Harlan Ellison published his violent and disturbing story collection The Deadly Streets at the age of 24, spewing it like lava out of his experience as a street gang member researching his first novel, Web of the City.

It may still be too hot to touch, and some of the story titles glow with menace:

• Rat Hater
• “I’ll Bet You a Death”
• We Take Care of Our Dead
• The Man With the Golden Tongue
• Johnny Slice’s Stoolie
• Joy Ride
• Buy Me That Blade
• The Hippie-Slayer
• Kid Killer
• With a Knife in Her Hand
• Sob Story (written with Henry Slesar)
• Look Me in the Eye, Boy!
• The Dead Shot
• Ship-Shape Pay-Off (written with Robert Silverberg)
• Made in Heaven
• Students of the Assassin

His introduction to the first edition not only sheds light on the dark mind of Harlan Ellison, but may shed some on the dark and deadly places in your own mind as well:

A few weeks ago, my housekeeper, Eusona, laid a beauty on me. She reads the newspapers: I haven’t the stomach for it these days. So she has become my gazette.

The story, which she found on the back page somewhere, was a quickie. Woman parking her car in Manhattan was driven to a frenzy by a dude in a VW who pulled into the space snout-first behind her, as she was backing up. As he parked, she reached into the glove compartment of her dashboard, pulled out a revolver, jumped out of the car, stalked over to the VW, aimed the weapon through the window and shot to death the man driving, and his two female passengers.

These two stories took place in New York, but just so you don’t feel all teddibly superior to those barbarian Megalopolitans, here’s a lovely one from a large Midwestern city (which one, I cannot remember right now, but it was on the evening network news). A couple of thugs broke into the apartment of an old Czech woman. At knife-point they demanded she give them all her money. She laughed at them, telling them all she had was about three American dollars worth of Czechoslovak koruna, a currency so unstable and unacceptable that the exchange control law of 1 January 1954 prohibits its import and export. She offered them the koruna and continued laughing. Wrong move.

They spotted her gold fillings, bust out her teeth, and got away with about $1100 worth of marketable gold.

As horrifying as we may find Charlie Bronson’s actions in Death Wish, his vigilante tactics of stalking and killing muggers in New York strike a sympathetic vibration in each of us, though we hate it in ourselves, though most of us would deny we feel the same urge from time to time.

You feel it, I feel it.

Ten years ago, I was worked over pretty fair by a couple of over-six-feet heavyweights. One of them held me while the other one pounded my face into guava jelly. When the local bacon finally arrived, the guys had split. One was a deckhand on pleasure yachts, with a string of priors for mayhem that made Hurricane Carter look like Christopher Robin’s nanny. He skipped the country, so I was told. But the other one was a certified flake, an overly macho clown who had been married to a busty film starlet, had bombed out as a stockbroker, and who owed money all over Hollywood. We hauled him into the City Attorney’s office, got him cold when the Man suggested we each take a lie detector test. I rolled up my sleeve right there and said, “Let’s get it on!” The flake began to hem and haw, and his attorney fumfuh’d it was an invasion of something or other. Nonetheless, I took the polygraph test and it backed my story one hundred per cent. Attorney’s office put out a warrant for his arrest. But the cops didn’t bother looking for him.

We went to court, almost two years ago, and got a financial judgment against him for five grand, since it was obvious I wasn’t going to be able to slap the sonofabitch in jail. Even though I had witnesses to unprovoked assault, battery, criminal assault, and a host of etceteras, the cops were simply too busy busting kids with grass in their possession to keep a pair of homicidal thugs off the streets.

He can keep the five grand. Just let me have fifteen minutes alone with the muther.

I’d take along a tire iron.

Not for the beginning; I want that pleasure barehanded. But after that interlude, I’d need the tire iron. I’d start with his legs. Lay him out on the floor and lean his left leg up against the wall and then just jump on the angle, right below the kneecap. Like snapping a rotted piece of cord-wood for the fireplace. Then I’d use the tire iron to break it back in the opposite direction, so bone-chips would get in the kneecap socket, so he’d walk with a limp for the rest of his barbaric life. Then I’d do his hands. Forearms with the tire iron, wrists with the tire iron, fingers one by one…

Make you uneasy? Make you sick? Makes me sick, to know I’ve got that in me somewhere. If I told you I’m a pacifist, would you believe me? Not for a second, and I wouldn’t blame you; even though it’s true. Let me make you even more uneasy; I’m no different than you.

Have you ever been beaten … or raped … or robbed … or even been dismissed cavalierly by some petty authority?

Think back. You know I’m telling the truth. We are all the same inside these skins. We all want to exact revenge. The invasion of our personal space, the brutalization, the debasement, the shame at not having been able to duke it out like Bruce Lee or one of the million short, smart movie/television stars who play the rabbit till they can take it no longer and then lash out and deck the hairy bully. Gary Cooper in Capra’s Mr. Deeds Goes to Town: at the end of the trial where the forces of greed and evil try to convince the court his millions should be taken away from him because he’s “pixilated” and the judge asks Deeds if there’s anything else, and Cooper as Deeds says, “Yes, one more thing,” and he hauls off and knocks crooked attorney Douglass Dumbrille stone cold in the courtroom. Alan Ladd in The Glass Key: having been worked over by pithecanthropoid William Bendix and his buddy, Rusty, played by Eddie Marr, fights back, sets fire to the room where’s he’s been kept prisoner, throws himself out a window and escapes, enabling him later to pound the shit out of Bendix. Jan-Michael Vincent in Buster and Billie: his sweetheart having been raped and bludgeoned to death, finds his ex-school chums, the gang who killed her, and goes berserk, killing two of them by smashing in their heads with a pool cue and a billiard ball. And, of course, Charlie Bronson in Death Wish.

But those are only movies, you say.

Are they? Think back. You know I’m telling the truth. If your wife or sister or girl friend was ever assaulted, if your husband or brother or son was ever stomped or beaten, didn’t you wish you had that fifteen minutes alone with the nameless, faceless motherfuckers who did the deed? Didn’t you fantasize it in your mind, some ghastly weapon in your hand that would prevent their getting at you as you crippled them? If you say you never held such a thought … you are either a liar or nobler than any other member of the human race.

Because the unspoken terror that lives with all of us in big cities these days is a constant. It runs in our bloodstream, it tingles in our skin, it aches in our bones. It’s better for us here in Los Angeles than for you in Detroit or Pittsburgh or Washington, D.C., or New York. But not much.

And so, in that unseamed existence beyond regional or ethnic or religious differentiations, we are all the same. All come to that place where the fear we’ve been taught is so omnipresent that it can be ignored until its intensity reaches panic level. Background noise, ever present static, the ticking of the clock in the darkened bedroom, the hum of generators underfoot, the clattering of the crickets. Always with us. Always there. Unnoticed, unheard, unknown … always there.

Until the moment comes when we become aware of it because it assumes corporeal reality. Like this:

On a trip to New York, I found myself at nine o’clock at night–having worked all day on the galleys of one of my books soon to go to press–descending in a semi-empty elevator at 919 Third Avenue. Bone-tired, leaning up against the wall of the elevator car, attaché case hanging from one hand, almost phased-out. Semi-empty. There was the one other passenger. A very large, very nasty-looking young man in a long and dirty topcoat.

In elevators, unless one is garrulous, one stares at the numbers lighting one after another, or pretends to be deep in thought; one never looks at the other passengers, unless one is a cut-up. I am garrulous, I am a cut-up; but not on this occasion. I was too exhausted. I merely leaned against that wall and waited for the long descent to end.

Everything that happened next, happened in a matter of seconds.

Without looking at him, but nonetheless seeing him clearly out of the corner of my eye, I perceived my companion’s hand reaching down into his topcoat pocket for something weighty. Don’t ask me how I knew, don’t even suggest I could have been dead wrong: I’ll admit I may have been way off-base, but in my gut I knew I was right: he was reaching for a knife. Some nice, long, heavy gravity knife or shake, like the ones I used to see uptown around 101st and First Avenue. His hand was deep in the pocket when, without moving or looking at him, speaking to the floor where my eyes were directed, I said, in a deep and gravelly voice, “If that hand comes out of that pocket with anything on the end of it but fingers, I’m going to kick your brains all over this elevator, motherfucker.”

He paused. Hand deep in pocket.

And then, very slowly, very smoothly, he brought his hand out with the fingers spread, palm forward showing he held nothing. He moved finally and carefully, deeper into his corner, and he watched me.

When we got to the first floor, he was out of the car quickly, was signing the guard’s register at the front door before I was even out of the elevator myself, and as I crossed the lobby of 919 Third Avenue, he was out the door and gone.

Yes, I may have been wrong. He may have been just a young guy working late in one of the upper offices. Maybe. But the noise level of fear had mounted too high to be ignored. It had assumed corporeal reality. And he was quickly gone.

I know if I hadn’t spoken up, just psychopathic enough in my tone and phrasing, that he would have braced me with a knife. I learned the next day, from my then-publisher, Norman Goldfind, that there had been a dozen or so knifings, robberies, muggings, and even a rape in that building over the past two years. And a man had his throat slashed in a toilet in that building just a few months ago. I knew. As you know.

So don’t judge your humble author too quickly. Don’t cluck your tongue and denigrate me for the insensate violence that exists just below the civilized veneer. I am a survival type, an animal that knows. One gets that way in cities like New York.

I learned it a long time ago, when I was gathering material for WEB OF THE CITY (republished recently in an Ace Books edition) and for this book. So the Mystery Writers of America gave me an award for a “mystery” story that is no more a mystery than any other example of mimetic fiction. “The Whimper of Whipped Dogs” is a fantasy that explains reality in a way reality cannot explain itself.

In the same way, the stories in this book hold up that mirror to the real world, turning it slightly, so you can see what goes on around you from a new angle.

Eleven of the stories were written for this book back in the Fifties, when such things as kid gangs existed in the streets of New York. They still exist, but they’re very very different now. In the Fifties, the juvies waged war against each other, and “civilians” were pretty much exempt from the slaughter, unless a random pedestrian happened to walk into the path of a zip gun slug. Today, the gangs rob and kill and spend their time helping to raise the national crime statistics by 17% every month.

Those eleven stories now become history.

There are five others I’ve added to what comprised the first edition of this book. Several of them are up-to-date exercises in street terror. They are history in the making.

But all of them, even though mere fictions, professional lies told to amuse or titillate you, bear within their plotted little boundaries the seeds of what has become the tone of the cities: fear. That unwavering threnody we hear in the night, the hum of people with aerosol cans of mace in their purses, Dobermans on leashes, Fox Locks on their doors, terror in their hearts.

Sixteen stories of violent kids, murderous adults, psychos with no sane reason to kill, streetwise thugs who make their livings preying on the weak and the unwary.

And if you should ask me, “Why tell these terrible stories? Why scare us with such fables?” Why, then I answer: because it is better to know, to see the face of fear, so you can ready yourself. Because living in ignorance is no longer blissful. It’s suicidal.

The deadly streets are the jungles of barbarism Jane Jacobs speaks of, and if you wish to survive in those streets, you must arm yourselves with awareness. Perhaps these stories are only cautionary tales. When they first appeared they were curiosities. It’s just barely possible they are now tools for staying alive.

Harlan Ellison Los Angeles

E-Reads is happy to offer The Deadly Streets in e-book format for the first time. Watch this page for news of a new print edition, and of course keep your eye peeled on Ellison’s author page at E-Reads for new additions to our collection of 32 masterpieces by a master author.

A couple of months ago we expressed confusion about Barnes & Noble’s financial maneuvers. After the book chain’s czar Leonard Riggio announced the company had suffered the worst holiday season in memory, media mogul Ron Burkle bought an 8.3% stake in it. A short while later, Pershing Square Capital Management dumped its entire holdings of B&N, amount to nearly 12%. I wondered, “If things are so terrible, why is someone buying in? And if things are so wonderful, why is someone cashing out?”

We now learn that First Eagle Global Fund has declared in an SEC filing that it controls 11.7 percent of the B&N’s shares. Publishers Lunch points out that “with additional interests on behalf of clients their stake of more than 7 million shares comprises 12.77 percent of BN shares.” That makes First Eagle Global the largest institutional holder of the company’s stock.

After Riggio’s heartwrenching cri de coeur during the holiday season it’s comforting to know that some investors still believe there’s value in B&N.

RC

Sarah Perez in ReadWriteWeb reports that blockbuster author James Patterson has corraled 28 writers to produce AirBorne, a collaboratively written novel . “The upcoming novel will feature 30 chapters, each written by a different author except the first and last – those will be written by Patterson himself.” “With the release of this book,” Perez adds, “it appears the Web 2.0 movement of collaborative writing is about to hit the mainstream.” The book will be published electronically and serially, then released as a limited print edition as a keepsake for the contributors. There are no plans at this time for wider print publication.

“Crowdwritten” books are by no means unique to traditional literature. A famous example is Medea: Harlan’s World, a (now out of print) collection of science fiction stories produced by different authors. Unlike the (as far as I can see) unknowns contributing to Patterson’s book, Ellison’s was packed with superstars: Jack Williamson, Larry Niven, Frederik Pohl, Hal Clement, Thomas M. Disch, Frank Herbert, Poul Anderson, Kate Wilhelm, Theodore Sturgeon, Robert Silverberg and Ellison himself. Nevertheless, the digital medium gives the collective format an exciting new life. Says Perez:

“The roots of the collaborative writing movement can be found in many web startups, including those like Novlet, Potrayl, Ficlets, Unblokt, Protagonize, and others we profiled here. A popular activity for creative writers, these communities offer various takes on how a co-written story should be developed, some focused more on “choose your own adventure”-style stories while others focus more on linear narratives.”

The one thing that isn’t clear is how the contributors to Patterson’s book will be compensated. As it’s a collective effort, perhaps Karl Marx’s formula would be most appropriate: from each according to his ability, to each according to his need.

RC

Were the Sixties put on earth so that Marco Vassi could happen? Or was Marco Vassi put on earth so that the Sixties could happen? To read his classic works of erotic fiction and his masterpiece of autobiographical fiction, The Stoned Apocalypse, is to realize that the man and the era were created out of the same fire and primordial elements. It is not, however, enough to say that Marco Vassi was a child of his age. It could just as accurately be said that the age was Marco Vassi’s fantasy, a fantasy so intense and compelling that it is impossible to read any of his books in one sitting: one must either jump into a cold shower, relieve oneself sexually, or go for a long contemplative walk to reflect on the profundity of his insights into human behavior.

Vassi had done many things before he became a writer, but writing was not one of them except for some translations from Chinese and critiques of manuscripts submitted to a literary agency where he was employed for a few years. He had also tried numerous identities on for size as he acted out and lived out the experiences that were to pour from his mind like water raging over the spillway of a dam. When in the late 1960’s “Fred” Vassi announced that he was embarking on a journey, his friends knew that it was not to a place but to a state of mind.

The state of mind was what came to be known as The Sixties, and anyone seeking to live in that state must enter it through the vision of the author of these works. In cartographic terms it was a journey from the East Coast to California, a trip that resonates with meaning for every student of The American Experience. Speaking metaphorically, however, it was a trip into the heart of life, love, laughter, horror, and sweet pain. Fred Vassi came back Marco Vassi, having recreated himself in the name of the intrepid voyager to the ends of the known world hundreds of years ago.

Heart fecund with all that had happened to him, he started writing the work that was eventually to become The Stoned Apocalypse, a book that captured in coruscating words what others of his generation were capturing so brilliantly in music.

With no source of regular income he tried his hand at what were then popularly known as “sex novels”, a genre of tame pornography that pandered to the fantasies of repressed males still mired in postwar inhibition. With the wide-eyed innocence and self-deprecating humor that characterized every venture he undertook, he showed them to me, his friend and a fledgling literary agent. He merely hoped to raise a few dollars with them. I told him that they were the most incredibly arousing works of erotic literature since Henry Miller, and arranged for them to be brought out by Olympia Press, Miller’s publisher. Critics and reviewers confirmed my assessment. What distinguished his books from the rest of the pack was the application of Vassi’s intelligence. He knew that the mind is the most erotic organ of all. He termed this fusion of mind and sex organs “Metasex.”

For Marco Vassi, the liberation of sexual emotions, paralleling the liberation of so many others in the late 1960’s and early 1970’s, promised a new age of beauty, love, and honesty, and he lived his vision to the hilt – quite literally. For a long while it seemed to him impossible that this vision did not rest on the bedrock of reality.

But, in the words of Robert Frost, nothing gold can stay. The bloody hand of Vietnam and the corrupt fist of the Nixon presidency crushed the fragile beauty of the flower generation. The unbridled commercialism that became the 1980’s captured and exploited the butterflies of Woodstock, enriching half of them and killing the other half with sex, drugs, and rock and roll. Finally, the horror of a new scourge, AIDS, visited death upon the bodies of those who had dreamed of eternal love, irresponsible fun, and self-realization. It was then that Marco Vassi awoke from his dream of The Sixties. When he did, the virus had entered his blood. The first malady of any consequence to come along – in this case pneumonia – conquered his defenseless immune system and made short work of him.

Marco Vassi’s body died, but not the body of his work, which lives again in E-Reads editions. Like a rainbow over a bleak landscape, his dream of The Sixties shimmers above the depressing, sordid, and tragic decades that succeeded his. And ultimately, it triumphs over them.

– Richard Curtis

About 2.6 million readers, purporting to read the magazine for its intellectual content, turn to Playboy’s centerfold first, sustaining its position as America’s bestselling men’s magazine. But that’s the only position the magazine can sustain as losses in advertising revenue – the same spectre haunting every other print publication today – hammer the magazine and its parent company. This according to Stephanie Clifford in the New York Times. Clifford reports that “As it posted a big quarterly loss, Playboy Enterprises indicated Wednesday that it would be willing to sell the company or change the direction of its flagship magazine.” The loss was $145.7 million for the fourth quarter of 2008 alone. In a desperate scramble to cut losses Playboy is closing its New York City offices and returning to home base in Chicago, according to Belinda Luscumbe in Time Magazine.

You can’t blame the company’s problems on digital media, as Playboy has built on its sex appeal with an eye-catching, video-stacked website, which management has tried to make more relevant as well as profitable. “Management” in this case is neither Hugh Heffner nor daughter Christie, who have removed themselves, or been removed, from the front line. It’s hoped that fresh blood will revive the magazine and its myriad enterprises. But hard-nosed investors are skeptical.

Says Time‘s Luscumbe,

Playboy Enterprises Inc. stock has been vulgar, dropping 90% in a year. The company has an entertainment arm in Los Angeles and licenses its name and bunny logo to anyone who’ll pay, including a wine company in 2008, but is said to make most of its money from its less well-known, more hard-core enterprises such as Spice TV and Clubjenna.com, named for porn star Jenna Jameson

Sex still sells but it doesn’t seem to sell enough, and if Playboy can’t get its revenue up using all its seductive wiles, American males may be reduced to reading the backs of cereal boxes.

RC
Photo: Arny Freytag

The New York Times called him “relentlessly honest” and then used him as the subject of its famous Sunday Acrostic. People Magazine said there was no one like him, then cursed him for preventing easy sleep. But in Approaching Oblivion Harlan Ellison outdoes himself, rampaging like a mad thing through love (“Cold Friend”, “Kiss of Fire”, “Paulie Charmed the Sleeping Woman”), hate (“Knox”, “Silent in Gehenna”), sex (“Catman”, “Erotophobia”), lost childhood (“One Life, Furnished in Early Poverty”) and into the bizarre (the aforementioned Streisand story)

The vintage collection is now available in e-book and will shortly appear in trade paperback. Missing Ellison titles? Round out your collection with these, and look for more before long. E-Reads has acquired more than 30 volumes of Harlan Ellison’s work, making us by far his largest publisher.

RC

INTRODUCTION

BLOOD/THOUGHTS

“Writing, has nothing much to do with pretty manners, and less to do with sportsmanship or restraint…

“Every fictioneer re-invents the world because the facts, things or people of the received world are unacceptable. Every fiction writer dreams of imposing his invention upon the world and winning the world’s acclaim. (Such dreams are known as delusions of grandeur in pathology but tolerated as expressions of would-be genius in bookstores and libraries.) Every writer begins as a subversive, if in nothing more than the antisocial means by which he earns his keep. Finally, every fantasist who cannibalizes himself knows that misfortune is his friend, that grief feeds and sharpens his fancy, that hatred is as sufficient a spur to creation as love (and a world more common) and that without an instinct for lunacy he will come to nothing.”

GEOFFREY WOLFF, 1975

What are we to make of the mind of humanity? What are we to think of the purgatory in which dreams are born, from whence come the derangements that men call magic because they have no other names for smoke or fog or hysteria? What are we to dwell upon when we consider the forms and shadows that become stories? Must we dismiss them as fever dreams, as expressions of creativity, as purgatives? Or may we deal with them even as the naked ape dealt with them: as the only moments of truth a human calls throughout a life of endless lies.

Who will be the first to acknowledge that it was only a membrane, only a vapor, that separated a Robert Burns and his love from a Leopold Sacher-Masoch and his hate?

Is it too terrible to consider that a Dickens, who could drip treacle and God bless us one and all, through the mouth of a potboiler character called Tiny Tim, could also create the escaped convict Magwitch; the despoiler of children, Fagin; the murderous Sikes? Is it that great a step to consider that a woman surrounded by love and warmth and care of humanity as was Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley, wife of Percy Bysshe Shelley, the greatest romantic poet western civilization has ever produced, could herself produce a work of such naked horror as Frankenstein? Can the mind equate the differences and similarities that allow both an Annabell Lee and a Masque of the Red Death to emerge from the same churning pit of thought-darkness?

Consider the dreamers: all of the dreamers: the glorious and the corrupt:

Aesop, Attilla; Benito Mussolini and Benvenuto Cellini; Chekhov and Chang Tao-ling; Democritus, Disraeli; Epicurus, Edison; Fauré and Fitzgerald; Goethe, Garibaldi; Huysmann and Hemingway, ibn-al-Farid and Ives; Jeanne d’Arc and Jesus of Nazareth; and on and on. All the dreamers. Those whose visions took form in blood and those which took form in music. Dreams fashioned of words, and nightmares molded of death and pain. Is it inconceivable to consider that Richard Speck–who slaughtered eight nurses in Chicago in 1966, who was sentenced to 1,200 years in prison–was a devout Church-going Christian, a boy who lived in the land of God, while Jean Genet–avowed thief, murderer, pederast, vagrant who spent the first thirty years of his life as an enemy of society, and in the jails of France where he was sentenced to life imprisonment–has written prose and poetry of such blazing splendor that Sartre has called him “saint”? Does the mind shy away from the truth that a Bosch could create hell-images so burning, so excruciating that no other artist has ever even attempted to copy his staggeringly brilliant style, while at the same time he produced works of such ecumenical purity as “L’Epiphanie”? All the dreamers. All the mad ones and the noble ones, all the seekers after alchemy and immortality, all those who dashed through endless midnights of gore-splattered horror and all those who strolled through sunshine springtimes of humanity. They are one and the same. They are all born of the same desire.

Speechless, we stand before Van Gogh’s “Starry Night” or one of those hell-images of Hieronymous Bosch, and we find our senses reeling; vanishing into a daydream mist of what must this man have been like, what must he have suffered? A passage from Dylan Thomas, about birds singing in the eaves of a lunatic asylum, draws us up short, steals the breath from our mouths; and the blood and thoughts stand still in our bodies as we are confronted with the absolute incredible achievement of what he has done. The impossibility of it. So imperfect, so faulty, so broken the links in communication between humans, that to pass along one corner of a vision we have had to another creature is an accomplishment that fills us with pride and wonder, touching us and them for a nanoinstant with magic. How staggering it is then, to see, to know what Van Gogh and Bosch and Thomas knew and saw. To live for that nanoinstant what they lived. To look out of their eyes and view the universe from a never before conquered height, from a dizzying, strange place.

This, then, is the temporary, fleeting, transient, incredibly valuable, priceless gift from the genius dreamer to those of us crawling forward moment after moment in time, with nothing to break our routine save death.

Mud-condemned, forced to deal as ribbon clerks with the boredoms and inanities of lives that may never touch–save by this voyeuristic means–a fragment of glory … our only hope, our only pleasure, is derived through the eyes of the genius dreamers; the genius madmen; the creators.

How amazed … how stopped like a broken clock we are, when we are in the presence of the creator. When we see what his singular talents–wrought out of torment–have proffered; what magnificence, or depravity, or beauty, perhaps in a spare moment, only half-trying; they have brought it forth nonetheless, for the rest of eternity and the world to treasure.

And how awed we are, when caught in the golden web of that true genius–so that finally, for the first time we know that all the rest of it was kitsch; it is made so terribly, crushingly obvious to us, just how mere, how petty, how mud-condemned we really are, and that the only grandeur we will ever know is that which we know second-hand from our damned geniuses. That the closest we will ever come to our “Heaven” while alive, is through our unfathomable geniuses, however imperfect or bizarre they may be.

And is this, then, why we treat them so shamefully, harm them, chivvy and harass them, drive them inexorably to their personal madhouses, kill them?

Who is it, we wonder, who really still the golden voices of the geniuses, who turn their visions to dust?

Who, the question asks itself unbidden, are the savages and who the princes?

Fortunately, the night comes quickly, their graves are obscured by darkness, and answers can be avoided till the next time; till the next marvelous singer of strange songs is stilled in the agony of his rhapsodies.

On all sides the painter wars with the photographer. The dramatist battles the television scenarist. The novelist is locked in combat with the reporter and the creator of the non-novel. On all sides the struggle to build dreams is beset by the forces of materialism, the purveyors of the instant, the dealers in tawdriness. The genius, the creator falls into disrepute. Of what good is he? Does he tell us useable gossip, does he explain our current situation, does he “tell it like it is”? No, he only preserves the past and points the way to the future. He only performs the holiest of chores. Thereby becoming a luxury, a second-class privilege to be considered only after the newscasters and the sex images and the “personalities.” The public entertainments, the safe and sensible entertainments, those that pass through the soul like beets through a baby’s backside … these are the hallowed, the revered.

And what of the mad dreams, the visions of evil and destruction? What becomes of them? In a world of Tiny Tim, there is little room for a Magwitch, though the former be saccharine and the latter be noble.

Who will speak out for the mad dreamers?

Who will insure with sword and shield and grants of monies that these most valuable will not be thrown into the lye pits of mediocrity, the meat grinders of safe reportage? Who will care that they suffer all their nights and days of delusion and desire for ends that will never be noticed? There is no foundation that will enfranchise them, no philanthropist who will risk his hoard in the hands of the mad ones.

And so they go their ways, walking all the plastic paths filled with noise and neon, their multifaceted bee-eyes seeing much more than the clattering groundlings will ever see, reporting back from within their torments that nixons cannot save nor Wallaces uplift. Reporting back that the midnight of madness is upon us; that wolves who turn into men are stalking our babies; that trees will bleed and birds will speak in strange tongues. Reporting back that the grass will turn blood-red and the mountains soften and flow like butter; that the seas will congeal and harden for iceboats to skim across from the chalk cliffs of Dover to Calais.

The mad dreamers among us will tell us that if we take a woman (that most familiar of alien creatures that we delude ourselves into thinking we rule and understand to the core) and pull her inside-out we will have a wondrousness that looks like the cloth-of-gold gown in which Queen Ankhesenamun was interred. That if we inject the spinal fluid of the dolphin into the body, of the dog, our pets will speak in the riddles of a Delphic Oracle. That if we smite the very rocks of the Earth with quicksilver staffs, they will split and show us where our ghosts have lived since before the winds traveled from pole to pole.

The geniuses, the mad dreamers, those who speak of debauchery in the spirit, they are the condemned of our times; they give everything, receive nothing, and expect in their silliness to be spared the gleaming axe of the executioner. How they will whistle as they die!

Let the shamans of Freud and Jung and Adler dissect the pus-sacs of society’s mind. Let the rancid evil of reality flow and surge and gather strength as it hurries to the sea, forming a river that girdles the globe, a new Styx, beyond which men’ and women will go and from whence never return. Let the rulers and the politicians and the financiers throttle the dreams of creativity. It doesn’t matter.

The mad ones will persist. In the face of certain destruction they will still speak of the unreal, the forbidden, all the seasons of the witch.

Consider it.

Please: consider.

Enough philosophy. The preceding, in different forms, was an essay I wrote in defense of the nightmare vision. Its title has changed from “Black/Thoughts” to “Dark/Thoughts” (for obvious contemporary reasons), to “Blood/Thoughts,” which I think will remain on the piece forever. I’ve rewritten it and used it as the opening of the introduction to this, my first collection of suspense stories, per se, because it speaks directly to the intent of the works in this book: to scare you, to keep you guessing, and to demonstrate how much fear can be generated in lives that have been bent and twisted so there are no exits.

It’s a special pleasure to have a book of suspense stories published, at last. Even though a large segment of my weirdo readership knows me as a “sci-fi writer” (and God how I hate that ghastly neologism! If you ever want to see my lips skin back over my teeth like those of a rabid timber wolf, just use that moron phrase in my presence), I was writing a good deal more detective and suspense fiction than fantasy when I began my career. But that was in the middle and late Fifties, when there was a hot truckload of magazines publishing that kind of fiction. Manhunt, The Saint Mystery Magazine, Mantrap, Pursued, Guilty, Suspect, Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, Mike Shayne’s Mystery Magazine, Trapped, Terror, Murder!, Hunted, Crime and Justice, boy the list just went on endlessly with one lousy imitator after another; and of course, in a class by itself, Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine.

But that was twenty years ago, and with the exception of EQMM (still indisputably the fountainhead of significant mystery fiction throughout the civilized world), most of the magazines I listed above are dead. Crumbling yellow pulp relics in my files, dropping brittle little triangles from page corners.

After having been tagged a writer of sf for so many years–and having fought the categorization for the past ten or twelve–with the help of Pyramid Books I’m breaking out of the corner at last. And it feels good. Not only because I want to be judged on the merits of what I write, as opposed to being judged as a representative of a genre that means one thing to one reader and quite another thing to someone else, but because it permits the publication of a book like this. (The fight isn’t quite over yet, either. Nine chances out of ten, when you bought this book it was in among the giant cockroach and berserk vacuum cleaner books. It was in the “sf section,” right? And it isn’t even remotely a book of sf stories. Oh, there are four stories out of the sixteen that could be called fantasies, but I guarantee that nowhere in these pages will you find a spaceship, a robot, an android, a mad scientist, a death ray, a bug-eyed monster, an ecology parable, a malevolent computer, an alternate universe, an insect big enough to eat a city, a menace from interstellar space, a lost race of super-scientific villains or even a mention of the planet Mars. But there it was, right between a Philip K. Dick novel on one side, and a Philip José Farmer novel on the other. Now those are pretty heavyweight guys in whose company to languish, waiting for you to come along to buy me, but it’s a ripoff. They write sf, they say they write sf, if you buy one of their books with sf on the cover you’ll be getting sf of a high order, and no one will feel cheated. But think how annoyed all those dudes are gonna be who picked up this book, paid for it, got it home and are now reading what you’re reading. “What,” they’ll be saying, their fingers balling up into fists, “what the hell is this? Not sf? Not my nightly fix of extrapolation? No sci-fi to wile away the hours?” And they’ll read, oh, say, “Pride in the Profession,” which is a story about a little guy who always wanted to be a hangman, and they’ll finish the story and–even if they liked it–they’ll hurl this book against the wall. “I been robbed!” they’ll shriek. And I don’t blame them. If I go to a massage parlor for a massage, and some nice young woman suggests we perform acts of a personal nature one would have to really stretch the word “massage” to include, well, I’d be annoyed also. If I buy a can of pineapple, I don’t want to spill beets out into my plate. I am dead against false advertising. Yet there NO DOORS, NO WINDOWS was, right smack in the middle of the sf shelves. So. In the name of fair business practices, I urge you to buttonhole the management of the newsstand or bookstore where you purchased this nifty tome, and insist on the following: “Mr. Owner [you should say], the books of Harlan Ellison that are being published by the wonderful Pyramid Books cover the full spectrum of Mr. Ellison’s multifarious literary talents and virtually horizonless range of interests. Each one is numbered.” And then you point out to him or her–in which case it would be Ms. Owner–the big series number in the “O” of the name ELLISON on the front cover. “These books are not always speculative fiction [you will continue, I hope, dashedly cleverly avoiding that nasty phrase we agreed you'd never use again]. Some of them are contemporary novels; some are nostalgia fiction of the world as we knew it in the Fifties; some are autobiography; some are television essays; and this one I hold in my hand is a superb collection of crime and suspense fictions.” Then the Owner, not a bad sort, but sadly in need of guidance, will moan, “But I have to categorize everything, otherwise the assholes who never read anything but their specialty won’t be able to find what they want. See, over here, ten thousand gothics. You can tell they’re gothics because there’s a scared lady in a nightgown running away from a dark house on a rainswept mountaintop, and there’s only one light lit in an upper storey of the mansion, see? And here … fourteen hundred nurse novels, all with apple-cheeked angels of mercy staring covertly at interns with naked lust in their clear blue eyes. And here … violence series novels: The Slaughterer, The Crusher, The Kung Fu Brigade, The Pillager, The Hardy Boys.” And he or she will take you on a tour of the westerns, the classics, the sexy historicals–all with titles like THE FALCON AND THE HYACINTH or THE PLUME AND THE SWORD or THE DIKE AND THE FINGER–the fact science books, the metaphysical books–where forty-two versions of the few lines Plato wrote about Atlantis have been rewritten and re-rewritten by shameless hack popularizers in direct steals of Ignatius Donnelly and that poor coocoo, Madame Blavatsky–the self-help books, the cookbooks, the stiffeners with their wonderfully exotic titles like SUCK MY BUTTONS and WHIP GIRL, the war novels, the detective books and, if it’s a fairly large stock, the movie star biography books cheek-by-jowl with all those handy reference works on how to shoot a movie in your spare time, by people like Jerry Lewis and Peter Bogdanovitch, at least one of whom [to borrow a phrase from John Simon] does not exist. And then you can release the poor Owner from this labyrinth of spatial immurement by saying, “But sir, or ma’am, you have merely fallen prey to the outmoded theory of commercial marketing distinctions. Mr. Ellison transcends such pitiful categories. His work is one with the ages; something for everyone; no home should be without a full set of all nineteen of his handsome Pyramid Books with their delicious Dillon covers; his work uplifts, it enthralls, it ennobles, it clears up acne and the heartbreak of psoriasis; babies cry for more! Why not start a Harlan Ellison section, right here in the very forefront of your shop, directly next to the cash register, whose charming tinkle will be heard ever more frequently with Ellison product chockablock beside the Dyna-Mints and TV Guide, where your unenlightened flock can grab a stack of meaty titles as they would a life preserver in a turbulent sea? Mr. Ellison is a category unto himself. Sui generis! Oh do, do, kind sir or madame! Make this a better world in which to live. Put Ellison where he belongs: all by himself.” And having said that, the Owner will, with tears in eyes, clasp your hand and thank you for the pristine lucidity of your thinking.

(And I won’t have to argue with Tom Snyder that when I do the Tomorrow Show he shouldn’t have a flash-card overprinted on my beaming image that says HARLAN ELLISON, SCI-FI GUY.)

Where was I? Oh, yeah. A book of suspense stories, and how nice it is to finally get noticed as a writer who’s written lots of other things than fantasy.

It began, I suppose, when the Mystery Writers of America awarded me the Edgar Allan Poe statuette last year for the Best Mystery Story. The funny thing is, the story isn’t even a mystery. Not in the terms usually associated with mysteries. The yarn is the lead-off piece in this book, “The Whimper of Whipped Dogs.” And for those of you who bought THE OTHER GLASS TEAT [Pyramid A3791] and who read a script I wrote for the now-defunct TV series, The Young Lawyers, a script with the same title, be advised they have no connection. I just liked the title, “The Whimper of Whipped Dogs.” The story is … well, I’ll hold off on that till I hit the section of this introduction where I tip you to the background or impetus that caused me to write the various pieces included here.

In any case, what I was getting at is that “Whimper” is a fantasy, not a mystery. In the usual sense. Though I guess there must have been a sufficiently weighty suspense element in the story to convince the judges of MWA that it belonged on the ballot. (One tiny horn-toot: I beat out a story by Joyce Carol Oates for the award. Hot diggity!)

So here we have twenty years’ of my writing, all across the board from western stories and mystery fiction to critical literary essays and occasional columns of contemporary events, and they keep labeling me a “science fiction writer.” Very frustrating, particularly when my compatriots in the literature of the fantastic keep pointing out, “Ellison isn’t a science fiction writer,” and they’re right; and there’s no reason why they should have to suffer denigration because they’re held responsible for the berserk stuff I write. Also, my books shouldn’t have to suffer the kind of dumb reviews from the hinterlands–such as the New York Times–that say, “Well, this was a good book, but it certainly isn’t sf,” not to mention the treatment anything labeled sf gets from “serious” reviewers who will wax ecstatic about the nine millionth nostalgic novel dealing with Jewish or Italian home life in the poorer sections of Brooklyn or the Bronx in the late Thirties, but who turn up their patrician noses at anything with fantasy in it. Unless it’s by an accepted “serious” writer. Like Ira Levin or Fred Mustard Stewart or one of the many other nameless (and frequently talentless) clowns who’ve just last week discovered such fresh and untapped themes as exorcism, cloning, diabolic possession or reincarnation. If I had a dime for every half-assed novel published in hardcover since 1967 when Levin stumbled across ROSEMARY’S BABY, that deals with a supernatural or fantasy theme in cornball terms that would get it rejected from The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, I’d have a lotta dimes to make obscene phone calls to the know-nothing publishers who lay out fifty grand a whack to reprint them in paperback.

But then, I’m just an unhappy, bitter, sour grapes writer who resents the hell out of popularizers who get fat on worn-out themes sf/fantasy passed by twenty years ago, right?

So how come I ain’t pissed at John Fowles or John Barth or Vladimir Nabokov or Michael Crichton or Jorge Luis Borges or even Ira Levin? Answer: because they’re writers, dammit, and they bring freshness and talent even to tired ideas.

Thass why!

This has wandered rather far afield, I now realize. (If you want an eight-hour diatribe on the state of the market situation for a writer today, just drop in a slug, wind me up and aim me in the direction of The New York Literary Establishment.) Suffice to say, it ain’t all as terrific as it looks from the outside. Being labeled a science fiction writer today guarantees you a certain amount of readership, but it denies you an even larger group. For a writer who cares about what work comes out with his or her name on it, who fights to keep expanding his or her talent, and who wants freedom to experiment while making a decent living and providing entertaining books for as wide an audience as possible, having a category tag slapped on can be pure death.

So. A book of suspense stories. Filled with visions of murder, mayhem, deceit, fear, psychopathia, crime and rotten interpersonal relationships. Your basic light-time reading fare. Something to make you laugh at your own nasty life struggles. No matter how bad you’ve got it, believe me, you haven’t got it as tough as Beth O’Neill in “Whimper” or poor old Mr. Huggerson in “Status Quo at Troyden’s” or quick-tempered Hervey Ormond in “Ormond Always Pays His Bills.”

I’ve been talking a lot lately about the condition of fear by which many of us judge the value of our existences. In THE DEADLY STREETS (last month’s Pyramid paperback offering of the Ellison-of-the-Month Club) I did an introduction touching on the subject, and I’d like to share with you a letter I received yesterday that speaks to the same situation.

A word about my mail. There’s an ever-increasing amount of it these days, which is nice on the one hand because many people feel so comfortable in these books that they take the introductions and the comments as an invitation to chat; but it’s a drag on the other hand, because I’m averaging about 200 pieces a day, and even with two associates helping me out, just opening the mail has become a long, arduous chore each day. I tried sending out a long form letter for a while, but that was costing a fortune and it only encouraged the correspondents to write another letter. I read everything, but I’ve just simply decided to hell with it: I can’t reply to all that mail and still keep writing. And since it’s the stories and comments that make people want to write in the first place, that’s where my writing time should be spent, not in responding to questions about writing, my life, the correspondent’s life, how to write a teleplay, how to get an agent, where the Clarion Writers’ Workshop will be this year, why more of my books aren’t available in Kankakee or Billings, what my sexual proclivities might be, or why and how the letter-writer feels we are simpatico because the both of us hate a) Richard Nixon, b) Rod McKuen poetry, c) the military-industrial-CIA-FBI-IRS complex and/or d) movies starring Cybill Shepherd. I refuse to read stories submitted for my august opinion. For a lot of different reasons, but most prominently because I’m too deep into my own stuff to play teacher to amateurs. I used to send the following rejection note, but I don’t even do that any more:
A CHINESE REJECTION SLIP

Illustrious Brother of the Sun and Moon:

Behold thy servant prostrate before thy feet! I kowtow to thee and beg that of thy graciousness thou mayest grant that I may speak and live. Thine honored manuscript has deigned to cast the light of its august countenance upon me. With raptures I have perused it. By the bones of my ancestors, never have I encountered such wit, such pathos, such lofty thought! With fear and trembling I return the writing. Were I to publish the treasure thou hast sent me, the Emperor would order that it be made a standard of excellence and that none be published except such as equaled it. Knowing literature as I do, and that it would be impossible in ten thousand years to equal what thou hast done, I send thy writing back by guarded servants.

Ten thousand times I crave thy pardon. Behold! My head is at thy feet and I am but dust.

Thy servant’s servant,

Wan Chin (Editor).

Note: author unknown.

So the point of this digression is to plead with you not to write to me unless you want to give me money. And since that eliminates 99% of you, all that remains is for me to express my gratitude for your wanting to write me, even if it was only to tell me what a bastard I am. But we’ll get along much better if we keep the communication a telepathic one. You just shoot the good vibes in my direction, I’ll pick up on them, it’ll spur me to more and better stories, and we’ll both come out happier and more productive. Please!

(God, I’m scatterbrained here. I keep going off into every little byway of thought that presents itself. Like one of my lectures. Very free-form. But let me wrench myself back to the topic of fear and lay that letter on you.)

I’m having it set by the typographer exactly as I received it. Hold it! Another digression, but to the point. I recently had a burn experience with a dude who sent me a letter hi response to the dedication of one of my books. The book was dedicated to the memory of the Kent State students who were slaughtered, and one day a few months after the book first came out, in flew this letter, informing me those college students were Commies and they deserved to be shot. Well, last year I did another book; in the introduction to that one I reprinted the dedication from the first book and the guy’s letter. It wasn’t a nut-case letter, despite the content; it was well-written, grammatical, perfectly coherent; I said so in the introduction, but went on to comment how sad such brutal beliefs, in these perilous times, made me feel. Well, the tone of the letter was a mild one–the guy said he just wanted to straighten me out on how the world was really run–and it seemed to me to be one of those probably misguided but at least honest communiques. Imagine my feelings of revulsion when, six months after publication of the book containing the letter, my publisher and my agent received a terse communication from this wonderful, patriotic American chap who “only wanted to straighten me out,” demanding “substantial remuneration” for the use of his letter. Apparently, he wasn’t quite as selfless and dedicated to his beliefs as the innocent letter seemed. He was clearly another one of those whiplash cases trying to make a few bucks from a nuisance suit. Well, at least, that’s how it looked to me; it also looked that way to my publisher, my agent, and my attorneys, who sent him a long, detailed legal brief explaining why he had no claim and could forget the whole attempt at the grab.

I mention this here, before running another unsolicited letter, just to let the author of the missive following know that he has no claim, either. Notably, because it’s an anonymous letter, and because I suppose I agree with it.

But, anyhow, on the subject of fear, here’s another face of the monster. I reproduce it in the form I received it, without grammatical corrections. It’s disturbing, to say the least.

Mr. Ellison,

I plead guilty. I’m the one…

…removing the drunk from the emergency room to late. The eighteen year old girl has died while the doctor was preoccupied with the drunk. I’m listening to the nurses deciding how to fake the report on the girl who should not have died. The explaining to the mother is mine.

…picking up drunks at midnight in frount of the bar full of onlookers shouting and screaming protest. I left a drunk here once before and he ended up a crippled vegestable when these kind folks robbed him. So I pick up the drunks and take them (not to jail?) home.

…finding the kid swearing to commit suicide and take him to the hospital. The one who talks to him when the psychiatrist tells him to go to hell. I’m the one finding him the next day, a block away, face up, dead.

…wondering what the hell is wrong when I pick up a kid speeding thru the hospital zone to late. Something went wrong. Did the pedestrian know that she was carried six blocks on the boy’s frount fender before she slid under the wheels? Why blame the kid? He didn’t buy the car or set up the law.

…bastard who was trying to give a kid an even break when I caught him running from a mobile home with the goods. The idea wavered when the owner stumbled out with a busted head.

…fool trying to turn kids over to their parents. I call and talk to some kid’s little sister saying mommy isn’t home and, oh, by the way, mommy wants to know what Jonny did. So the kid goes to jail to lose his rights, his scholarship, and his future career.

…motherfucker buying the coke for the scared kid who threw piss on me from a can. I let him go becuase no parents show.

…Idiot who fought on oil-duty cop to save derelict with a lip from a belting.

…whose a State police officer that is just like every city and federal officer across the United States. Just a guy trying to protect people from themselves.

…who wants to stop working in this lousy business but can not. I can not let some trigger-happy cop take my badge. I can’t let people kill the loser when he is down. I can’t let you kill because of hate, carelessness or indifference. I’ll die one day protecting the losers you and the Society of Man hate so much because I’m a loser too. If there is anything lower than Black, it’s Blue.

…who personally likes your writing about reality. In your stories I don’t escape reality, but see an end to this senselessness. Either good or bad wins in your story and with the end I’m satisfied because I’m so tired of the war. But I’m one who’ll never agree that all cops are bad, and one who’ll probably die by your hand or others like them either physically or spiritually in the street.

Sincerely, *A Policeman.

*I’m not anti-women. This note expresses only my own opinion and not police officers in general. Further, I’m male.

Whew! Occasionally, gentle readers, the mail gets heavy in here. The letter from the nurse I quoted in PAINGOD [Pyramid V3646]. The suicide note from the woman who said one of my stories kept her going a few weeks longer than she would have hung on otherwise. The unsigned letter from the Viet Nam vet who confessed to all the people he’d shot up in free-fire zones. The crazed postcard from the Fundamentalist loonie who vowed he’d kill me because I was obviously the antichrist. My patriotic whiplash correspondent with the scoop on Kent State. And now this one.

Listen, friend, if you’re out there, and you’ve picked up this book, let me tell you I neither hate nor fear you. Even swathed in Blue, m’man, you come across filled with pain and concern. I would like to meet you some day. But only when you’re off-duty, when you’re not packing heat.

I know damned well there are cops like you. I’ve met a few; and they always wind up like Serpico, brokenhearted or bust-headed. Because police these days aren’t like police when I was a kid in Painesville, Ohio in the Forties. Friend of mine, a lieutenant of homicide, got a trifle bombed one night, sitting around rapping with me, and he let slip one of the most scarey things I’ve ever heard. He said, “Harlan, it used to be, when a cop said ‘them or us’ he meant us were the good people, the cops and the decent citizens and the responsible business community, anybody on the side of Law and Order, the way it used to be in those Frank Capra films. Them meant bank robbers, homicidal maniacs, rapists, guys who torched their own stores for the insurance, murderers, all the kooks. Things’ve changed so much, these days when we say ‘them or us’ we mean anybody with a badge is us … all the rest of you are them.”

There are lines written by Maxwell Anderson in the Kurt Weill musical tragedy version of Alan Paton’s book CRY, THE BELOVED COUNTRY–the stage production is, of course, LOST IN THE STARS–in which the chorus sings of the condition of fear that existed (and exists) in South Africa, the fear of the whites for the blacks, the fear of the blacks for the whites, and the lines are, “It is fear! It is fear! It is fear! It is fear!/Who can enjoy the lovely land,/The seventy years,/The sun that pours down on the earth,/When there is fear in the heart? … Yes, we fear them./For they are many and we are few! … Yes, we fear them,/Though we are many and they are few! … Men are not safe in the streets,/Not safe in their houses./There are brutal murders, robberies./Tonight again a man lies dead./Yes, it is fear./Fear of the few for the many,/Fear of the many for the few.”

That is the condition of existence under which we sustain ourselves in this country, tied umbilically to our police. I’m not fool enough to lay it entirely on the police, the crushing responsibility for this fog of uneasiness through which we feel our way, always on edge, always angry, more than a little mad. Police are just postal people, milkmen, sanitation workers. They are employees of city, state and federal government. Only a lunatic would shoot down a mailman. But they are something else. They are representatives of the System. They are the visible fist at the end of the long arm of government, the status quo, order, the establishment need to keep waves from being made. And in an era when big business, the corporate giants, the megalopolitan conglomerates serve their own ends much more ruthlessly than ever they served the needs of the people they no longer even think of as consumers (we are now only “economic purchasing units”), the police find themselves–reluctantly in many cases I’m sure–cast hi the roles of thugs, strike breakers, assassins and harassers for the extruders of plastic, the smelters of ore, the manufacturers of aerosol sprays, the foreclosers and the short-sellers.

Police represent (and in many cases cannot seem to get straight in their heads) not justice, but retribution. Those who were in the dissent movement in the Sixties and early Seventies understand that terrifying fact. They still cling to the naive belief that they work for the Law and the Order, and here in Los Angeles the black-and-whites bear a colophon that reads, “To serve and protect,” yet they no longer assume responsibility (as beat cops used to do) for averting rancor between antagonistic neighbors, for helping drunks out of the gutters to “sleep it off” in a cell till they can be taken home tomorrow, for dealing sympathetically with a woman who has been raped, without asking, “Did you like it?” or “What did you do to encourage him?”

Yes, there are cops like the man who sent that letter you’ve just read, but dig the tone of submerged guilt and misery in that poor guy’s letter. He knows. And why should a man obviously sincerely dedicated to making the world just a tiny bit better, have to feel such pain? Why should he have such a hard time doing the job of easing the anguishes of everyday life for the people he meets? Why do we suddenly totemize and revere the snipers of the S.W.A.T. teams?

The complexity of the problem is staggering. In trying to do a television script for NBC on the uses of psychiatry in prisons, I found myself being drawn off into one convoluted area after another. It isn’t possible to just point the finger at the cops, or the CIA, or Nixon, or the Military-Industrial Complex and heave a sigh of relief. The fear is omnipresent. And it comes from a realization that we are the villains. And even that’s too easy a platitude. I wrote in the introduction to one of my books that they are the Bad Guys: the ones who throw Dr. Pepper cans in the bushes; the ones who get their back bumper tapped at a stop light and scream whiplash; the ones who hate all kids, or all adults, or all blacks, or all whites, or all rich, or all poor; the ones who won’t come to the aid of someone screaming in an alley; the ones who are “only doing their job” and can’t break or bend the pointless rules. They are the Bad Guys.

And I must have received a thousand letters telling me I had no right to wash my hands of the human race; I had no right to say fuck’m and stop fighting for “the cause” (whatever the hell that is); I had no right to point the ringer at them and exclude myself.

Clearly, my readers did not understand the message. As the old Midwestern saying goes, “When you point a finger at someone else, you point three at yourself.” I agree. I’m one of them, so are you. We’re all the villains, the Bad Guys, the fear-makers. That part in each of us, even the noblest and most self-sacrificing of us, that forgets or fears or avoids or rationalizes and permits evil to flourish. We are all Jekyll and Hyde. And I wrote that introduction to say that we are permitting Mr. Hyde to dominate us more and more each day. Just like cops. Just like preachers. Just like humanitarians and school kids and politicians. How can you fight the fight against that evil, except in yourself?

Yes, I have the right to become a misanthrope, to decide the human race doesn’t have the stuff to make it, that it won’t last one-thousandth the life-span of the great saurians, because seemingly the human race doesn’t give a damn. And one fights only as long as one has the fiber strong enough to fight; after which, one tries to simply get through the days. And no, I haven’t really given it all up, as the writing of this introduction shows, because I’ve never learned (like Ross Macdonald’s Lew Archer) to “give it up and quit gracefully.”

But what is one to say in the face of a letter like the one from that cop? Can we possibly beat the Hyde in each of us and defeat the fear that gags us like an evil fog?

Perhaps. But probably not. We seem determined to go on this way till we either reduce ourselves to barbarians or make “civilized” existence so unbearable that crime and the suicide rate claim us before we taste the simplest joys.

I don’t have the answers for anyone but myself.

Perhaps you have some of the answers.

If so, apply them.

And then, perhaps, one day soon, guys like that cop will be able to sign their names to letters as potent and meaningful as the one you just read.

Religion won’t get it, dope won’t get it, letting Congress do it; won’t get it, only caring and education will do it.

Or, as Louis Pasteur put it, “Chance favors the prepared mind.”

I’ve gone on too long. Conversation, the rap, still holds top spot in my catalogue of ways to have a good time. But I’ve rambled and digressed, and I’ve got to tell you a few things about how some of these stories came to be written, and then I’ll get my face out of your way and let you go on to read the entertainments. Excuse me if I lecture. I don’t mean to. It just comes over me sometimes.

In the main, most of these stories were written in the early and mid years of my writing career. I went through about 300,000 words of previously published (but never collected) stories to select these sixteen. I like each one of them, or they wouldn’t be here. But I’ve substantially rewritten all of them. The errors of style and grammar I made when I was learning my craft were so silly and awful, I couldn’t bear to let them stand. So in many ways these are new stories. Two were written for this book, just a few months before you bought the book.

Only one of these stories has ever appeared in a collection before, “The Whimper of Whipped Dogs.” I include it here, even though it’s available in the recently-published DEATHBIRD STORIES, because it is the most prominent of my suspense stories, and comes with the cachet of the MWA award I mentioned earlier in this introduction. Besides, it’s only 8000 words long, out of a total wordage in this book of almost 77,500. (This introduction is over 12,200 words long, a major chunk of work, as essay material intended for collections goes; or merely another example of The Mouth That Doth Run Off. Who knows…?) As a matter of fact, it occurs to me that some of you may be curious as to the way word-lengths are computed, and how a sufficiency of material is gathered together for a collection. Well, most paperbacks contain about 60,000 words, if they’re original novels of ordinary length, or collections of stories. So you’re getting quite a package for your money. Using typewriter margins set at 12 on the left and 73 on the right (good margins are necessary for the eyesight and sanity of editors, proofreaders, typesetters and even authors correcting dumb mistakes they made when they were in their twenties), using pica type–elite is too small–most writers average out between 250 to 300 words a typewritten page. I use 260 as a figure to even things out where there are stories with a lot of dialogue, which takes up less space. So that means a twelve-page story (typed, that is) will run 3000 words. Sixteen pages is a 4000 worder. And so on. The accepted categories of story lengths are: short story–anything under 7500 words; novelette–at least 7500 but less than 17,500 words; novella–from 17,500 to 40,000; novel–anything of 40,000 words or higher. These are the generally accepted length and category judgments, as adhered to by, for instance, the Science Fiction Writers of America when classifying stories for the Nebula Awards.

To carry this helpful bit of public service data to its logical conclusion, for those budding authors among you who never had anyone lay such necessary but primitive information on you, as I discuss each story, 111 insert its wordage in square brackets. Don’t thank me, just don’t send me your stories to read … I’ll only burn them.

“The Whimper of Whipped Dogs” [8000] is based on the murder of Kitty Genovese, about which I’ve nattered in books like THE DEADLY STREETS [Pyramid V3931]. The case is now so famous, it’s obsessed me for eleven years since it happened. Woman knifed to death in the streets of New York’s Kew Gardens section while thirty-eight people watched from their windows, heard her screams for help, did nothing, turned up their tv sets so the screams wouldn’t penetrate. It took the rapist-killer over half an hour to slice her up as she dragged herself around almost a full city block. They could have saved her. They didn’t. I was never satisfied with the intellectual theories about why no one had aided her. It’s not the kind of dehumanized behavior that can be explained with phrases like “disinvolvement” or “alienation” or “inurement to the reality of violence from seeing so much death on nightly newscasts.” It was the kind of mythic situation that could only be explained in terms of magic realism, fantasy.

“Eddie, You’re My Friend” [1300] is a rarity. It’s an unsold story. I’ve written over 800 short stories and articles and essays and suchlike in my twenty years behind this machine, and with only one or two exceptions–dogs that embarrass me even to look at, which I’d fight to the death against letting appear in print–everything has sold to one magazine or another. But when I went through my files to put this book together, and read all those old stories, and picked only the best, I found “Eddie” and remembered it, and smiled and liked it. It’s not a particularly thoughtful story, just a little one-punch blowdart, but it worked, so I added it to the book. But when I went to locate the source of first publication, to enter it on the acknowledgment page where copyrights are listed, I couldn’t find any mention of its having been published. I consulted the exhaustive and elegant bibliography of my work assembled by Leslie Kay Swigart, but even she had no mention of the story. And I realized I’d assumed that story had been published, all these years. But it hadn’t. It was, in effect, a brand-new, unpublished yarn. And it appears here for the first time. (Unless, in the five and a half months between the time I write this page, and NO DOORS, NO WINDOWS is published, I manage to sell it to a magazine, in which case it will still be a new story as far as book publication is concerned.)

There isn’t much to say about “Status Quo at Troyden’s” [4600]; it speaks for itself. Except to say that if there was one reason why I wanted a book of my suspense fiction to get between covers, it was to preserve for “posterity,” or whatever, this one story. I don’t know why I’ve always thought highly of it, but I like it enormously. I think it has a lot of heart, and it was an early indication of where my interests and writing abilities were going. So now Mr. Huggerson and Harry Troyden and Mr. Zeckhauser will have some extended life since they appeared in a long-gone mystery magazine in 1958.

“Nedra at f:5.6″ [3100] is one of those cases of literary cross-pollination that people looking to misinterpret your actions could label plagiarism. I’ll head them off at the pass by copping to it in front. Back in the late Forties, 1949 to be exact, even before I’d “discovered” science fiction, I was intrigued by, and bought, a 25 cent paperback titled THE GIRL WITH THE HUNGRY EYES. (Yes, Virginia, in those days all paperbacks were 25 cents and it was such an accepted thing, that the book doesn’t even have a price on it; everybody just knew.) That was a remarkable little paperback. Historically as well as personally for me. It was the very first original collection of sf/fantasy stories. That is, the contents was not made up of culls from magazines or other books, but were stories commissioned especially for that book. The publisher was Avon Books (#184), the editor was the indefatigable (and still going strong) Donald A. Wollheim, now a publisher himself with his line of DAW paperbacks; and it contained six excellent stories never-before-published by William Tenn, the late P. Schuyler Miller, Frank Belknap Long, Manly Wade Wellman, the late August Derleth writing under the name Stephen Grendon and, author of the title story, “The Girl with the Hungry Eyes,” the master of us all, Mr. Fritz Leiber.

Well, the story blew me away. I won’t tell you what it was about, you can find it reprinted in…

Holy Jesus! I just went and checked my four foot shelf of everything Fritz Leiber has ever written–no self-respecting writer in our time would dare to set pen to paper without having studied the master in toto–and I find “The Girl with the Hungry Eyes” has never been reprinted in a Leiber collection in this country. I see it in an English edition called THE SECRET SONGS, but of the twenty or so Leiber collections that have gone on the racks of America’s newsstands, not one of them has included that superb fantasy. Yes, I know it was done on television on Night Gallery a few years ago, but that’s ephemeral, and they made mush of it, anyway. What I’m trying to say here is that even in the recently released Ballantine collection called THE BEST OF FRITZ LEIBER, that story isn’t available. Now that’s bloody disgraceful!

I pulled out my battered, mildewed (literally mildewed) copy of the Avon paperback, and the same thrill I got when I read Fritz’s chilling fantasy twenty-six years ago, I got a minute ago, holding that poor little battered Avon edition. In short, what I’m getting at, is that the story stayed with me, in tone and in general concept, until 1956, when I sat down and wrote a variation on the idea, and called it “The Hungry One” and added beneath the title, “An homage to Fritz Leiber.” It was published in a slick men’s magazine in that year, sans the dedication to Fritz, and it’s been reprinted in lesser magazines maybe a dozen times since, but I’ve never had it in a book under the title it now has, nor has it ever managed to get into print with the respectful homage addressed to Fritz that was on it from the first. But I’ve rewritten it for this book, I’ve reinstated the credit line, and though I know it isn’t one one-millionth the story Fritz’s was, it is a way of saying thank you to a writer whose life’s writing has not only influenced mine, but has touched virtually every fantasist working in the genre today.

And if you hit the used paperback stores from time to time, keep your eyes open for that moth-eaten Avon paperback. Or maybe somebody will hip Peter Mayer at Avon to include it in his “Science Fiction Rediscovery” series.

“Opposites Attract” [4000], “Toe the Line” [4000], “Pride in the Profession” [4100], “The Children’s Hour” [2350], “Two Inches in Tomorrow’s Column” [2300] and “Ormond Always Pays His Bills” [1800] are simple, uncomplicated crime and/or suspense stories with a gimmick at the end. A snap in the tail. O. Henry time. They don’t need any frills. I wrote them for money, in the days when I was writing a lot of stories as fast as I could because (as today) I loved writing more than anything including sex, and I had (as today) more ideas than my two-finger typing (as today) could keep up with. “The Children’s Hour” is a kind of sf story, I suppose, but it’s just a variation on the Pied Piper idea. They were written to provide entertainment and I doubt very much that any of them will alter the course of Western Civilization. But I hope you like them.

“Down in the Dark” [4000] and “The Man on the Juice Wagon” [7500] are action-adventure stories with the emphasis on danger and suspense. They were written for men’s magazines and I found when I re-read them, and wanted to include them, that I had to change the ending to “Juice Wagon” completely to eradicate the stench of male chauvinist rancidness that I, and those magazines, subscribed to in them there unenlightened days. I suppose the men’s magazines still consider women toys to play with, but, like an Alcoholics Anonymous convert, I has seen de light, and I find that treating women as human beings, in my personal life as well as hi my stories, makes for a better, richer, more intelligent life … and the same for the stories. Both “Dark” and “Juice Wagon” are based on experiences in my checkered past. To some small degree.

“White Trash Don’t Exist” [6000] has one element stolen from Steinbeck’s OF MICE AND MEN. You’ll spot it right off. That’s okay. It isn’t stealing, it’s, uh, er, research. (What was it Rodin was supposed to have said, quoting Michelangelo? Oh, yeah. “Where I steal an idea, I leave my knife.”) The interesting thing about “White Trash” is that when I first wrote it, for the Manhunt market of the mid-Fifties, a market that used tough, brutal crime stories without even a hint of traditional detective material in it, I called it “Niggers Don’t Exist” and I intended it as a statement about life for blacks in areas of the South I’d passed through. The editor loved the story, but wouldn’t buy it with blacks in it, so I rewrote it using “white trash.” I was hungrier to sell in those days. That was before I got hip to Bob Heinlein’s 5 rules for a writer, and before I added two of my own.

So when you read “White Trash,” you can replace whatever elements this introduction compells you to replace.

What’s that? Oh, I see. I’ve teased you with Heinlein’s and my rules, so the least I can do is digress again and give them to you. I’d be a rat not to do it, wouldn’t I?

Well, never let it be said that a sweetie like me made his readers angry. God knows I’ve never antagonized any of you. Okay, here they are:

1. You must write.

2. You must finish what you write.

3. You must refrain from rewriting except to editorial order.

4. You must put it on the market.

5. You must keep it on the market until sold.

ROBERT A. HEINLEIN, 1947

6. Only accept the last four words of rule 3 if your integrity and the quality/interior logic of the story reconcile with such changes. Otherwise:

7. Kill to maintain the integrity of your work.

HARLAN ELLISON, 1970

“Promises of Laughter” [3600] happened to me. The lady called “Holdie Karp” is a reasonably well-known author these days. She really did that to me, what happens to the dude in the story. And bow I wrote the yam was this: when the events of that night went down, I got so pissed off I got into my Austin-Healey and drove like a lunatic across the twisting, accident-laden Mulholland Drive to my house, ran at the typewriter like a Rams linebacker, banged out the story (sexual pun intended) in about two hours, yanked the carbon off the desk, got back in the Healey, hit Mulholland again, made the course in about thirteen minutes batting sixty all the way through the night and the fog, slammed into her driveway, and started kicking on her front door.

She came to the window, in her nightgown, obviously having been asleep, saw it was wild-eyed li’l ole me, and damn near didn’t open the door because she was afraid I’d knife her or something. But when she let it slide open just a crack, I shoved the manuscript into her hand, got back in my car and raced away … having had (I thought) the last fucking word, damn her eyes!

It appeared in a magazine containing one of the articles referred to in the story. She was furious. Everyone now knew our personal lives. So several months later she wrote her view of that incident.

It was a better story than mine.

We are friends to this day, “Holdie Karp” and I, and she writes for magazines and for one of New York’s biggest newspapers, and she taught me more about being a non-macho male than anyone I’ve ever met.

So the least I could do was to rewrite the story a little, to make it a fairer representation of her, uh, position on that fateful night.

I have no idea why people keep identifying me with the stuff in my stories.

Which brings me to the last story in the book, and the most recent one I’ve written. I wrote it for this book, and unless I sell it to a magazine in the next 5 1/2 months … but we’ve been through that before. Anyhow. “Tired Old Man” [5000] was written in June of this year, 1975. It’s one of my most recent stories, so you can judge how I’m doing these days; but beyond that curious conceit, it is a story with a peculiar history, and one I’m inclined to tell you.

First, however, let me warn you. I am not the protagonist, Billy Landress, even though much of Billy’s career parallels mine and some of the things that happen to him in the story happened in a sorta kinda way, and some of the perceptions at which he arrives are ones I’ve lately come to hold as my own. Now I suppose all that disclaiming will convince those of you who believe in the “he protesteth too much” philosophy that I am Billy. Well, that only goes to show how little some of you understand about the art of creating fiction. A writer takes bits and pieces of himself–as Geoffrey Wolff put it in that quote leading off this introduction–he cannibalizes himself, and he applies a little meat here and a little meat there, and he comes up with a character that bears a resemblance to himself (because who do I know better than myself, for God’s sake), but who is a new person entirely. So don’t get all screwed up trying to fit me into Billy’s shoes.

Back to the story.

I was in New York on a visit about eight, ten, eleven years ago. I went to dinner with Bob Silverberg and Bobbie Silverberg, and after dinner we went to a gathering of the old Hydra Club. Willy Ley was there; it was shortly before that great and wonderful man died; it was good to see him again. And a bunch of other people, most of whom I didn’t know. And I wandered around and finally found myself sitting on the sofa next to a weary-looking old man in an easy chair. Marvelous conversationalist. We talked for almost an hour, until I got up and went to the kitchen where I found Bob with the late Hans Santesson, a dear friend and ex-editor of mine. I described the old man and asked who he was.

“That is Cornell Woolrich,” Hans said.

My mouth must have fallen open. I had been sitting next to one of the giants of mystery fiction, a man whose work I’d read and admired for twenty years, since I’d been a kid and discovered a copy of BLACK ALIBI after seeing the 1946 Val Lewton film, The Leopard Man. I was nine years old at the time, and the film made such an impression on me that I stayed on at the Lake Theater in Painesville, Ohio to see it three times on a Saturday. And it was the first time I ever really read those funny words that come at the beginning of the movie (I later learned those were the “credits”); the words that said “Screenplay by Ardel Wray, based on the novel Black Alibi by Cornell Woolrich.”

How I got hold of the novel, I don’t remember. But it was the first mystery fiction I’d ever read (excluding Poe, of course, all of whom I’d read by that time). Nine years old!

And in the years when I was voraciously devouring the works of every decent writer I could find, Woolrich (under his own name and his possibly even-more-famous pseudonym, “William Irish”) became a treasurehouse of twists and turns in plotting, elegant writing style, misdirection, mood, setting and suspense. God, the beautiful stories that man wrote. The “black book” series: THE BLACK ANGEL, THE BLACK CURTAIN, THE BLACK PATH OF FEAR. RENDEZVOUS IN BLACK, THE BRIDE WORE BLACK and, many more times, BLACK ALIBI. And DEADLINE AT DAWN, PHANTOM LADY, NIGHTMARE. STRANGLER’S SERENADE, WALTZ INTO DARKNESS. And all the short stories!

Cornell Woolrich!

Jeeeezus, if Hans had said I was sitting next to Ernest fucking Hemingway it couldn’t have collapsed me more thoroughly. Bertrand Russell, Bob Feller, Dick Bong, Walt Kelly … all my heroes … it wouldn’t have gotten to me half as much, Cornell goddam Woolrich! I damn near fainted.

“But I thought he’d died years ago,” I said.

They laughed at me. He was old, no doubt about that, but he was very much alive. He wasn’t writing any more; his mother–whom he’d lived with through all of his adult life, in a resident hotel in Manhattan–had recently died; and he was just getting out and around.

I was flabbergasted. I’d sat and talked with Cornell Woolrich, one of my earliest writing heroes, and hadn’t even known it. I wanted to find him in that crowded apartment and just be near him for a while longer.

They were bemused by my goshwow attitude, but they were also a little perplexed. Hans said, “I do not remember seeing him here. Where is he?”

And I led them back to the easy chair in the far rear corner of the room. And he was gone. And he was nowhere in the apartment. And no one else had talked to him. And I never saw him again. And he died soon after that night, I learned later.

To this day, I’ve felt there was something strange and pivotal in my meeting with Woolrich. He could not possibly have known who I was, nor could he have much cared. But we talked writing, and I was the only one who saw or talked to him that night. I’m sure of that. Don’t ask me how I know, I cannot give you a rational explanation; and I firmly do not believe in ghosts or astrology or UFO’s or much else of the nonsense gobbledygook that people substitute for the ability to handle reality. But from the time I left him in that easy chair till the moment I went back to find him, I was right in front of the only exit from that apartment and there was no way he could have gotten past me without my seeing him.

For years I thought about that night in New York.

And one afternoon I sat down and wrote the first two pages of a story titled “Tired Old Man,” in which I thought I would fictionalize that evening, and (as I had with Leiber) pay homage to a writer whose words had so deeply affected me.

But the two pages went into the idea file, unresolved. They stayed there for six years, until earlier this month, June 1975. I was in the process of writing an original story for this book, and had started on another idea I’d had a while back, and in looking for the note for that story (which will be included in SHATTERDAY, coming from Pyramid in three months), I chanced upon the two pages of “Tired Old Man.” And without my even knowing why, or realizing what I was doing, in a lunatic move that could only make this book late to my publisher and late to the printer and late to the on-sale date and late to your hands, I took up the writing of the story as if it had been six years earlier.

And as impossible as it had been for me to write it six years before, because I hadn’t known how to write it six years before, it was that easy for me to start with the very next sentence–as if I’d written the last word of the previous sentence only a moment earlier, not six years before–and go all the way through to the end in one sitting.

Marki Strasser in the story is Cornell Woolrich.

At least, in the impetus for the character. It isn’t supposed to be Woolrich in the story, it’s … well … that’s what the story is about, as you’ll see … but I wanted you to know how “Tired Old Man” came to be written; in answer to the people who always ask me, “Where do you get your ideas?”

And that brings me, at last, to the end of this introduction. I assure you when I started, some 42 typewritten pages earlier, I had no idea I’d run on like this.

But it’s nice getting together with you like this, if for no other reason than to keep out the darkness for just a few minutes longer. And in the course of writing these words, I went back and read the section of BLACK ALIBI in which the young girl, Teresa Delgado, is stalked and killed by the black panther as she screams for her mother to open the door and let her in. And it still conjures up the stark terror I first felt when I saw it in a Val Lewton film at the age of nine.

And for giving rebirth to that “tolerable terror” I thank you. We’ve got to get together again like this.

That is, if you get through the night.

HARLAN ELLISON Los Angeles

Though e-book sales in the fall were very strong – ridiculously strong compared to printed books – we fretted about what would happen in December when the full force of the recession hit. We fretted needlessly: the International Digital Publishing Forum just released December stats showing a 119.9 % bump in December sales over the same period one year ago. The 12/08 dollar volume was $6,500,000. Calendar Year to Date Revenue is up 68.4%.

Michael Smith, IDPF’s executive director, adds, “Q4 saw wholesale e-book numbers not only break through the $14,000,000 barrier but saw them pass the next two plateaus and settle at $16,800,000. Total wholesale sales for 2008 was $52,400,000.”

The only other field posting growth at this phenomenal rate is the bankruptcy profession.

Smith reminds us that…

• This data represents United States revenues only
• This data represents only trade eBook sales via wholesale channels.
• Retail numbers may be as much as double the above figures due to industry
• wholesale discounts.
• This data represents only data submitted from approx. 12 to 15 trade
• publishers
• This data does not include library, educational or professional
• electronic sales
• The numbers reflect the wholesale revenues of publishers
• The definition used for reporting electronic book sales is “All
• books delivered electronically over the Internet OR to hand-held reading
• devices”
• The IDPF and AAP began collecting data together starting in Q1 2006

RC

Perhaps the most significant issue emerging in 21st century publishing is the tension between copyright protection and a general sense of entitlement expressed in the motto, “Information Wants To Be Free.” Though we’ve tried to take a balanced view, it’s hard to be neutral in the face of blatant, institutionalized piracy. As the legal and moral issues come to a head in a trial that has just commenced, E-Reads’ Michael Gaudet analyzes the cynical and contemptuous justifications given by the operators of one website trafficking in copyrighted work. Unnamed and unindicted in the Swedish proceedings are, in Michael’s words, “millions of tempted, anonymous Internet users in homes around the world.” Would one of them happen to be you?

– Richard Curtis

This week in Sweden, the people behind the infamous website ‘The Pirate Bay‘ are going to trial again for facilitating copyright infringement among file sharers. It isn’t the first time Sweden has tried to take them down on behalf of plaintiffs like Warner Bros and 20th Century Fox. But this international group has proven to be a lot more slippery than past violation targets like Napster in the United States.

The defendants have launched a full blown new media campaign they call “#Spectrial” to promote their defense, speak about their motivations, and mock the proceedings. After the first day at trial, the prosecution decided that half of the charges probably wouldn’t stand up against The Pirate Bay (reported by the UK Register) and the defendants began to boast more loudly that their movement won’t be stopped (“EPIC WINNING LOL,” was what one of them commented on Twitter).

Even though The Pirate Bay doesn’t distribute any illegal files itself, its website is essentially an enormous pirate map that lists millions of user-generated shared files, so that visitors from all over the world can quickly find music, movies, pictures, and e-book texts that their internet peers are sharing. Most of the listed files are ripped from purchased media, and in some cases they are leaked material that has yet to be made available at retail.

The Pirate Bay Makes No Apologies For Promoting Theft

The Pirate Bay’s advocacy for unrestricted file sharing is one of the most confounding issues for modern publishers with digital distribution. Evangelists for piracy appeal for protection by evoking moral outrage at the injustice of governments policing private communication and hindering fair use. And they raise some difficult questions: does DRM curb our most basic liberties to communicate and creatively manipulate new ideas? Is copyright unlawful? Is copyright infringement fair retribution for inefficient corporate distribution practices? Should governments keep all internet traffic private? A grassroots movement to protect the opportunity to share pirated files says the answer to all of the above is an overwhelming “yes.”

All the defendants (Fredrik Neij, Gottfrid Svartholm Warg, Peter Sunde and Carl Lundström) sincerely believe they’ve done no wrong in ignoring all the requests from copyright holders to prevent the copyright abuse rampant among the Pirate Bay users (see their page of dozens of spurned “takedown” notices and Pirate Bay retorts – “Legal Threats Against The Pirate Bay“).

When asked if they felt like “defendants, or defenders of technology,” Peter Sunde replied: “I think it is something in between actually. We have a personal liability for this, we have a personal risk which has some impact on our feelings. But definitely it’s not defending the technology, it’s more like defending the idea of the technology and that’s probably the most important thing in this case – the political aspect of letting the technology be free and not controlled by an entity which doesn’t like technology.” (sic, via TorrentFreak)

A screen grab of the “Top 100 Audio Files” at The Pirate Bay (click for larger version)

If you’re relatively unfamiliar with The Pirate Bay, keep in mind that it’s a short but important part of the file-sharing wheel using a technology derived from BitTorrent software. BitTorrent, Inc. is the San Francisco-based company that helped develop the technology to assist everyday users in distributing files more efficiently, and while they now have partnerships with many of the plaintiffs, BitTorrent and the similar companies designing software based on BitTorrent have no control over how The Pirate Bay operates.

As More People Share A Seed, A Torrent Gets Faster

When users want to share a file from their computer, they create a “torrent”, which is a small proxy file that is “seeded” to the internet, allowing anonymous users to find and download the master file. The benefit is that download speeds typically increase when many users are sharing the same file. If you download without sharing, you’re identified by the system as a leecher (to encourage reciprocity). The Pirate Bay servers are what is known as a torrent tracker, a website where torrent seeds are listed by anonymous users like classified ads. Visitors can sort through pages of organized listings for seeds of the latest television shows, albums, and movies that users dare to share. A quick glance at today’s “Top 100″ listings showed that the most popular movie to download at that moment was a pirated version of The Day The Earth Stood Still (2008), with over 16,000 people actively sharing the file at any given moment, meaning that the whole film could likely be downloaded in less than half an hour.

Even though The Pirate Bay is the most famous destination, other popular torrent tracker sites exist, frequently below the radar of Google and other internet search engines because they list files that break copyright laws.

Keeping It Off The Record

With a name like “The Pirate Bay,” no one believes the group’s intentions were entirely legitimate to demonstrate freedoms. The Pirate Bay was designed to harbor pirate traffic safely from government authorities. Individual torrents communicate across the users’ computers, not over The Pirate Bay servers, which makes the technology so popular with anonymous users anxious to avoid obvious digital trails that could turn up on court seized computers. Anonymous tracker websites are usually expensive to maintain, because the visiting traffic requires remote servers and extensive bandwidth that can cost a small fortune each month to keep online. The Pirate Bay sells advertising space on its website to offset these costs, however it’s unknown what their revenue really is.

“We know that about 80% of all the traffic on the internet is torrent related. About half of these 80% are our traffic . Therefor, 40% of all internet traffic is passing through The Pirate Bay.” (sic) - Peter Sunde

If that’s truly the case, then it’s safe to assume they’ve had the opportunity to capitalize on their traffic, benefiting them more than covering basic infrastructure costs, which is why MGM, Microsoft, and the others feel they will be compensated for the requested $14 million in damages by The Pirate Bay with this latest trial. The defendants insist they haven’t become rich and they won’t be able to pay any possible court ordered payments – another reason they believe the whole case against them is misguided.

“It is legal to offer a service that can be used in both a legal and illegal way, according to Swedish law,” said their lawyer, Per Samuelsson. (The Local)

The effort to shut down The Pirate Bay website and stem the flow of illegal material is unlikely to happen with this court case (or ever, because of their server fail safes – Wired, 2006). The Pirate Bay has been dodging legal bullets for many years by disrespecting lawsuits, hiding its practices, and cleverly documenting that it is not actually ever in possession of the offending material. As difficult as it is to prosecute individuals who are caught with illegally obtained files, it’s actually much more complex to argue that the network technology itself is partially liable, especially when the technology is constantly evolving. It’s much like trying to shut down the entire English language so that individuals can’t utter offensive (or proprietary) words, especially when the individuals are using Morse code.

But the underbelly of this incredible defense of technology is that the primary use of The Pirate Bay is to traffic valuable media for free without the consent of copyright owners and to obfuscate the thieves’ trails. The prosecutors are hoping to make it clear that The Pirate Bay’s intentions are malicious, and eventually someone will succeed.

Theft Prevention Vs. Freedom On The Internet

The current trade-off for a marketplace that employs copyright is that some usages will be unfairly prohibited and some theft is to be expected, but the marketplace is broader because of the overall financial incentive to content creators. If the courts should ever decide that an individual’s right to privately communicate over the internet, even if it’s to share stolen material, is worth more to society than copyright protection and Draconian preventative measures, most digital media would be rendered worthless to retailers and there would be a dangerous upheaval for most industries. Luckily for publishers, the file sharing crisis isn’t seen by authorities as the “freedom” case The Pirate Bay wants it to be. But nervous industries are still trying to placate disgruntled internet users by finding acceptable common ground, like cheaper, DRM-free MP3 sales, to keep their content from being further devalued by theft.

Companies that are slow at adapting to new market demands to ease theft prevention are facing the worst of the backlash from consumers. Many of the anonymous users of The Pirate Bay are also quick to complain that they can’t afford the high prices of the latest entertainment media and software tools, or that they can’t buy it in the formats they want (high bit-rate audio files, DivX, etc.). They also feel that “free” acquisition contributes valuable mind share and publicity for companies, which turns into revenue in the future; the popularity of a hit album in file sharing circles might mean more long-term sales because the number of satisfied listeners increases (although the correlation is a dubious one outside of the most exceptional scenarios, such as Radiohead’s release of In Rainbows). Some file sharers gloat how they enjoy “sticking it to the man” as retribution. And more and more are arguing that copyright itself is an unfair hegemonic practice that has evolved into a monster (see Richard Stallman’s “Misinterpreting Copyright“). This attitude hasn’t diminished any in the 8 years since the court rulings that shut down Napster. But it’s unclear how many people tacitly understand that these arguments are all being used in defense of negligence to pay what content creators have asked for their work.

Ultimately, The Pirate Bay is quickly becoming more than just another famous example of how the internet offers temptations to transgress social taboos and ignore local authority. Its enormous scale indicates that it has become the latest spearhead of a generation’s full-on war against copyrights and preventions against theft. And, what’s worse is that today’s court battles can’t represent the best defense when the real fight takes place daily in the minds of millions of tempted, anonymous internet users in homes around the world.

- Michael Gaudet

Charlie Anderson, CEO of magazine wholesaler Anderson News called it quits, idling (according to one source) about 2000 trucks serving 40,000 book and magazine retailers, about half of the magazine market. “This is a mess for us all,” he said in an understatement of epic dimensions. Only a “Skeleton Crew” will remain.

Desperate to make up their shortfalls, some distributors including Anderson tried to charge a handling fee for every magazine copy distributed (whether it sold or not). Publishers wouldn’t hear of it, and that was the last straw for Anderson.

This misfortune could not come at a worse time for the struggling magazine and book industries and underscores the fragility of a business model based on printed paper delivered by motor vehicles to brick and mortar stores.

Naturally we hope that some other distributors will fill the vacuum and take over Anderson’s territories. But other distributors are struggling for the same reason as Anderson: the business model of book and magazine distribution is deeply flawed: distributors not only have to deliver product but collect unsold books and magazines and try to make money pulping or recycling them. According to an article on the website of the Periodical and Book Association of America, “Another factor impacting the wholesaler business…has been the dramatic drop in scrap paper pricing, which has gone from $130 per ton to $60 per ton-resulting in a $6 million net loss for the company.”

Now, are you ready for this? According to one knowledgeable publishing person I spoke to, China has until recently been a big buyer of American scrap paper. One of their major uses for it? Paper wadding for firecrackers. But China’s economic slowdown has contributed to reduced scrap paper purchases from the US.

Thus on Chinese firecrackers does the American magazine and paperback book industry stand or fall.

So, help a paperback publisher today – buy firecrackers.

RC