Lately I’ve been able to buy some books from the 1980s and 1990s that I missed when they first appeared. The first of these is Dreamthorp, by Chet Williamson, published by Dark Harvest, which I acquired in a signed/limited edition format. After I read a few Williamson stories from his Borderlands Press little books series, the name stuck. When I came across someone selling a copy I bought it. I haven’t read it yet, but it’s on the to be read stack at the moment, which admittedly is fairly tall.
I also picked up a short novel from Lucius Shepard, The Scalehunter’s Beautiful Daughter, published by Mark V. Ziesing. Shepard’s written some great short stories, so I look forward to reading this one.
Lastly, I bought a copy of Pat Cadigan’s SF novel, Mindplayers, for under $10. The book is signed, which doesn’t mean as much to me, but having read several or her stories, I look forward to visiting the past and reading this novel.
At the same time I also picked up a bunch of books in a short-lived series that I’m still putting together. Only 29 books were published in this series, which ran from October 1989 to June 1992. I firmly believe that I’ll run into the issue of the last few being out of my price range, but I’ll do what I can, as once I have the bug I’ll put it to my self-defined limit as much as possible.
There are many other books from those two decades that I wish I had, and maybe I’ll start filling in those gaps more, as I rarely read any of the current stuff these days.
I’ve never read any of Jack Ketchum’s fiction. I first heard of Ketchum (whose real name is Dallas Mayr), in early 2022. Mayr died in 2018, so he’ll never shake his head in misery that some unknown reader never came across his fiction while Mayr was alive. It’s not that I don’t own any fiction of Ketchum’s; I have all the copies of Subterranean Press’s attempt to revive Dark Harvest’s brilliant horror anthology series, Night Visions. The first of those copies, aka Night Visions 10, includes one Ketchum story, “The Passenger.” Yet, I’d never read that story.
I’d stumbled across these editions a few years ago, shelved them, and planned on reading the stories in Night Visions 10, 11, and 12, but this never happened. These three books were the only Night Visions books published by Subterranean Press, back in 2001, 2004, and 2006 respectively. Subterranean Press tried to revive a noted anthology twenty years after the last one appeared, but gave up after only three, whereas the original publisher, Dark Harvest, put out nine books between 1984 and 1991.
The original Night Visions books (of which I own all but #2) were unique horror anthologies. Each book contained stories by two known authors and one new writer. Published between 1984 and 1991, they included a variety of well-known names and few up-and-coming ones. Some of the memorable names include Stephen King, Robert McCammon, Clive Barker, Dean Koontz, and F. Paul Wilson. I’m not sure if the horror genre briefly died around in the early 1990s, or just the publisher, or both. I confess that I didn’t read keep up with the horror genre much, though I bought a few books and anthologies. I didn’t follow the market enough to hear about Ketchum, who apparently was a Big Name back then. He was a Big Name in the sort of violent horror tales that I avoided. You know: cannibals and brutal killers.
Lately, though, as I’ve picked up a slew of horror/dark fantasy collections and anthologies from back in the day (and by that I mean the 1990s through the early 2000s, when I mainly ready SF), I’ve come across writers who were big in those days and whose works I either missed or don’t remember. Ketchum is one of these writers, and, having read from cover to cover his book, certain thoughts struck me.
Ketchum’s volume from Borderlands Press, in their Little Books series is entitled A Little Emerald Book of Ephemera. There’s no fiction here; it’s musings about life, fiction, etc. Some of the entries are introductions or afterwords to new editions of his books. His idea of horror aligns with mine: people committing brutal acts, often for no reason. This makes him angry. I feel much the same way. Yet, in reading what he writes about his fiction, I’m not sure I want to read his fiction.
It sounds far more brutal than I think I’d care to experience.
Is that a bad thing, I wonder? Who will remember authors after they’re dead? Far fewer people than read them while he or she was alive. Some authors persist after they die, but these are few in number. Keep in mind that few living writers get published, and many of these rise briefly and then fall to mid-list or worse. From what I’ve read, Ketchum was mostly a paperback writer, and the market for paperback horror disappeared a few decades ago. Aside from a couple of names, such as Stephen King, the horror genre is not a major market. It seems, given the lack of success with the attempted revival of Night Visions, that even in the specialty press horror doesn’t have much of a market. In limited edition hardbacks, published in a few hundred copies, only the die-hard fan or collector will turn their eye (and wallet) to those books.
Sure, there’s still a strong degree of interest in horror, but it likely will never approach the success of fantasy of SF in terms of genre fiction. Ketchum writes, in one of his ephemera, that he sold 300,000 copies of his first book, Off Season. That sounds, at least to me, like a massive success. His later novels apparently didn’t sell as well, but, from what I’ve read, his focus in terms of the horror genre, was on the extreme edge, an uncomfortable edge.
My current fascination with Borderlands Press’s Little Books series is, I’ll admit, a strange one. Reading through some of these has revived a long-dormant interest in dark fiction. I find it interesting that the writers are given free rein: some submit fiction, others non-fiction. Some of the fiction is accompanied by notes about the stories, others included just the stories. Maybe’s there a word limit, and the writer is told: just give me X number of words, it doesn’t matter about what. After all, when you publish something in 500 copies, manic collectors will, like moths, gravitate toward these books. An edition of 500 copies is fewer than most specialty press editions of collections, though probably not by much. It’s hard to say, as not all small press publishers provide exact numbers. In the cases of limited and signed editions, the numbers are more obvious, but not always. Golden Gryphon, for example, listed most of their books as published in editions of 3,000. Other speciality presses aren’t as forthcoming. How many “trade” editions did Dark Harvest of Subterranean Press print in each Night Visions volume? Unknown.
So, in terms of these books, I always wonder: what’s the market? A book (or books) by a certain author will attract fans of that author. Books by certain publishers might attract fans of that publisher, regardless of author. Certain of those books become instant collector’s items, and quickly fetch premiums after publications. A few years ago I bought The Autopsy, a collection of most of Michael Shea’s fiction, published by Centipede Press. It was limited to 500 copies, all signed by Michael Shea, and listed for $125 upon publication. Search online now, and people are selling it for $1,400 or more. Many other Centipede Press editions accrue similarly in value. Ketchum himself mused upon a paperback edition of one of his books being listed for $85; no doubt any limited edition hardcover would fetch far more, especially signed ones, and especially now that he’s dead. Not all small press books attain this market value, but some are up there.
I’m rambling all over the place here… Having started with one writer and then deviating over to small press publishers. I’m going to say that, yes, I wish I’d known about Ketchum while he was alive. It would have made little or no difference. to his life, but maybe I would have picked up a book or two. There are many writers, in many genres, that I’m now reading for the first time who were alive and writing stories and novels a decade ago and who’re now dead: Charles Grant, Rick Hautala, Dennis Etchison. Then again, there are writers I’m also reading for the first time who are still alive, who have been writing for decades, or maybe only a few years. Grant and Etchison appear again and again in noted anthologies, and I wonder as I see their names, will they persist? Is it just Stephen King? Why not them?
I think I’ll stop here, although not far from my mind is the thought that after reading (or in some cases re-reading) anthologies published in the past 20-30 years, that many of the writers whose stories appeared in these anthologies are mostly forgotten. A handful of names persist, but the majority appeared a few times and then vanished.
What the hell happened to them? Where did they go? Will some of them say, “I’m still here?” Did others fade away, die, or quit? And if so, why? Even those who didn’t quit, now quickly before they are forgotten, at least by publishers?
Writer L. Neil Smith passed away on the morning of August 27th 2021. He was 75 years old, still writing and opining until his last moments, no doubt. And so the world has lost another voice of liberty, and the original Libertarian Writers Mafia is diminished even further. More than any other libertarian sf writer, Smith had the greatest influence in the field. He was a friend for many years, an inspiration, and a powerful voice for freedom. I disagreed with him on occasion, favored some books over others, but looking at my collection of his books I find that I own most of them, and have read many of them more than once.
When it came to adventure, Smith’s novels embodied that spirit and sense of wonder. His books were full of action, color, and character. When it came to style, I sometimes shook my head at his choices, such as his heavy use of apostrophes and the constant interruptions of characters by other characters. At times his sentences were a convoluted mess, especially (in my opinion) after he started writing a great deal of non-fiction along with his fiction. Still, I look back at some of his books, and wish there were more of them.
With Smith, everyone will mention his first novel, The Probability Broach, and rightly so. This is the quintessential libertarian novel. Rather than ready dystopias and battles against the state that fail, again and again, or end in unrealistic triumph, Smith created a libertarian utopia. No utopia is perfect, and Smith didn’t pretend it was perfect. Crime exists, people make bad choices, but his world seethes with vision, optimism, and a future. It might not be a future every libertarian desires; his emphasis on guns and self-defense has, over the years, made some libertarians cringe. Guns just aren’t mentioned in polite society, I guess.
A rush of novels set in the same universe followed, as well as a trilogy featuring Lando Calrissian, from the Star Wars universe. These novels were apparent written in a rush, under an unrealistic deadline, and he never made much money from them (no doubt there were accounting adjustments, typical of large studios, than benefitted the suits and not the creator). He also wrote several books about space pirates, started a seven book series that ended after two novels (sadly), a vampire novella (and sequel), alternate history with The Crystal Empire and Roswell, Texas, and many more books across different genres. I still cannot forgive him for killing off my favorite character in his book, Pallas. But then, he was an uncompromising person, and maybe that made sense from his writer’s perspective. He published over 35 books, and was forever talking about books he’d planned, had started, or intended to write. It seemed his imagination was boundless.
Late in his life Smith battled ill health, from strokes and other problems. He always seemed to maintain his optimism, still tried to convert people to liberty, and constantly inspired those already gathered under that banner. I’ll admit that I disagreed with him vehemently regarding his support for a certain Republican president, but he wasn’t the only libertarian who turned to that direction, possibly out of a hatred of the man’s opponent at the time. Nonetheless, his legacy persists. Smith founded the Prometheus Award to honor libertarian science fiction. For a time it seemed like libertarian writers were everywhere. Now many of the original group has passed, all in recent years: Brad Linaweaver, J. Neil Schulman, Victor Milán. When I think of this I’m struck by the words of John Donne, for “Each man’s death diminishes me.” All I have left is memories and some physical editions of their creations. Rest in peace, my friend.
In August two more people I knew died. Both were writers: J. Neil Schulman and Brad Linaweaver. Although I knew Neil, we butted heads a couple of times over the years. However Brad was a friend, and once again I’m shaken by the unexpected death of someone who died far too young. I started to write an appreciation of Brad, but the task proved difficult. He was a friend, a mentor, a spark. It’s still weird to think they’re both gone.
On April 6, 2018 Centipede Press released the second volume in Fritz Leiber’s Fafhrd and Gray Mouser books, Swords Against Death. The original edition appeared almost 50 years ago now, and I’m not sure when my 14th printing of the Ace paperback was published, but the hardcover volume assembled by Centipede Press is once again a wonder to behold, worth of the cover price.
The ten short stories gathered in this volume continue the adventures of two strange companions, heroes and anti-heroes both, in the fantasy lands of Nehwon, the streets of fabled Lankhmar, and beyond the veil of death.
The projected 8-volume set will be unveiled gradually, but so far the first and second volumes both have wrap-around dust-jackets with lettering on the spine only. This lettering consists of the book title, the author’s name, the publisher’s name, and the volume number. It also contains original artwork within, several of which I wish I had larger copies of hanging on my wall.
A few miscellaneous notes from Leiber appear at the end, and author Steve Rasnic Tem provides the introduction. The stories themselves, include some of Leiber’s best ones, such as the “Bazaar of the Bizarre,” “Theives’ House,” and “The Jewel in the Forest.” Although it’s been a few years since I last read this book, I remembered these three at once as I read through the table of contents. As to the others, if I have forgotten any of them, why that’s a benefit, as reading Leiber for the first time brings just as much wonderment as reading his stories for the 100th time.
I’m a huge fan of Tim Powers, but not mad enough to spend $300 for this limited edition of the collection short stories of Tim Powers, from Subterranean Press. Limited to only 124 copies, it’s already sold out, anyway. Maybe some day it will filter down to a less limited edition, as it contains at least one new story.
Years ago I tried reading a Wooster and Jeeves book by noted British writer P. G. Wodehouse. I set it down, got rid of it, and shook my head wondering how anyone read his books. However, last week I read three Wodehouse books featuring the inimitable Jeeves and the hapless aristocrat Bertie Wooster. This time I got it, I laughed, I admired the genius of Wodehouse. I am hunting more of his books this weekend.
Perhaps one needs to be in a certain state of mind to appreciate Wodehouse, or have reached a certain age, or have recently visited London and absorbed some of its history. I know not the reason, but the pure fantasy world of Wooster and Jeeves slots perfectly into the imagined Britain between the wars, so familiar from reading Agatha Christie, or Evelyn Waugh’s Brideshead Revisited. The language, speckled with strange slang and archaic terms, brilliant quotes, and conversation so ornate as to be unreal, brought a smile to my lips on nearly every page.
Andrea Camilleri’s latest Montalbano novel is disappointing on many levels. Not until you read the afterword do you learn that, although it was published in the US in August 2017, that Camilleri wrote A Nest of Vipers back in 2008. Camilleri notes that it was held back as the theme was too similar to his 2004 novel, The Paper Moon. The so-called similarity is not the most disappointing aspect, at least to me. Rather, with Montalbano aging (ever so slightly) with each novel, I had looked forward to reading more about the ramifications from the two previous novels, A Beam of Light and A Voice in the Night. With 20 plus novels sketching Montalbano’s life, each one takes us little further, and A Nest of Vipers fails in that regard.
A greater disappointment, however, is that I solved the mystery less than five chapters into the novel. Usually with Camileri’s novels he’s far more careful: sowing seeds of doubt, planting false leads, tying in strange coincidences and sub-plots. An early sub-plot lasts no more than a few paragraphs, and other characters play minor roles. Even the title gives away too much.
A Nest of Vipers had one thing going for it: the murder victim. Father of two adult siblings, he was a ruthless business-man, philander, and blackmailer. Everyone, it seems, had a motive for killing him. Yet Camilleri ticks off one wronged person after another almost as fast as we’re introduced to them and their motives.
The entire supporting cast in the fictional town of Vigàta is in place, playing their familiar roles. Montalbano’s long-distance girl-friend makes a brief appearances. Enzo the chef prepares vast meals just for the Inspector. Fazio and Augello remain steadfast lieutenants, and Catarella mangles the language as brutally and comically as ever. Even the good forensics coroner Pasquano manages to insult Montalbano about “busting his balls” several times. While the supporting cast rarely veers from the set path, the various people Montalbano meets during his vacation draw little interest, at least this time. While the supporting cast has grown stale over the years, Camilleri usually draws other interesting characters, from young, beautiful students with dark pasts, to businessmen with various scruples, and the odd Mafia member in the background. Not so much this time, as only two main characters get much time in the novel, and then fades into the background. One character hovers in the background, then acts as a deus ex machina to explain a crucial bit of evidence right at the end.
A Nest of Vipers lacks much of the humanity in other Montalbano novels, and were it not originally written so many years ago I would call it a step back in the series. Had it been published in the right sequence maybe I would have walked away with a different impression. In the meantime, while I wait for the next novel, maybe it’s time to re-read The Age of Doubt or The Dance of the Seagull. In the meantime, titles of untranslated works continue to tease at least two more novels in the series.
Growing up in the 1980s I read fiction across all genres. A teenager at the time, I read my own books, but also read as many books as possible from my parents’ shelves. This included thrillers like Alistair MacLean, Hammond Innes, Wilbur Smith, crime writers like Ed McBain and Agatha Christie, along with a host of names long since forgotten.
The past two decades I’ve generally not read much crime fiction, with the exception of the Norwegian writer Gunnar Staalesen. He lives and writes about Bergen, a place I lived a few years, and where I have roots. The names of other crime/mystery writers slide past my consciousness, but I tended to either read science fiction or American novels from the early twentieth century.
A couple of years ago I read Stieg Larsson’s Millennium trilogy, like so many others. This year I picked up a couple of Ian Rankin books, and once again I feel the strong pull of crime fiction. Oddly enough, I’m reading quite a few Scandinavian and European books, from Rankin to Andrea Camilleri, to Jo Nesbø to Asa Larsson, along with other Swedish writers like Henning Mankel and Per Wahlöö.
I have yet to dive into American crime fiction, but I have list of names, most of them authors I’ve never read, which I think is an exciting prospect.
There used to be a book store in San Antonio called “Remember the Alibi.” I find it tragic that this store is gone, but even more so now that I’m re-discovering this genre.
Andrea Camilleri’s latest Montalbano novel is disappointing on many levels. Not until you read the afterword do you learn that, although it was published in the US in August 2017, that Camilleri wrote A Nest of Vipers back in 2008. Camilleri notes that it was held back as the theme was too similar to his 2004 novel, The Paper Moon. The so-called similarity is not the most disappointing aspect, at least to me. Rather, with Montalbano aging (ever so slightly) with each novel, I had looked forward to reading more about the ramifications from the two previous novels, A Beam of Light and A Voice in the Night. With 20 plus novels sketching Montalbano’s life, each one takes us little further, and A Nest of Vipers fails in that regard.
