The Top of the Volcano: the Award-Winning Stories of Harlan Ellison

The Top of the Volcano: the Award-Winning Stories of Harlan Ellison

Language: English

Pages: 536

ISBN: 1596066342

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub


''Only connect,'' E.M. Forster famously said, and Harlan Ellison was canny enough to make that the lifeblood of his achievement from the get-go.

New, fresh and different is tricky in the storytelling business, as rare as diamonds, but, as a born storyteller, Harlan made story brave, daring, surprising again, brought an edge of the gritty and the strange, the erudite and the street-smart, found ways to make words truly come alive again in an over-worded world.

From the watershed of the '50s and '60s when the world found its dynamic new identity, to a self-imitating, sadly all too derivative present, he has kept storytelling cool and hip, exhilarating, unexpected yet always vital, able to get under your skin and change your life.

And now we have it. ''The Top of the Volcano'' is the collection we hoped would come along eventually, twenty-three of Harlan's very best stories, award-winners every one, brought together in a single volume at last. There s the unforgettable power of '''Repent, Harlequin!' Said the Ticktockman,'' ''The Whimper of Whipped Dogs'' and ''Mefisto in Onyx,'' the heart-rending pathos of ''Jeffty Is Five'' and ''Paladin of the Lost Hour,'' the chilling terror of ''I Have No Mouth, and I Must Scream,'' the ingenuity and startling intimacy of ''Adrift Just Off the Islets of Langerhans...''

These stories are full of the light and life of someone with things worth saying and the skills to do it, presented in the book we had to have--not just a Best-of (though given what's on offer it may just fall out that way) but in one easy-to-grab volume perfect for newbies, long-time fans and seasoned professionals alike to remind them just how it can be done.

A Frolic of His Own

Omon Ra

Havoc, in Its Third Year

Building Waves (Japanese Literature Series)

The War Lord (Casca, Book 3)

The Great Novels and Short Stories of Somerset Maugham

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

icon. “Occasionally magic has to bow to technology,” Connie said. Danny moved forward. He could not make out what the item lying on the black velvet pillow was. “And sometimes ancient anger has to bow to common sense.” Danny was close enough to see it now. Simple. It had been so simple. But no one had thought of it before. Probably because the last time it had been needed, by the lamp’s previous owner, it had not existed. “A can opener,” Danny said. “A can opener!?! A simple, stupid, everyday

old man’s verve. “Gaspar, you are a wild old man. You retired?” The old man walked carefully to the most comfortable chair in the room, an overstuffed Thirties-style lounge that had been reupholstered many times before Billy Kinetta had purchased it at the American Cancer Society Thrift Shop. He sank into it with a sigh. “No sir, I am not by any means retired. Still very active.” “Doing what, if I’m not prying?” “Doing ombudsman.” “You mean, like a consumer advocate? Like Ralph Nader?”

began to flow. And the steel walls melted, and the concrete turned to dust, and the barriers dissolved; and I looked at the face of the monster. No wonder I had such nausea when Ally had told me about this or that slaughter ostensibly perpetrated by Henry Lake Spanning, the man she was prosecuting on twenty-nine counts of murders I had committed. No wonder I could picture all the details when she would talk to me about the barest description of the murder site. No wonder I fought so hard against

and Blood. Especially for solos like us. They made me check my .45 and the Browning .22 long at the door. There was a little alcove right beside the ticket booth. I bought my tickets first; it cost me a can of Oscar Mayer Philadelphia Scrapple for me, and a tin of sardines for Blood. Then the Our Gang guards with the Bren guns motioned me over to the alcove and I checked my heat. I saw water leaking from a broken pipe in the ceiling and I told the checker, a kid with big leathery warts all over

she’d lived when he’d left three years ago, but in the house of the man she’d married six months before, when Lestig’s name had been first splashed across newspaper front pages. He had driven to her parents’ home, but it had been dark. He could not—or would not—break in to wait, but there had been a note taped to the mailbox advising the mailman to forward all letters addressed to Teresa McCausland to this house. He drummed the steering wheel with his fingers. His right leg ached from the fall.

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