped for you when you found out that there was no menace, that the old lady was just a nice neighbor. But if you had seen blood and guts in there, some child from the neighborhood chopped up on a cutting board, with eyeballs floating in the sink . . . well, it would have been quite a memorable occasion!
It might not have made the best story. We tend to agree with you on gore-for-gore's sake. Our own feeling is that gore is permissible in a story as long as it is there for a constructive purpose and not merely as a substitute for plot, character, action, atmosphere.
The Splatterpunk authors object that you can have just so many M.R. Jamesian stories of elderly clerics who get a fright from a rippling curtain seen in the dark, and that, to keep things interesting, there should be more.
The problem is, of course, that suggestion is often more powerful than what the writer has to deliver. The inherent limitation of the blood-and-vomit aesthetic is that once you have shown everything, there is nothing more to show. If the point of the story is shock, the shocks can only keep escalating so far until we reach the level of a Friday the 13th movie and the result is either nauseating or just plain silly.
Yes, imagination is the key. The story has to remain magical. That means, when the author does pull aside the covers and show us the Horror or the Wonder, he had better deliver the goods, hopefully goods we have never seen before.
And our faithful correspondent Greg Koster is back again:
. . . issue 295. My favorite five are 1: "A Doll's Tale" 2: "Cloonaturk" 3: "The Disapproval of Jeremy Cleave" 4: "Love Song from the Stars," 5: "King Yvorian's Wager." The rest of the pack is way back in the dust.
I regret to say that this issue, to me anyway, is the weakest one you've put out. The lady critic who edits the bug-crusher would be justified in her complaint by Weird Tales®. The two top tales are very funny rather than scary. The rest seemed competently done, but were pale. They were missing some literary vitamin that would make them memorable. This was particularly true of Mr. Lumley's tales. If you ever get a chance, compare "No Sharks in the Med" with "The Sun, the Sea, and the Silent Scream" (also by Brian hum-ley) in the March 1988 issue of The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction. "No Sharks" is a carbon copy of his earlier tale, and a pretty pale one. You got the short end of this deal.
However, I agree with you that Weird Tales® is a magazine of merit. Without trying to define what "scariness" is, I will say that Weird Tales® has always made me feel that the money spent on a subscription is well spent.
Question: Are the "Weirdisms" true, or just the product of an editor's imagination?
Vincent Di Fate is a talented artist, but his magic did not come through in this issue. Once again, I can't tell you why, but I am reduced to scratching my head and muttering, "Sorry chaps, this ain't it." About the only defect I can point out is that the illustrations usually did not seem to be of the most dramatic parts of the story; "The Demon Cat" is the best example of this.
In regards special issues: You have tried grouping an author's stories together, spreading them throughout the issue. I am in favor of the former approach — a group of tales seems more like a special issue somehow. I think it is the punch of a group that makes the difference. To be sure, weak stories will show up more prominently this way, but then, you don't buy weak stories, right? May I also request that you return to printing a checklist, not necessarily complete, of the featured author's works? The one ofTanith Lee was fine. I mention this because issue 296 features David Schow, which makes me scratch my head and mutter "David who?"
Gosh, we thought you knew. But there are so many books, so many authors, that if a writer is less famous than King or As-imov, there is going to be a substantial portion of the readership which hasn't heard of him or her. By now, of course, we hope you have read the Schow issue and been introduced to a "new" writer you will want to follow in the future. David is the author of The Kill Riff and a story collection, Red Light (both Tor Books). The title story in the collection won the World Fantasy Award in 1987. It was originally published in Twilight Zone, to which he was a regular contributor, along with TZ's companion magazine, Night Cry, where he exercised his penchant for titles. We particularly remember "Blood Rape of the Lust Ghouls." He also writes for TV and movies.
To answer your other question: yes, the topics of "Weirdisms" are quite real. An acquaintance saw a hand of glory in an occult shop's back room. And Tibetan corpse-wrestling is described in Alexandra David-Neel's Magic and Mystery in Tibet. Tibetans, at least, believe in such things.
The Most Popular Story
We need your votes, readers. For issue 296, what votes we received covered a very wide spread, so that no fewer than seven stories got at least one first-place vote. In order to make some sense out of this, we shifted from just counting first-place votes to a point system: first place equals three points, second place two, third place one. By this reckoning, the result is even between Darrell Schweitzer's "King Yvorian's Wager" and Mervyn Wall's "Cloonaturk." By a straight first-place count, the winner would be Schweitzer, but Wall got more votes (second and third) overall. We declare it a tie.
We are particularly gratified that the Mervyn Wall story was popular. He is, in the opinion of some of us, the best living fantasy writer in the world. His two Irish fantasies, The Unfortunate Fursey (1946) and The Return of Fursey (1947) are simply wonderful, tragi-comedies in the manner of (and fully as good as) T.H. White. Look for an omnibus, The Complete Fursey (Dublin: Wolfhound Press, 1985) in Irish import shops. For all he is known to critics (see especially E.F. Bleiler's Supernatural Fiction Writers) he seems unknown to the general fantasy readership, simply because his books have never been reprinted as category paperbacks. It needs doing. V
by John Gregory Betancourt
Win a zillion dollars!
One topic of interest among SF writers lately is the new Turner Tomorrow Award, which is being sponsored by Ted Turner (of Turner Broadcasting — CNN, WTBS, TNT, etc. etc. etc.). For the best entrant depicting a practical, positive solution to a world problem (presumably ecological), a prize of half a million dollars is offered. There will also be four runners-up, who will receive fifty thousand dollars.
First prize is more than a hundred times what most novelists ever receive for a book. But is it a good thing?
I think so. Not because dozens or hundreds of Great SF Novels will be generated; I have my doubts about how many professional science-fiction writers will even enter the contest. What with bills to pay and mouths to feed, most writers will stick with their steady contracts
. . . this book has to be finished, and has to be done completely on spec, and that would be hard for the writer just scraping by. Doubtless some talented newcomer will win. Rather, I think it's a good idea because, in publishing, people listen to money. Cynical, yes, but certainly true. Think about it: whenever you hear about some SF/fantasy/horror book through non-SF media, isn't it because of money in some way — Stephen King getting $40 million for four books, or Dean Koontz signing a huge contract with Berkley, or something of the sort?
What Turner's award will do is focus (for a brief time) public attention on his award. Every writer I know is talking about it.
With the largest prize ever offered in science fiction, how can the Turner Tomorrow Award be ignored? It overshadows the Writers of the Future contest in every way.
If you're interested or want more information, you can write for complete rules and an entry form. Address: The Turner Tomorrow Awards, One CNN Center, Box 105366, Atlanta GA 30329. Deadline for entry is November 20, 1990.
Grumbles from the Grave, by Robert A.
Heinlein
Del Rey Books, 281 pp., $19.95 (hc)
Grumbles is a curious book for the millions who grew up reading Robert A. Hein-lein's work. Heinlein kept himself a very private person throughout his life, and few people in the field knew him, or knew much about him (as compared to, say, Isaac Asi-mov or Arthur C. Clarke). Grumbles from the Grave is to some extent a correction of that, since it provides glimpses of his life, thoughts, and opinions, mainly through correspondence with his literary agent, Lurton Blassingame.
Perhaps the most surprising revelation is Heinlein's relationship with his editor at Scribner's, Alice Dalgliesh. Rather than being an easy-to-work-with professional, Dalgliesh appears (from Heinlein's point of view, anyway) to have been meddlesome (she often insisted on rewrites, weakening stories), sexually repressed (she saw Freudian symbolism all over Red Planet — and of course moved to suppress it), and generally snobbish (she refused to use Hubert Rogers for covers on Heinlein's books because his work had appeared in Astounding—and the cover she sent Heinlein as proof illustrated one of Heinlein's pseudonymous
stories).
Many of Heinlein's books were savaged. Excerpts from Red Planet and Podkayne of Mars appear in the appendices to bear out Heinlein's opinions. What's most surprising is that, after becoming a cult author and best-seller, Heinlein didn't insist on having all his books reissued as he wanted them. Which leads us to . . .
The Puppet Masters, by Robert A. Heinlein (expanded edition) Del Rey Books, $4.95, 340pp., (pb)
The first two un-expurgated Heinlein novels have appeared: The Puppet Masters, and Red Planet.
The Puppet Masters is Heinlein's cold-war novel — a vast allegory on socialism. This time the communists are sluglike creatures which come from spaceships, attach themselves to humans, and take over minds and wills. Puppet masters indeed!
I'd read and enjoyed the book as a teenager, and as I read, I kept looking for differences. A few scenes seemed to go on longer than I remembered. And everything seemed less tense and intense. And this version is far more sexist. But other than that — the same story.
Unless you're dying to reread it, you might as well stick with your old edition on this one.
Necroscope III: The Source, by Brian
Lumley
TOR Books, 505 pp., $4.95
The back cover of The Source says, "Concluding a powerful trilogy of terror!" — but we know better. Lumley's made no secret of his intentions to make the Necroscope books into a five-volume series.
I'm pleased to say the middle installment is fully up to snuff. After finishing each of the last two books, I've thought, But where can he go from here? And he's always managed to surprise me.
The Source takes us away from our human Earth, to the parallel world which spawned the vamphyri. Travel to and from the vampires' Earth is a result of a "gray hole" which a team of Soviet scientists unwittingly created (and now can't get rid of) when they attempted use of a new Star-Wars-like defense system. Unfortunately it's a one-way trip through the gray hole — you can either enter the vamphyri's
world from ours and not get back, or enter ours from the vamphyri's world. And several quite unusual vampire-creatures have already come through. . . .
Of course the various British and American intelligence agencies want to know what's going on; the Soviets don't want them to find out; and again Harry Keogh, necroscope and former head of ESPionage for the British, gets pulled in.
But this isn't quite the same Harry we remember from Necroscope II: Vamphyri!
— he's older, burned out, and still searching (without success) for wife and son, who disappeared at the end of the second book. But perhaps the gray hole will be the solution to his problems, too.
Lumley is still blending horror, fantasy, and science fiction. The returning characters are still like old friends. And new villains and heroes are still well drawn. It's a strong installment in the series. If you aren't already following it, read the first two books before The Source — Lumley ties up a number of loose threads.
I'm eagerly awaiting #4. Though what he's going to do this time is beyond me.
Consider Phlebas, by Iain M. Banks
This was my second stab at reading Banks's work. My first was his novel Walking on Glass, which I found dull to the point of impenetrability. That would have been enough to put me off his work for good, but I decided to try again because of the heaps of praise he'd gotten for his first novel (horror), The Wasp Factory, and his first science-fiction novel, Consider Phlebas.
I'm glad I gave him a second chance. Consider Phlebas is one of the best space operas I've ever read.
In a heavily populated universe, where star travel is cheap and easy, two forces are at war: the Idirans, giant aliens who want to subdue and civilize the rest of the universe as part of a religious mission; and the Culture, a loose amalgamation of humans and machines which is probably the largest federation in the universe. Our titular hero is Horza, a Changer — someone who has been genetically altered so he can shift to look like any human he wants to. Horza has thrown in with the Idirans due to ideological reasons; he sees the Culture as a stagnant dead-end and wants the humans' blissful existence in partnership with machines ended. In many ways he is prejudiced against machine intelligence.
Horza is an ideal spy. He is assigned the task of recovering a spaceship's computer brain from a dead planet, but gets sidetracked by the war and has to make his own way there in the company of a mercenary band. There are battles (small and stellar), memorably weird characters like Fwi-Song the cannibal priest and Balveda, Horza's counterpart in the Culture. And there are exotic machines, strange worlds, odd aliens . . . everything you could possibly want wrapped in a story of galaxy-shaking scope. Recommended.
Of note . . . :
Tales of the Cthulhu Mythos, by HP.
Lovecraft & Divers Hands Arkham House, 529pp., $23.95
This is surely the definitive Cthulhu Mythos volume, with 22 stories by H.P. Love-craft (2), Clark Ashton Smith (2), Frank Belknap Long (2), August Derleth (2), Robert Bloch (3), and one each from Robert E. Howard, Henry Kuttner, Fritz Leiber, Lum-ley, Ramsey Campbell, Colin Wilson, Joanna Russ, Karl Edward Wagner, Philip Jose Farmer, Stephen King, and Richard A. Lu-poff. Whether you like your Unspeakable Things squamous or rugose, don't miss it.
Masques III, edited by J.N. Williamson
Some series seem to wind down the older they get, and the Masques series is starting on that track, if the latest volume is any indication. It's not a bad book by any means; all the stories are good, publishable stuff. It's just lacking in high points. There is no single story — like Alan Rodgers' "The Boy Who Came Back from the Dead" or Robert McCammon's "Night Crawlers" from the first volume — which will grab you by the throat and shake you till you pay attention. But if there are no peaks, there are no valleys, either: not a dud in the collect
ion, not even among the stories by new writers Williamson has discovered or is developing, which is quite an achievement because my tastes are very demanding. For a glimpse at future big names in the field, check out the second section, "The New Horror," which features work by rising stars (mostly from the small press).
There is also work by Ray Bradbury, Ed Gorman, Rex Miller, William F. Nolan, Dan Simmons, Ray Russell, Graham Masterton, and quite a few more. Check it out.
Midnight Graffiti #4
Midnight Graffiti Publishing, $4.95. (13101 Sudan Rd., Poway CA 92064)
Midnight Graffiti is a delightful fan-produced magazine more about the horror field than anything else. #4 is the special dinosaur issue — with stories by David Schow, Joe Lansdale, and R.V. Branham — minor stuff, but certainly diverting. Schow's tale is an homage to Bradbury's classic "The Sound of Thunder." The real meat of the issue is Theodore Sturgeon's last interview.
If you order by mail, add $2.50 for postage and be prepared for a wait; they're a bit slow sometimes.
V
SNICKERDOODLES
by Nancy Springer
"Eat this, son," Blake's mother told him, handing him a snickerdoodle. "It will help you know what to do."
That was different. She usually said, "It'll make you feel better." She held the cookie out toward him, and he noted without particularly noticing how its dimpled circular surface was incised with the simple six-lobed design some of the old people called a hex sign. This was not unduly strange. Enola Bloods-worth always decorated her cookies with hearts or tulips or some sort of design. And they did indeed make people feel better. This was a known fact in Diligence, PA, and would have enabled her to make a living off the things if she had cared to sell them. But she preferred, in her cat-walks-by-herself way, to control them, giving them only to whom she chose.
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