I went to see Eye in the Sky with my son & daughter-in-law, and one of the trailers they showed was for Genius.
Which, of course, (1) made me want to see that movie, (2) made me want to read Thomas Wolfe again.
So, being the fiscally conservative person that I am these days, I looked to see what was available at the library. Alas, nothing on ebook. Notebooks, Reader, Portable, Short Stories, Correspondence, Letters, Play . . . ah: O Lost--which is the original(-ish) version of Look Homeward, Angel. (Also known as Look Homeward, Angel + 66,000 words.) The Web and the Rock. Of Time and the River. You Can't Go Home Again. Poems. Play. Stories. I put in a request for O Lost. I like to start at the beginning. And none of that truncated bullshit for me.
And then Jacqueline wanted to go to Half-Price Books this morning, so while she looked around I went to the old paperbacks spinner rack (my holiest of holies) and the section of nice hardbacks and "nostalgia" books, and there I found about forty issues of The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction. So of course I had to have a look through those. Saw a few that looked worth the $3.00 they were asking for, but they were sealed in plastic, so I could only go by the skimpy information on the cover. Hmmm. And then I saw the cover to the August 1963 issue.
Ray Nelson. Radell Faraday "Ray" Nelson. Ray Fuckin' Nelson, man.
I first encountered Ray in the pages of Again, Dangerous Visions (edited by Harlan Ellison, who not only gave me quite a few writers who I have continued to love for the four and half decades since I read that anthology, but who also gave me one of my favorite running "gag allusions" in use for blog entry titles) in the story "Time Travel For Pedestrians." I don't remember much about the story--except that the premise had something to do with masturbation used as a way of invoking time travel--but I do remember that in either the forward or afterward Ellison made reference to the fact that Ray Nelson had written a novel with Philip K. Dick whilst on acid. It was called The Ganymede Takeover, and I soon acquired a copy. Read it. Forgot it. Lost my copy. Found a copy at Half-Price Books and bought it. Haven't re-read it yet.
Meanwhile, back at The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction . . . my longing for Thomas Wolfe turned into a longing for Ray Nelson, and I bought the issue. And it turns out that the story in it--"Turn Off the Sky"--was Ray Nelson's first sale. And get this: the editor refers to having had the story in hand for four years! Four fucking years! I suddenly felt much better about the fact that my story "Tamas" has been sitting at McSweeney's since 12/11/2014. (Still, Jesus Christ, boys . . . if you love me, let me know, if you don't then let me go.)
Ahem. So I was reading along and enjoying the story, despite its occasional flashes of datedness, when I came upon these lines:
"The basic idea of all underground trains is the same. To sit and stare into the face of one's fellow man and never speak, never betray by the slightest movement of the eyes a recognition of his existence. During rush hours to be crushed against him, chest to chest, back to back, so tightly you cannot move, so close you can inspect the pimples on his face, the dandruff on his shoulders, smell his sweat and hear his breathing, yet never say hello, never know if he is married or single, if he has children, and if they are healthy. To stand pressed as close to a woman as if in the tenderest embrace of love, and yet think about the ball game or the latest programs on the feelies--then to part and never see her again. To stand, perhaps, crushed back to back against the one person who has the missing piece to the puzzle of your life and never know it."
Yowza. I think I am going to have to dig out that copy of The Ganymede Takeover and have another go at it. After I finish "Turn Off the Sky," of course.
And meanwhile . . . Ray Nelson is still out there somewhere. 84 years old. Still married to Kirsten Enge (coming up on their 50th wedding anniversary). Wow. I wonder if he knows that his stuff is still being read. I wonder what he thinks about his life and his work. And love.
Hmmm.
Oh . . . he also wrote a novel about William Blake. I'm going to be needing that as well.
Man works from sun to sun, but a reader's work is never done.
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