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MIRIAM ALLEN DEFORD:The Apprentice God, WoT, Apr. Then why did you kill it? Flopper put in. Nonosecond = one billioneth of a second. Doubleday last year reprinted his first two novels.The Drowned World andThe Wind from Nowhere in a combined hardcover edition, at about the same time that the third one.The Drought, was published by Jonathan Cape in England, and (as TheBurning World) in a Berkley paperback here—and the first three chapters appeared inAmbit, a highly regarded British literary magazine. Berkley reissued an early collection, and Gollancz reissued theirTerminal Beach (slightly different in contents from the Berkley edition), while the title story (an obscure, difficult, demanding piece which violated almost every convention of s-f writing) was widely reprinted (including in the10th Annual). For five minutes he worked away industriously, pretending to sweep the bandstand again, then put down the sonovac and returned to the couch. Can you takeanother word? Two, really: criticismand category.They are why you probably never heard of Ellipsiabefore. Critics like categories. Some critical categories are: Pop, science fiction, avant-garde,mainstream, black humour. Hortense Calisher has a distinctive reputation as a mainstream writer— sub-category, female, One critic found the book wanting in a survey of Ladies Novels; another put it down as inadequate neo-Joyce; one who did notreview it thought it could have been an avant-gardehit if someone like William Burroughs had written it. S-f critics, who would have loved it, never saw it. The category it actually fits had not yet been invented. In her dim way, she had always stood out against her Mentors absolute hatred of men. The thing to hate was hatred. Men in their finer moments had risen above hate. Her death psalm was an instance of that—a multiple instance, for it had been fingered and changed over the ages, as the Mentor himself insisted, by men of a variety of races, all with their minds directed to worship rather than hate. A BENEFACTOR OF HUMANITY So we might have been. There was no way of knowing otherwise. White boy, said the fellow in charge of Household Misery, hurry yourself. Were fading fast. Necessity is the mother of redemption.” And here I must confess my weakness, though I consider it justified by the extraordinary circumstances. I looked round before Nikolai Vassilevitch told me I could; it was stronger than me. I was just in time to see him carrying something in his arms, something which he threw on the fire with all the rest, so that it suddenly flared up. At that, since the desire tosee had entirely mastered every other thought in me, I dashed to the fireplace. But Nikolai Vassilevitch placed himself between me and it and pushed me back with a strength of which I had not believed him capable. Meanwhile the object was burning and giving off clouds of smoke. And before he showed any sign of calming down there was nothing left but a heap of silent ashes. Trooper McCullum said softly,That there, Mister, is a eighteen mile straight, and we cruised it slow, and you turn off it, youre in the deep ditch and the black mud and the gator water. Contrary to my earlier impressions of him, I realize that Dr. Nemur is not at all a genius. He has a very good mind, but it struggles under the spectre of self-doubt. He wants people to take him for a genius. Therefore, it is important for him to feel that his work is accepted by the world. I believe that Dr. Nemur was afraid of further delay because he worried that someone else might make a discovery along these lines and take the credit from him. Anyway that test made me feel worser than all the others because they did it over 10 times with diferntamazedsand Algernon won every time. I dint know that mice were so smart. Maybe thats because Algernon is a white mouse. Maybe white mice are smarter then other mice. We stopped by his shoulder and gazed up at the motionless profile. The lips were parted slightly, the open eye cloudy and occluded, as if injected with some blue milky liquid, but the delicate arches of the nostrils and eyebrows invested the face with an ornate charm that belied the brutish power of the chest and shoulders. We have the writers; we have the markets; we have the readers. But nothing is happening to bring them together. Much of the best work is being done entirely away from the social-professional nexus ofscience fiction. (Witness Donald Barthelme and Harvey Jacobs in this volume . . . Stanley Elkins “Perlmutter at the East Pole” in theSaturday Evening Post . . . William Maxwell and Robert Henderson inThe New Yorker . . . and how many others that I won’t even hear about till next year or the year after?) Theres one song, Talking World War Three Blues, that starts (as near as I can make out) “One time ago crazy dream came t’me— I dreamed I was walkin’ in World War Three.” He walks up and down the lonesome town—lights a cigarette on a parking meter, tries to break into a shelter, steals a Cadillac, and sees one other man—who runs away. “Thought I was a communist.” "Chéri, I suppose you know what youve done?" How fast had he jumped away from the capsule? At a good five miles an hour, surely. Trivial though that speed was by astronomical standards, it should be enough to inject him into a new orbit—one that, Van Kessel had promised him, would clear the Moon by several miles. That was not much of a margin, but it would be enough on this airless world, where there was no atmosphere to draw him down..
