Recently, as I was perusing the shelves of a local used bookstore looking for something else entirely, I came across multiple Philip Roth books. I think the same person must have turned in these books, possibly as part of a box-load of items from a deceased relative. Many of these books were by the same publisher, but they also were in rough shape – broken spines, creases, folded covers. I put back all but one of them, the one with least damage. This book bore the title, I Married a Communist, which didn’t seem like a particularly inventive, oreven compelling, title. Still, I thought, why not? Roth, after all, was one of the major American writers of the second half of the twentieth century. As I’ve been mining the past lately, this book was a prime candidate to continue that effort.
Inside the book, I found an airline boarding pass from 2008. That artifact, in itself, seemed both funny and tragic. That single printed page was more evidence that the original reader had owned multiple Roth books, and now those who went through his library and unloaded them to this particular used bookstore had no interest in Philip Roth’s fiction. The original reader, like myself, had apparently used any paper at hand as a bookmark, and so I felt some affinity toward this person.
I thought, as I started to read this book, that I’d never anything by Roth, but I was wrong. Back in college (so, so many years ago now) I’d read one of his short stories, “Goodbye, Columbus.” The memory of that story came back to me in a flash, as I read through Roth’s online bio. This single story was required reading in one my creative writing classes in college, back in the early 1990s. Now, decades later, I remember next to nothing about that story, aside from a snippet or two. Did I avoid Roth’s fiction because of this story, or because I gave up on modern fiction? I don’t know. It’s been thirty or more years, and the idea of Roth never crossed my mind until now.
The novel, I Married a Communist, features Roth’s alternate ego, Nathan Zuckerman, as its narrator. The books is a word-fest ( as I term it), as it doesn’t let up when it comes to focusing on any particular topic, spanning pages with commentary on that subject; any given person speaks for multiple pages without a break. Clearly, the author has never listened to a real person talk. That, or he’s the one talking, and has cornered someone and won’t let go. Is this normal fiction?
This book is now only the second Roth story I’ve read, and the first full-length novel. Roth, who died in 2018 at the age of 85, is supposedly one of the major writers in American fiction. He wrote over 30 books, yet I’ve skipped over all of them. Although I’ve seen his name many, many times when I perused fiction shelves, I don’t know why I avoided his name. Perhaps it was a reaction to “mainstream fiction,” or my aversion to current fiction.
At any rate, if I’m going to read his books, I have a lot of catching up ahead of me. Perhaps it’s too late; Roth didn’t see a future in novels, given the rise of various screens (TV and computer). I can sympathize, given that I’m writing this for my own sake. Some of his other titles look far more interesting.
Since around 1992 or so, I’ve owned a copy of the trade edition of Dark Harvest’s anthology, Dark at Heart. Edited by Joe R. Lansdale and Karen Lansdale, this book contains 20 stories by many of the masters of the genre in the 1980s and 1990s. My copy was signed by a handful of writers, picked up at Armadillcon (a convention in Austin, Texas), I think. It’s one of my treasured possessions, and I’ve read some of the stories multiple times. In my copy, I can make out signatures by both Lansdales, Ardath Mayhar, Bill Crider, plus two signatures whose names are indecipherable; one might be Andrew Vachss, the other – who knows.
I don’t usually buy different editions of books that I already have, unless it’s a hardback to accompany or replace a paperback or trade paperback edition. Still, coming across a limited edition of this book, signed by ALL contributors, was just too tempting, especially as it was offered at more than half-off the original cover price of $45. Side by side, there’s nothing to differentiate these two books. The limited edition offers nothing extra, save that it’s numbered and signed by all contributors. The “deluxe first edition,” as the book states, is limited to 400 individually signed and numbered copies. It comes with a nice slipcase. Looking at the signatures, I still can’t figure out which two authors signed my old trade edition. The price is a sticker on the inside flap of the dust jacket, possibly overlaid on top of the trade edition price.
This isn’t my first limited edition Dark Harvest book, but it’s my first such anthology. Back when I first started to buy hardcover books, and also ventured into the small press market because some of my favorite authors had stories and books published there, I knew nothing about trade vs. limited editions. Paying $45 for a book in the early 1990s, to me at least, was a luxury I never would have permitted myself. Today, some small presses sell limited editions for $150 or more (and in some cases around $500 or more). I’d never envision myself paying a price like that, but who knows what things will look like in ten years. Will $150 seem like a pittance then? Will physical books even exist in ten years, or will it just be a matter of luxury, given the rising cost of everything?
Many authors who appeared in the pages of Dark at Heart now are dead. Dark Harvest as a publisher is but a memory. It’s a shame there aren’t more anthologies like this one. I’ll treasure both books, I think, for different reasons.
Three down, 47 to go. Once you start, it’s hard to stop. Having summited the tallest peak in Texas (Guadalupe Peak), and California (Mount Whitney), the latter of which also is the tallest peak in the lower 48 states, the temptation now becomes to attempt summiting the tallest peak in all 50 states, or at least the lower 48.
So it was the case when I flew into Phoenix, Arizona, after many delays, looking to bag that state’s peak. Well after midnight I drove to Prescott to meet my son later that morning, before we headed to Flagstaff and the trailhead to Humphreys Peak. With multiple delays, and an early start, I was operating on just three hours of sleep, plus a late start (9am, far from ideal when heading to a place over 12,000 feet above sea level). Still, I’m in awe of the nature in northern Arizona; this isn’t my first trip here, but the nature never ceases to surprise me with what’s available in the high desert.
My weather report on the conditions for the peak apparently was severely outdated. I’d left the micro-spikes at home, only to learn a couple miles into the hike that there was a fair amount of snow and ice to deal with the last two miles. This bit of information was gleaned from another hiker who’d started at 2am, and was slowing descending many hours later. Another nugget of information, not available online, centered around the multiple blow-downs the first two and half miles through the forest. This entailed either going over massive logs, or crawling under heavy trees. We did a bit of both, but it took its toll, slowed us down, and left physical scars. I guess there were no trail crews cutting logs, or all these blow-downs were recent events. We counted at least 80 trees that covered the trail.
The trailhead for Humphreys Peak starts at the Arizona Snowbowl. You cross a wide open field, which during winter becomes the domain of skiers and show boarders. Fortunately, there was not a lick of snow on the ground here. After crossing that field, you enter a forest. The trail from here slowly winds its way upward. Once the blow-downs are conquered, you deal with falling snow and ice that’s accumulated on various trees. After that obstacle course, you reach an area known as “the saddle.” Here we took a break. The view was astounding, and gave no indication of what lay ahead. Many hikers turn around here. We, on the other hand, shouldered our day-packs and headed up the trail. From here, a thin layer of slushy snow covered the trail. The air was thin, and my lack of sleep and the altitude slowed me down. We met several groups that were heading down from the summit. At one point, while we were stopped to let me catch my breath, and group told us we were 45 minutes from the top. It seemed like hours away, with the various false summits we had to cover. Still, we persevered.
The final push to the peak is a straight uphill trek. Without a clear trail to follow, we veered to the left, and had to backtrack a bit. The summit itself that day was cold, with harsh and biting winds. I’ve seen various numbers, but I’m going with 12,633 feet above sea level as the official height of this peak. I think this make it my fifth peak above 12,000 feet, and first where I didn’t have at least some time to get used to an altitude above 800 feet.
We stayed at the summit for only a few minutes, then headed back down. Once passed the saddle, we pushed the pace, until once more we were slowed by the countless blow-downs. The trail, as tracked by my GPS watch, was just over 10.6 miles out and back, starting from the lower parking lot. I confess that it was a tough one, perhaps third or fourth in terms of toughest hikes, and that was all due to the lack of acclimating to the altitude, as well as the snow and ice and all the blowdowns.
Once completed, it was a long drive back to Prescott, where two slices of pizza at the Grumpy Sicilian was more than welcome, and then a blissful shower and well-earned rest.
Now, the question is which peak to tackle next? A few of them will require a summer trip, while others are far away from Texas. I’m not sure I’ll ever tackle Denali, and those over 12,000 feet make me nervous, but I look forward to the challenge. Onward and upward!
These days, apparently, October is the month to visit Salem, Massachussetts. This town, just a short thirty-minute train-ride northeast of Boston, owes its fame to the killing of twenty innocent men and women, plus an additional five who died in the town jail, back in 1692. Accused of witchcraft—although probably a likely excuse to acquire disputed land—in Puritan New England men and women, old and young, were hanged on Gallows Hill (one person, pressed to death, died in a manner more horribly than by the rope). Others were tortured in order to confess their sins, and this stain on the town of Salem has never really left it, even after more than 400 years. Harsh judges, steeped in religious superstition, handed down sentences of death based on dubious evidence. Locals later repented their actions, but for many it was far, far too late.
Today, the town of Salem (at least the economically minded side), makes a killing on its history of those killings. Stroll down Essex Street Mall, and you’ll find a Witch Mansion, Professor Spindlewink’s World of Wizardry, and various haunted house hawkers amid a multitude of touristy shops selling witch-related items short of Harry Potter knock-offs. In a nearby graveyard is the Salem Witch Trials Memorial, and a few blocks away the Salem Witch Museum. There’s even a torture museum, for those so inclined. I was happy to stroll along other places.
Salem’s also home to the massive Peabody Essex Museum (PEM), a venerable institution with wonderful (and mostly not witch-related) exhibits and notable paintings, well worth a visit for anyone interested in art and/or history (also, there is was an exhibit on the people who were accused of witchcraft and killed, which was illuminating). The city of Salem itself is notable for being the birthplace of America’s greatest 19th century writer, Nathaniel Hawthorne.
In Salem also sits the actual house of the seven gables, now a museum, but once the subject of Hawthorne’s second novel. Nathaniel Hawthorne, whose venerable ancestor was one of the harsh judges who condemned the so-called witches to death, wrote many tales set in and around Salem, notably The Scarlet Letter, an attack on Puritanism in its many forms. Hawthorne also left the city in disgust after being tossed from his job at the Custom House when a new administration came to power and replaced many individuals from a different political bent. Salem, today recognizes its most famous inhabitant with a street name, a hotel, and a statue in a central location (and probably other nods and recognitions).
In early September this year, rather than in the madness of the Halloween-related month of October, I took the commuter train from Boston to Salem. The atmosphere in North Station in Boston, while waiting for the signal to board the train, likely merits its own long essay. But, I will skip that effort, as I still bear the scars of the mad rush through the doors once the platform was announces, just 10 minutes prior to departure.
Years ago, as an English major in college, I’d read Hawthorne and many of his contemporaries. That middle 19th century period was perhaps my favorite when it came to American writers: Hawthorne, Herman Melville, Ralph Waldo Emerson, Edgar Allan Poe, Henry David Thoreau all made an indelible impression on me, and I read many of their books. Aside from Hawthorne, Salem is the center of early American superstition gone wild, and so a destination-place for anyone in the Boston area. Naive as I am regarding the present, I thought for some reason that Salem was still a somewhat small village, not the enterprising locale attracting visitors goggling at witchcraft and wizardry related stuff.
Leaving the train station, I was surprised at the large crowd rushing up Washington Street. I later found that their likely destination was the Essex Pedestrian Mall, unless it was the cemetery, or maybe Gallows Hill Park (now a baseball field and skate park, it appears). Instead, I took a left turn and walked down Bridge Street. I passed by the old Salem jail lot, made a right turn and ended up near the Salem Witch Museum. There was already a line, and booking were apparently only available online via a QR code. Upon learning it was mostly a video presentation, I skipped it, and walked toward the center of town. I spent an hour in the PEM, perusing various exhibits, then wandered about town, shuddering as I walked along the Essex Pedestrian Mall. Looking for lunch, a decision was made to find something near the wharf. A walk along Derby Street took me to Pickering Wharf, and then Finz Salem, a seafood restaurant, where I enjoyed a decent plate of fish and chips and local lager.
After lunch I walked passed the Historic Central Wharf, then along the length of the next wharf, where I passed the Friendship of Salem ship (now closed). I circled the Derby Wharf Light Station at the end, and returned the way I came, wondering how this area looked like back in the 1840s, and even the 1640s. It’s a city now choked with houses and businesses. Sure, some of the houses bear plaques as to when they were built, dating back to the seventeen or eighteen hundreds, but there are many new buildings. Salem, after all, is history, but history is fluid. Even though Hawthorne fled this city to Lenox in western Massachussetts, and later to Italy, he could never quite escape history, and remains connected to Salem more than any place today.
Nearby the Historic Central Wharf stood The House of the Seven Gables museum. As I didn’t care to spend another hour (and more money) to wander its rooms (and likely buy some Hawthorne edition of a book that I probably already owned), I simply walked around it, as much as was possible. Perhaps I’ll return to this strange town. if I do so, I hope it’s not during October, where all those witch-mad people storm the town, and also hawk their goods. Maybe, I’d even stay at a local hotel, drawn by the name of that notable scion of Salem. Then, I’ll check out this seven gables museum, perhaps in a more quiet moment, and also buy more books. After all, I do have a compulsion to buy books, and marking a book or more as “from Salem” might mean something to me, if only briefly.
On the way back to the train station, a sprinkling of rain fell, and I wondered about winter and Hawthorne’s dislike of the east wind that haunted this town. Did luck strike with an otherwise warm September day? Briefly, wandering the remote streets, I saw a rabbit in poke its head out a small yard and then disappear. I found this strange, as I was far from the countryside. Then again, I’ve spotted rabbits while in suburban Medford just outside Boston proper, so perhaps this sight was normal in New England, just as squirr. I paid homage to the Hawthorne statue, walked past the Hawthorne Hotel, and wondered what old Nathaniel would have thought had he witnessed Salem in 2026. Probably he would have shaken his head, made a disparaging remark or two, and disavowed any association with his birthplace, as he did back in 1849.
Having seen but a fraction of Salem, but also having become once more aware of Hawthorne as a person and writer, I’m now reading a biography of this person; it’s a book I bought years ago, but never touched, until I dug it out from behind a stack of books covering that time-period in American life and fiction. I’ve also gone ahead and arranged many of his books in order, and now plan to read or read them this Fall. I still remember a few of his stories from many decades ago when I read them in college, and look forward to revisiting them with the experience of having, at least, been to New England. Life is strange, indeed, as I never expected to visit that area of America. Now that I’ve been there, the lives of many of its writerly inhabitants suddenly has a greater meaning, and I feel the need to take another look at their lives and what they wrote.
I’ve even sketched out an itinerary to hike Katahdin, to walk in the footsteps of Henry David Thoreau, another of my literary (and personal) heroes. Perhaps that’s my own great awakening.
I know that I’ve heard of John M. Ford’s name, but I’d never come across any of his book until I found a copy of Aspects for sale in October, 2026. Only after I had this book in my hands did I learn that this was his final book, published after his death, no less.
Published by Tor books in 2022, with an introduction by Neil Gaiman (prior to his cancelation for “bad actions”), Ford’s novel is somewhat incomplete. Ford (1957 – 2006) passed away aged 49, comparatively young. He dealt with kidney and diabetes issues all his life, yet produced many stories. I believe his first book was Web of Angels (1980), but I’d never come across any of his books until now, and as fate would have it, this was his last book, published many years after he died.
Aspects is a heft book, clocking in at nearly 500 pages. Kudos to Tor for publishing the book, nearly two decades after Ford died. Back in 2021 or so when Gaiman wrote the introduction (as a longtime friend of Ford’s), Gaiman was still a major name in the SF/Fantasy genre. Things have changed since then, with Gaiman accused of sexual assault and such, so it’s somewhat strange to read his introduction now. It doesn’t diminish anything, but still it’s strange to connect that introduction to the present version of Gaiman.
Still, wow, to read the first couple of sentences of Ford’s book, knowing that he’s long dead, is strange if not disturbing. Perhaps I’ll come across more of books now, as I’m more aware of his name, but with his death almost two decades hence, that iwll likely be via online sellers, or by chance if I see any books in various used bookstores. It’s so tragic when this happens, but the past is the past.
Is that a misleading title? Probably. And for that, I apologize, for I’ve always been impressed by all the Ray Garton stories that I’ve read.
Recently, I picked up a nice copy of Ray Garton’s collection, Pieces of Hate, published by Cemetery Dance in 1996 — which is 30 years ago today! My copy is number 97 of 500 signed and numbered copy of this title. The book contains just nine stories, none of which I’ve read. I own just a handful of Garton’s books, all from small press publishers — Dark Harvest, Ziesing, Borderlands Press, and now Cemetery Dance. This is but a small subset of the books published during Garton’s lifetime. He died in 2024, all too young and with many years of fiction ahead of him. So tragic.
Horror and dark fantasy is but a small subset of genre fiction, but Garton was a major name in that arena. The first Garton story I read was “Monsters” in the Dark Harvest anthology, Night Visions 6, where he appeared alongside F. Paul Wilson and Sherri Tepper. I don’t remember anything from this story, but I do remember Lot Lizards, a vampire novella published by Ziesing back in 1991. Since then I’ve picked up a few more of his books, all hardcover. His original paperback horror books are hard to find these days, as are some of his more famous (or infamous) books, like Live Girls.
With Pieces of Hate you get the stories, and that’s it. No author introductions. No afterwords, no encomia from fellow authors. Leave that to other books. I look forward to readin this book with great anticipation. I’m sure the stories will be troubling. That was the case with Lot Lizards, as it was with Trade Secrets, another of Garton’s novels that I recently read. I still have a few of his unread books in my shelves, which sometimes is a good thing. I’ve yet to come across any Garton paperbacks anywhere, but perhaps someday I’ll find more of his books, and mourn the fact that he’s no longer around.
Whenever I’m in Phoenix for a few hours, as was the case this month, I try to stop by Book Gallery. This sprawling bookstore carries used and rare books of almost every shape and genre. Precise labels on the shelves cover almost every imaginable subject, so that either one must visit every bookshelf to discover what lies within, or have a specific idea of what to seek.
Over the past couple of years I’ve found some great books there. I’ve also had to put a few books back that were priced above what I could afford. This time, one of the books I could not put back on the shelf was Beautiful Blood, a novel from Lucius Shepard (1943 – 2014). I think it’s the third Shepard books that I’ve bought from Book Gallery, and likely not the last.
As I was checking out, I spoke with the owner, who mentioned that he started his career as a bookseller when one of Shepard’s first books was published. We thought it might have been The Jaguar Hunter, but only as I was driving away did I recall that it was likely Green Eyes (the owner recalled the name as “Green Jaguar”, a mix of both titles). Coincidentally, Green Eyes was the first Shepard book that I bought — the paperback with the green cover. Shortly thereafter, I bought Kalimantan at a bookstore while in New York City. Since then, I’ve bought a dozen of Shepard’s books. I would have bought more, had I been able to find them in bookstores, but sadly many of his books were published only by small presses. When I lived in Austin, TX, only one speciality book store existed (sadly, now long gone), and in my present location there’s no such option. Everything’s online these days, and prices escalate over the years. Still, coming across a physical copy breaks a certain monetary barrier.
Published by Subterranean Press in 2014, and limited to 1,000 numbered copies, my book is number 75. It’s a tale of the Dragon Griaule, one of many that Shepard wrote. I own and have a read a fair number of these tales, but by no means all of them. I probably also own just under half of Shepard’s published books. I still recall when I was able to afford one of his Arkham House collections, The Jaguar Hunter; years later I added his other Arkham House collection, The Ends of the Earth, to my library. Shepard is a quintessential American writer. Several of his stories are set in Central America, linked to events in the 1970s and 1980s, but he also drew inspiration from elsewhere in both reality and fantasy. The Dragon Griaule stories are dark, unrelenting, and tragic, as are many of his other stories, but the prose remains powerful. The more of his stories that I read, the more I want to go out and seek all his other books.
I’ve forgotten how many times I’ve read a book series out of order. I just know that it happens, and if by chance the second or third book in a series is good, and I read it first, well, I have to go hunt for book number one. Is a themed anthology in the same boat, however?
One of the books I picked up recently in Phoenix was Thrillers 2, published by Cemetery Dance in 2007. A signed/limited edition was too good to pass up. Edited by Robert Morrish, it features ca. 20,000 words each from four contributors — Gemma Files, Tim Waggoner, R. Patrick Gates, and Caitlin R. Kiernan. This anthology is apparently the “long-overdue return of a dark fiction series that debuted in 1993.” I’m not sure that a 14 year absence makes it a series, especially since no more books in this “series” followed. However, since I had book two, I naturally went out and searched for a copy of the first book…
Perhaps it’s unfair to compare Thrillers to another “dark fiction” series. Still, Thrillers seem to attempt to vill the void left from the demise of Dark Harvest’s Night Vision series, which ran for nine installments, then was partially resurrected by Subterranean Press for three more installments. The first Thrillers appears in 1993, just two years after Dark Harvest ceased the run of Night Visions books. The cover and concept seems to share a great deal with Night Visions: multiple writers contributing original fiction. With Night Visions, there were three writers – two well-known, and one new (and up-and-coming) writer. Majro names like F. Paul Wilson, Stephen King, Robert R. McCammon, Joe R. Lansdale, Dean Koontz, George R. R. Martin, and others, appears in Night Visions. Thrillers has four authors, a mix of new and well-known names. The font on the nine Night Visions books was consistent and recognizable. The font on the two Thrillers books, not so much.
The first book has stories by Rex Miller, Ardath Mayhar, Chet Williamson, and Nancy A. Collins, plus a short introduction by Joe R. Lansdale. The second Thrillers has fiction by Gemma Files, Tim Waggoner, R. Patrick gates, and Caitlin R. Kiernan. I checked ISFDB and despite close to 600 publications to its name, Cemetery Dance never released a third Thrillers.
It’s strange, but 2007 seems like just yesterday, and yet it’s almost two decades in the past. Going back to 1993 seems like a deep dive into the past. Since then, dark fantasy and horror anthologies have come and gone, yet there seems to be nothing like Night Visions, an annual publication with cutting edge fiction. Small press publishers have come and gone. Arkham House exists now in the distant past. Subterranean Press (soon to cease, alas) has published great fiction, mostly from individual authors. Golden Gryphon existed for a few years. Gauntlet Press and Borderlands Press publish just a few books each year. The same is the case for Cemetery Dance, which produced these two Thriller anthologies. Other small presses these days seem to focus on high-end expensive books for collectors with a lot of money.
Then again, with books like these day, I continue to mine the past with occasional success.
I love Parkrun. These are semi-organized events held on Saturdays in a park, supported by volunteers. Register once, get a barcode, and show up to any Parkrun location in the world to participate. Here you can either run or walk, track your time, or ignore it. My closest Parkrun is over three hours away, so rather than a long drive early a Saturday morning, if ever I’m in an area on a Saturday with a Parkrun, I show up and run, just for fun.
Danehy Parkrun takes place in Cambridge, Massachusetts. This was just my fourth Parkrun, and weirdly, the first one in the USA. My first Parkrun was in Reading, UK; the second in Dublin, Ireland; and the third in Bergen, Norway. I didn’t plan it that way – I just happened to be in those locations on a Saturday, and found a nearby Parkrun. At this rate it might be a decade before I reach the first milestone of 10 events.
I’ve been close to my “home” Parkrun twice. The first time I was running a half-marathon the following day and found it impossible to leave my hotel due to closed roads. The second time, I had no idea I was just a few minutes away until after the fact, as I drove past the park a mere five minutes from the hotel. I could not believe that I’d failed to bring running gear or even realize how close I was to that location. Since then, whenever I visit a place, I immediately look to see if there is a nearby Parkrun. In the USA, apparently, these are far less popular than in England or elsewhere.
As I was staying in Somerville over a weekend, I found that the Danehy Parkrun only was less than a mile away from my bed and breakfast. Naturally, I packed some running gear, and even though I made it to my room the night prior no earlier than 12:30am, or “zero dark thirty” in military parlance, I was buzzed to run another Parkrun. Number “four” is not an anniversary run, but it still held meaning to me as the first Parkrun on American soil. Early Saturday morning, I donned my running gear and followed the directions on my phone to walk over to the start area in Danehy park, around one mile away.
I was one of the first to arrive in the park. I’ve noticed that it seems to be the rule more than the exception that most people show up mere minutes prior to the start. After the briefing for first timers, where the course was outlined, the start saw close to a hundred runners head out on the narrow tarmac path. A slight incline gave way to a relatively flat course, which then wound itself around the edges of the park. It was a three-loop course, each loop slightly less than a mile long. As I was still recovering from a back injury a few months ago, I held back until I found what I thought was a comfortable pace. I passed a few people the first two miles, and then my pace faltered. Clearly I was not yet in 5k shape. In the last half mile four runners eased past me, with more on my heels as I made it up the steep hill to the finish. My time was nothing to boast about, but still acceptable based on my current fitness level. If I make it back to that Somerville/Cambridge, I’ll be sure to show up again. Then again, it’s also tempting to look for other Parkruns in and around Boston, because variety is more fun than going for a PB on familiar ground.
So, if you’re lucky enough to live near a Parkrun, I envy you. All my training sessions are solo, and it’s so nice to run with other people in an event that’s not a race, yet also not just a group run. And, as always, a great thank you to the volunteers to make those weekly runs possible.
Perhaps it’s no coincidence that the 100th Subterranean Press book in my library is the anthology, Collectibles, edited by Lawrence Block. This takes me to just over 10 percent of all Subterranean Press books. In my typical haphazard way about collecting books from small press publishers, I’ve picked up Subterranean Press books over the years from various places, and with no real plan in mind. In some cases, it’s because the book is by a favorite author. In others, the price point made it an easy choice. I have added some books by authors I never expected to read, and from that decision added their name to my list of authors to look for and read – Connie Willis is prime here, as I’ve become a fan from reading several of her novellas published by Subterranean Press.
I’ve long been a fan of small press publishers, from Arkham House to Dark Harvest, Subterranean Press to Centipede Press, Mark V. Zeising to Gauntlet Press, Cemetery Dance to Underwood-Miller, Golden Gryphon to Borderlands Press, and NESFA to PS Publishing, and several others. These names cover only a fraction of the small press publishers who’ve produced limited editions in science fiction, fantasy, horror, and a little bit of mystery in the 20th and 21st centuries. Many of these publishers have faded into the mists of time. There are some publishers that I’ve never considered, or never come across. More ardent collectors go for those books. Charnel House is out of my price range, as are some others. In many cases, titles by some of these publishers climb quickly in terms of price on the secondary market, if they are available at all. Collectors, after all, tend to hold on to their prized possessions.
I don’t foresee acquiring all the Subterranean Press books ever published. Then again, as I understand they plan to retire their press sometime in 2027, picking up a book from this publisher is bittersweet. I no longer go to SF conventions, where I’d see some of their books available in the dealers’ room, titles that I’d never expected to find anywhere. Also, there’s no longer a specialist SF bookstore near where I live, so my choices are only two-fold at the moment: stumble across one in a used book store, or find the book online by chance. I don’t seek one out unless it’s by a tiny handful of authors, and apparently those authors no longer have their books published by Subterranean Press (i.e. Tim Powers, James P. Blaylock, and Robert McCammon).
It’s a shame that Subterranean Press is planning to cease operations. They’ve always been a place for variety, not just genres, but authors and formats. From SF to fantasy, horror to mystery, classic writers to modern ones, they covered it all. It’s a sad day for both readers and collectors when they ship the last book from their warehouse.
