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OtherRealms Issue 19 Part 10
Electronic OtherRealms #19
Winter, 1987
Part 10
No Prisoners!
Reviews by Laurie Sefton
lsefton@amdahl.com
Copyright 1987 by Laurie Sefton
Reviewed in this issue:
Intervention
Julian May
[*****]
The Fionavar Tapestry
The Summer Tree
The Wandering Fire
The Darkest Road
Guy Gavriel Kay
[****+]
Caught in Crystal
Patricia C. Wrede
[***+]
Arrow's Flight
Mercedes Lackey
[****]
Every once in a while it's good to have an enforced vacation. You get a
chance to think and do things that you either would have put off or
have never gotten around to. My enforced vacation was a case of
pneumonia that had me flat on my back for two weeks. Since I had a lot
of time, and not a lot of energy, I worked through my overflowing
"in-box" of books. My lungs' loss were my mind's gain; I came across
some gems that would have otherwise gathered dust.
Intervention, by Julian May [Houghton Mifflin, $18.95, 546 pp,
0-395-43782-2], the "bridge" novel between the Pliocene Exile series,
and the coming Galactic Milieu books. It is essentially the
autobiography of Rogatien Remillard, with others' viewpoints
interspersed throughout the book. The force behind the books is a
friendly "ghost", from the Galactic Milieu, who, besides Rogatien, is
the only common character throughout the book.
It turns out that the Galactic Milieu has been watching Earth longer
than we had thought. The first time we see them is just after World War
II. They realize that humans have the capability to become members of
the Milieu, but they are waiting to see if Earth will survive the appearance
of operant psychics. They have developed some interesting habits during
their mission; they're quite fond of Scotch Whisky and jazz.
This is one of the methods that May uses to describe the characters and
their settings. The food that each is eating is lovingly described to
the point where I brought out my cookbook collection, just to see if I
could cook what was being eaten. The descriptions of what is being
eaten and when gives more information on that character than a chapter
of expository dialogue.
Beyond the descriptions of food, the descriptions of each of the
characters is so vivid that I expected to be able to find Denis
Remillard's Psi lab, along with Rogatien's book shop. This is much
harder than it sounds; since a large portion of the book occurs in
current time, it would be a lot easier to disbelieve what is happening.
Especially since, if you've already read the Pliocene exile series, you
know what's going to happen. From the first meeting of Rogatien and his
"friendly ghost", to the last stand of the operants, under siege from
Denis's younger brother, I didn't want to put the book down.
Don't wait for the paperback: Intervention is one of the best books of
the year. I can't wait for the Galactic Milieu trilogy.
I was prepared to actively dislike the Fionavar Tapestry [Arbor House,
Unwin Hyman, #10.95]; the last two years have been big ones for Celtic
fantasy, and there has been a lot of dross emerging as the publishing
cycle reaches its peak., when I read the first book, The Summer Tree, I
had just finished with a spate of mediocre pseudo-Celtic adventure
novels. Celtic overdose clouded my judgement, and the book ended up in
the "who cares?" stack. However, after hearing enough glowing reports
about the book, I decided to get the last book of the trilogy, and
attempt to read them all at once.
The second reading, not clouded by my previous perceptions, revealed a
classic. The theme, the ultimate battle of good and evil, isn't stilted
or trite, and Kay is able to use his modern characters as a foil and to
give a different viewpoint from the legendary characters. However, even
the modern characters become part of the legend.
Fionavar is the "first of all worlds", the primary focus from which all
the other worlds descend. Using this, Kay is able to give
understandable versions of common archetypes; the sacrificial king, the
exiled prince, the wild hunt, and the ultimate evil under the mountain
coming to life. In all this he even manages in inject, and even more
importantly, resolve, the story of Arthur, Guenivere, and Lancelot.
This is quite a package for any author to tackle, and Kay is not only
able to control it, but to guide and shape it to a glorious end.
Kay is also able to tackle an area that stymies a lot of fantasy
writers: where does all this stuff come from? I like the explanation
of each wizard having a power source, and that power source being
finite. And oh, yes, that power source is another sentient being. All
the fantastic elements of Fionavar work, whether it's wizardry, curses,
or pre-cognizance. There is a rational explanation for each occurrence.
I'd recommend that you buy all three volumes of the Fionavar Tapestry,
and spend a long weekend reading them. You won't be disappointed.
Besides the overdose of Celtic adventure, another part of the current
crop of fantasy that annoys me is the emergence of the stupid but
stacked female warrior. While she's shortchanged in the intelligence
department, she looks like a graduate student of the Mark Eden school
of bust development. You know the type; she's young, vicious, and wears
low cut chain mail in the dead of winter. Fortunately for us, there's a
remedy for all that, Patricia Wrede's Caught in Crystal [Ace Fantasy,
$2.95, 293 pp, 0-441-76006-6].
Kayl, the warrior is none of the stereotypes. She's heading toward
forty, the mother of two, and she's bulging in the wrong places.
However, she has brains to spare, and a master strategist. Here we meet
Kayl, she is running an Inn, having left the Sisterhood of Stars, a
fellowship of warriors and magicians many years before. The reason for
her departure, a disastrous mission to the Twisted Tower, comes back to
haunt her. For it seems that the Sisterhood's magic is failing, and
they trace it back to the Tower. Joining her and the Sisterhood on the
new mission to the Tower is Glydon, a wizard from the original mission
who has suffered from fits since his brush with the Tower's evil.
Wrede has set this in the world of Lyra, where there once co-existed
four races; humans, the Wyrds, who look somewhat like anthropomorphic
cats, the Nereids, a fish race, and the Shee, a race of fair folk. There
is tension between the races, and between the humans. Even the Sisterhood
has the social dynamics of any corporate board.. It's refreshing to see
a questing group that isn't all fair rosy cheeks and singing.
Caught in Crystal is a good introduction to Patricia Wrede's works.
Once you've read one of Wrede's books, you'll be back for more.
Arrow's Flight, by Mercedes Lackey [Daw Fantasy, $3.50, 318 pp, 0-
88677-222-2], is the second book in a trilogy about Talia, a Herald in
the Kingdom of Valdemar. The Heralds are the "Arrows of the Queen",
people who listen to disagreements among the populace, direct the army,
and oversee the running of the kingdom. Each has a Companion,
horse-like magic creatures who choose and bond with their riders. Each
Herald has at least one form of psychic ability; most have some level
of telepathy, while others are clairvoyant. Talia is a projective and
receptive empath. While this ability isn't unheard of in court, the
healers are empathic, it is unknown among the Heralds. Talia is assumed
to have control over her abilities, and isn't trained as the other are.
The lack of training, coupled with a plot by the nobles to ruin Talia's
reputation as the Queen's Herald, bring Talia troubel, and are the main
plot of the book.
Mercedes Lackey creates a believable world, close enough to our own to
be understandable. Even in this world, where there are magic
Companions, the same everyday troubles wander in; mix-ups over who's in
love with who, grumpy feelings with your partner at the end of a long
day, and exasperation with people who just don't seem to be getting the
point. Enough of Talia's background is given so you can see things
from her perspective. She's been abused and belittled by an small
minded family, she still can't quite believe that this is all happening
to her, and in the back of her mind, she fears of losing it all.
You don't need to read the first book of the trilogy, Arrows of the
Queen, to enjoy Arrow's Flight, but reading both will more than double
your enjoyment. I'm looking forward to the third book, Arrow's Fall,
with sadness; I just don't want to see this series end.
Much Rejoicing
Reviews by
Dan'l Danehey-Oakes
djo@pbhyc.uucp
Copyright 1987 by Dan'l Danehy-Oakes
Episode 4: Standards
As much as possible, do not bore your fellow man.
-- Zoroastrian Holy Writing
Reviewed in this issue:
How Much for Just the Planet
John M. Ford
The Kinsman Saga
Ben Bova
Bluebeard
Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.
The Crown Jewels
Walter Jon Williams
Wild Cards 3: Jokers Wild
George R.R. Martin
Alchemical Texts
Bruce Boston
The Wall
Ardath Mayhar
The Terminal Beach
J.G. Ballard
Infernal Devices
K.W. Jeter
To entertain, a story must be told in a competent manner; a writer who
doesn't know what she's doing will just bore you. Competence is a
collection of writer's skills, such as idea, plot, character, style,
setting, and theme. If one of these is poor or missing, a story may
stand through unusual balance of the other five. If two are missing,
the story is likely to be in trouble. Three, and the story is almost
certainly dead on arrival.
So, with these thoughts in mind, let's examine a few books...
I don't normally read Star Trek books. ("Normally" means I haven't read
one since James Blish died.) Therefore, it is a matter of some
puzzlement to me that I actually bought and read John M. Ford's How
Much For Just the Planet? [Pocket, 1987, $3.95, 0-671-62998-0] I don't
know why I did it.
But I'm glad I did. Ford pokes at Trek's worst cliches ("Why is it that
every woman that we meet is an old flame of yours, Captain?") with
loving homages to everything good in comedy, from Gilbert and Sullivan
to the Three Stooges.
The result is worth at least a chuckle a page. The Enterprise picks up
a distress call from a survey ship which has discovered a planet
practically made of dilithium crystals -- at the same time as the
Klingons. In accordance with the Organian peace accord, the Federation
and the Empire send diplomatic missions to the planet's inhabitants,
who will make the final determinaion as to who gets to exploit them.
The plot becomes inexplicable at this point, involving bedroom-
hopping, laundry chutes, Klingons in tuxedoes (I'm not making this up,
you know), a lost race with an immortal queen, a inflatable rubber
starship, and more.
Don't read this with your mouth full; it'd be messy.
Let me state right at the beginning that I'm very, very impressed by
The Kinsman Saga [TOR Hardback, 1987, $17.95, 0-312-29590-1]. I've
never been very fond of Ben Bova's fiction before this. In fact, some
time ago, I panned Prometheans in these pages.
Saga is a reprint and revision of two of Bova's books from about ten
years ago, Kinsman and Millenium. Millenium in particular was highly
praised on first publication; somehow, I never got around to reading it.
I'm glad, now, that I didn't. The two books deserve to be read together.
They form the complete biography of Chester Kinsman, a pacifist who is
forced to kill so his dreams can live, to betray causes he loves in the
service of higher causes. We follow his career as a young Air Force
trainee, a shuttle pilot, the Commander of America's first lunar base,
and beyond; in the end, he may be the savior of mankind.
Along the way, he laughs, loves, and hurts. Kinsman's story is riddled
with guilt, but without the kind of whining that pervades so much of
modern fiction: his condition is not that far from ours, and we can
understand it.
Perhaps the best way to indicate the measure of Bova's achievement is
this: I am opposed to the "Space Defense Initiative." This isn't a
forum for political debate, but suffice it to say that I live near
dozens of prime military targets, and I'd be in favor of anything that
would keep missiles from falling on me. The Kinsman Saga is in large
part pro-SDI propaganda - - that is, propaganda for a political
position I find reprehensible. I'm praising it anyway; it's a damn fine
book. Go read it.
Kurt Vonnegut is no longer a science fiction writer, but he deserves
some mention here: very well, let me say that his new book, Bluebeard
[Delacorte Press, 1987, $17.95, 0-385-29590-1] though it contains no
fantastic or science-fictional elements whatsoever, is as good a book
as he's written, and deserves to be read by any and all of you.
If you need to know what it's about: it's about an artist, a man who
stood at the center of the Abstract Impressionist movement, hung around
with and supported some of its major figures, and finally wound up a
nobody (though a very rich nobody) through one of the Little Ironies
Vonnegut's books have been filled with since he began. And, unusually
for Vonnegut, it has what I regard as a genuinely happy ending.
Alien Elvis impersonators! Croquet on other planets! Annoying domestic
robots! These, along with a number of other silly and amusing things,
appear in Walter Jon Williams' new novel, The Crown Jewels [TOR, 1987,
$3.50, 0-812-55798-9].
The Crown Jewels is the tale of a ne'er-do-well nobleman, slightly
down on his luck, who has found a career as an Allowed Burglar.
(Allowed Burglar?) Well, yes. One of the things the Khosali --
(Khosali?) Will you stop interrupting? The Khosali conquered Earth a
while back, but the humans eventually won a sort of precarious
independence. Anyway, they allow burglars in their culture if the
burglar is sufficiently stylish and entertaining, and Our Hero, Drake
Maijstral, Baron Dorgo, etc., is just that.
It is this same Drake Maijstral who steals an Artifact which,
unbeknownst to him, contains the Fate of the Constellation, the Fate of
the Empire, and, yes, the Fate of Civilization Itself.
Naturally, he makes one hell of a profit on the deal...
In one sense, this is something of a descendant of Alexei Panshin's
Anthony Villiers novels; it glitters with the same elegance, style (in
both senses), wit, and bizarre characters that made those books so
lovely. In another, it's what Harry Harrison's Jim diGriz might have
been if Harrison had bothered to work out an interesting and complex
society to set the Rat's adventures in.
It's a fun book.
Confession time: I've become addicted to a "shared world" series.
The idea of a "shared world" had occurred to me, as it had to many
other people, before Thieves' World came along and made it a reality.
The idea is appealing; gather a bunch of talented, very different
writers and see what they do with a common concept. Thieves' World was,
to be blunt, disappointing. The stories in it had a quality of sameness
that drove me away by the third volume.
Since then, I've read one or two volumes of several other such series,
and been disappointed in each on one ground or another. The most common
failings have been in range: either too little, as I mentioned for
Thieves' World, or too much, with stories that seem to have little
bearing on one another.
Until Wild Cards.
Wild Cards [Bantam, 1987, $3.95, 0-553-26699-3] has never described
itself as a "shared world." George R.R. Martin, the series editor/coordinator,
has called it a "mosaic novel" series, and I think that's a better
description, and it's become more so as the series progresses.
The first volume was an anthology. It told, in bits and pieces, the
story of various superhuman and subhuman beings created by aliens in
1946, and their impact on history. The second, though still an
anthology, focussed on a single, complex, story of alien invasion, evil
Masonic cults, and other strangeness.
But the third is a novel: a novel with better than half-a-dozen
collaborators and protagonists, but a novel just the same, where the
various plots and subplots twine around and through each other to a
final common resolution. It is not divided into stories by each author,
as the previous volumes were. Instead, each author's contribution is
slotted into various spots throughout the book, in firm chronological
order, with a note at the end explaining more or less who wrote what.
Each author's style and strengths are used to good effect. Some of the
authors from earlier volumes are missing, but those who remain are all
solid, quality folks, and they tell a story complex enough that I'm
astonished to find it could be pulled off at all, let alone so well.
I'd love to know how Martin coordinates these (he called this volume an
"editorial hat-trick," as good a term as any).
Oh yeah -- what it's about. The Astronomer, chief human villain from
volume two, is out for revenge, and sets about to kill the "aces" (Wild
Cards term for what anyone else would call a superhero) of New York. In
the meanwhile, a thief steals a book whose contents may control the
balance of power in the New York underworld. There are several other
plots that wrap around these two, but they form the novel's main
structural supports.
If you haven't figured it out by now, I loved it.
I don't think there's such a thing as "science fiction poetry." Science
fiction is fiction, descended from the bourgeois novel; poetry is a
different form. Poems have never before now been classified by the type
of fiction their contentmakes them seem kin to; if there is a group, or
movement, or whatever of poets using science fiction subject matter in
poetry -- and it seems inarguable that there is -- then certainly they
need and deserve a name, but calling poetry fiction isn't the way to do
it. (I have a similar problem with "SF films.")
Nonetheless, the name seems entrenched. Possibly the best-known poet of
the science fictional (I exclude people like Ray Bradbury, who are not
primarily poets) is Bruce Boston. You've probably seen his work in
Asimov's and other places. If not, let me tell you he's good. Very good.
Which is why I found Alchemical Texts [Ocean View Press, 1985, $3] a
tremendously disappointing little book. It's not even much of a book;
more of a pamphlet, which is the form taken by far too many
single-author poetry collections these days. (I don't see what can be
done about this; it seems that there are just too damn many good poets
working for the market to absorb, and the small press does what it
can.) The poems contained in Alchemical Texts wander around the
perceptions of an individual referred to as "The Alchemist," who seems
to stand as a hazy metaphor for hermetic knowledge.
This should be a sufficiently powerful and malleable metaphor for a
poet of Boston's quality to generate any number of original and
compelling insights; instead, the poems bog down in a rather trite sort
of mysticism. (It is, of course, possible that I, who am not privy to
a large body of hermetic knowledge, may be missing some significance
which a more trained observer of arcana would pick up right away.)
The language, on the other hand, is as clear and startling as anything
of Boston's I've seen elsewhere. The poems are certainly well done: my
question is whether they were worth the effort, and my answer, I'm
afraid, is a qualified no.
Speaking of the small press... Time&Space books offers a short novel,
more a novella, in Ardath Mayhar's The Wall [Space and Time, 1987,
$6.95, 0-917053-06-0]. Pink Floyd fans need not apply; this is a quiet
little tale of the supernatural.
I can't really bring myself to call it a horror novel, as the emotions
it conveys are rather too gentle for the term; but it is a ghost story
in the classic American tradition, set in a vaguely modern South,
dealing with the difficulties faced by Alice Critten in taking up
residence in her late Great- Aunt's former residence.
The Aunt in question was a curmudgeonly old lady, not at all popular
with the "better" folk of the town, but comfortable with shopkeepers
and the residents of the black settlement nearby. But she never seemed
the type to surround her house with a thick stone wall -- yet the wall
is there: hence the title.
Some hints of the reason for the wall's presence appear right away:
strange sounds in the night, an vaporous humanoid form which appears at
night, trees burned to ash by persons unknown. Alice's attempts to
discover who, or what, is doing this, and to stop them, forms the basis
for an entertaining and satisfying little supernatural mystery.
The solution seems a little pedestrian next to the events which
surround it, but it certainly satisfies. I probably wouldn't take great
steps out of my way to find The Wall, but if you see a copy in a bookstore
or on an order form, it's definitely worth your hard-earned cash.
I seem to recall complaining, a while back, about the non-availability
of J.G. Ballard's The Atrocity Exhibition. That was an understatement.
The sad truth is, most of his books have had sporadic availability at
best in this country, and they deserve better. (The situation may be
improved when Spielberg's film of Empire of the Sun is released; at any
rate, I hope so.)
Now one of his best collections of short stories has been made
available for the first time in many years.
The title story of The Terminal Beach [Carroll & Graf, 1987 (reissue),
$3.50, 0-88184-370-9] is one of the most frequently-reprinted stories
of recent years. Not one of the most frequently-reprinted SF stories:
one of the most frequently-reprinted stories, period. "The Terminal
Beach" is the classic example of Ballard's "condensed novel" short
story style, a complex story boiled down to its essentials, so
stripped-down that the few details which remain take on an obsessive,
puzzling, almost mystical air. The terminal beach is not a beach at
all, but the sandy interior of the island of Bikini, site of early
above-ground H-bomb tests; and the story deals with an individual whose
life has taken on meaning through his attempts to penetrate to the
center of the island.
Obsession is, as always, the keynote of Ballard's writing, but the
stories here are mostly easier reading than the highly dense and
experimental stories of The Atrocity Exhibition. There are, for
example, the story of an expedition into the jungles of South America
in search of a lost, manned spacecraft; the story of the last fish on
earth; and the strange case of the stolen painting. Ballard requires
more work of his reader than the average sf writer, but the stories in
The Terminal Beach allow a relatively easy introduction to his work. If
you aren't sure whether you want to invest the effort in reading a book
like The Atrocity Exhibition or Crash!, then you can't get a better
testing ground than The Terminal Beach.
The Victorian mentality, as it wished to believe, was quite unable to
easily accept sudden, untoward changes in its picture of reality. When
a Victorian gentleman found himself confronted with something utterly
outside his normal realm of experience, whether it were the lower class
or the supernatural, his usual reaction was to do his best to close his
eyes to it, pretending the encounter had never occurred.
But beneath this placid and regular exterior, many Victorians longed
for adventure, change, the unexpected. Thus was born in so many the
desire to serve Her Majesty abroad; thus came the popularity of novels
of mystery, adventure, and intrigue, as the tales of Sherlock Holmes
and his contemporaries.
And thus when a dull and unusually stodgy Victorian watchmaker named
George Gower found himself on the brink of what a modern reader might
call the Twilight Zone, he held back not at all, but, consumed by the
desire of adventure, plunged forward to discover the meaning of the
piscine visage on a mysterious coin, and found himself entangled with
far more trouble and adventure than he had ever wished for.
This, at least, is the conception of K.W. Jeter's peculiar little book,
Infernal Devices [Signet, 1987, $2.95, 0-451-14934-3]. Jeter's plot
tortures poor Mr. Gower almost beyond the limits of his endurance, but,
the Reader will be glad to know, he is permitted to live and tell the
tale of how he made the Ultimate Sacrifice for the security of the
Empire and the World.
A bargain at $2.95. These days, any book is a bargain at $2.95, but
this would be worthwhile at more modern prices.
Closet Classic: Someone pointed out that I haven't reviewed a real
novel as a Closet Classic to date. Well, I'm going to make up for that
and then some with this one.
Honesty requires that I admit I haven't read all of it. I can't. There
are large parts of it that I simply can't get hold of, though I've
spent enough time (and money) haunting rare book shops. You see, The
Biography of the Life of Manuel is comprised of 18 volumes, including
novels, romances, collections of short stories, poetry, a play, and two
lengthy essays -- and all but two are out of print. This is shameful,
when you consider that one volume of the cycle (Chivalry) was the book
that Mark Twain kept at his bedside in his final illness, and others
were praised by persons ranging from Sinclair Lewis to Arthur Machen to
Teddy Roosevelt.
Ballantine/Del Rey books reissued six volumes of the Biography some
years back (Figures of Earth, The Silver Stallion, Domnei, The High
Place, and Something About Eve), and Dover books has kept two volumes
(Jurgen and The High Place) in print for some years now. I've managed
to acquire 11 volumes, or 61%, of the Biography.
The author, James Branch Cabell, begins with the conceit that there
were three basic philosophies one could take toward life. One might
regard life as a time of testing, and oneself as God's steward here on
Earth, and this he called the Chivalric point of view. One might regard
life as all very well, but finally meaningless, and amuse oneself with
what pleasures one might while life lasts; this Cabell calls Gallantry.
Finally, one might regard life as raw material, from which to make what
one can of beauty. Cabell called this the philosophy of the Poet.
In the Biography, Cabell created a great mythic figure, Dom Manuel, the
"Redeemer" of the imaginary French province of Poictesme, and envisioned
his descendants through twenty or more generations, in France, in
England, and finally in the American South. The first novel of the
Biography, Figures of Earth, follows the career of Manuel himself, from
his strange rise to his doubtful disappearance. Manuel begins as a
young swineherd with odd visions and proceeds, through various magical
and fantastic adventures, to become Count and finally mystical Redeemer
of Poictesme. Throughout, he advances not by boldness or prowess, but
by his ability to compromise with the necessities of life.
Subsequent volumes follow his many descendants through many
generations, and the reader sees how each of them lives his life
through one variation or another of the philosophies outlined above. In
this manner, they repeatedly play out the acts of a repeating comedy:
"The first act is the imagining of the place where contentment exists
and may be come to; the second act reveals the striving toward, and the
third act the falling short of, that shining goal, or else (the
difference here being negligible) the attaining of it, to discover that
happiness, after all, abides a thought farther down the bogged, rocky,
clogged, befogged heart-breaking road, if anywhere." Indeed, as often
as not, Cabell's theme is a man who easily achieves all he wishes, and
finds that this does not make him happy.
The most famous of these books is undoubtedly Jurgen, the tale of a
middle-aged pawnbroker given his youth, freedom from his wife, and a
magic sword, with all of which he cuts a swath through the lovliest
ladies of myth and legend, only to find that this was not what he was
seeking. Jurgen was originally published in 1919, and was banned as
obscene. A modern reader may find this banning rather fantastic, as
Jurgen -- like many of Cabell's books -- is not at all "dirty," but
uproariously bawdy.
All the acts of all the characters throughout the Biography seem to be
the repeating themes and melodies of a monstrous symphony in which
human lives are the instruments, and history the score. The composer is
not Cabell (or is he?) but the mysterious and ever-recurring
Horvendile, who appears,usually as a minor character, sometimes
disguised, in nearly all volumes of the Biography.
Cabell's books are witty, cynical, and utterly fantastic. At times the
reader gets the impression that the author is winking at her, telling a
tall tale for its own sake -- which, of course, he is. Cabell's style
is exact and easy to read, conveying perfectly his paradoxical feelings
that man is "an ape reft of his tail, and grown rusty at climbing
trees," and that at the same time the doings of man somehow matter,
however small they may be on a cosmic scale.
In the end, we learn that Cabell has indeed been having us on, that the
Biography is just a huge, a cosmic joke at the reader's expense -- but
what a grand joke!
If some publisher could be prevailed upon to reprint the complete
Biography, it would be a public service of unequalled virtue. In the
meanwhile, I recommend to all readers of this column a quick order to
Dover books for their edition of Jurgen, one of the funniest books in
the history of American literature.
OtherRealms #19
Winter, 1987
Copyright 1987 by Chuq Von Rospach
All Rights Reserved
One time rights have been
acquired from the contributors.
All rights are hereby assigned
to the contributors.
OtherRealms may not be reproduced in any form without written
permission of Chuq Von Rospach.
The electronic edition may be distributed or reproduced in its entirety
as long as all copyrights, author and publication information remain
intact. No individual article may be reprinted, reproduced or
republished in any way without the express permission of the author.
OtherRealms is published quarterly (March, June, September and December) by:
Chuq Von Rospach
35111-F Newark Blvd.
Suite 255
Newark, CA 94560.
Usenet: chuq@sun.COM
Delphi: CHUQ
