ladysprite (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ladysprite) wrote2011-01-27 10:57 am
ladysprite) wrote2011-01-27 10:57 am
Entry tags:
Words
The downside of having an author that you purely adore and look forward to is that once you've read something by them, you never have it to read for the first time again. If the author is still writing, it's not that bad - it just means anticipation and impatience while you're waiting for the next book. But if they're no longer putting out new works, the joy and excitement and deliciousness of reading is balanced by the frustration and loss of knowing that that's one less first-read you'll have.
Last night I finally sat down and read 'Repent, Harlequin, Said The Ticktock Man.' And while I *needed* that endorphin high and that wallow in literary ecstasy, there's a part of me that's sulking and sad that that experience is in my past, now. Rereading is good... but it's just not the same.
I know that Harlan Ellison is apparently a complete nozzle of a human being. But I will always be a little bit in love with him for his writing. Most stories are just that - stories. The words are just there to convey information and tell the tale. And there are great stories out there, that make me laugh and cry and wonder and care, but the words themselves are less important than the ideas.
With Ellison, the words themselves matter. The story is there, and it's good, but the individual words are so important, and chosen just so, such that the rhythm and the pattern and the feel becomes a part of the work, and it ends up somewhere between Beowulf and beat poetry. It's a sensory experience, instead of just an intellectual one.
I've said before that if I could, I would wrap myself up in his words and roll around on them like a giant bear skin, and I can't find any better way to describe it. There are a very few authors who have this gift - sometimes Bradbury reaches it. And, for better or for worse, Ellison - for me - is the pinnacle of it.
And now there's one less story of his I have to read.
Darnit.
Get your own valentinr
Last night I finally sat down and read 'Repent, Harlequin, Said The Ticktock Man.' And while I *needed* that endorphin high and that wallow in literary ecstasy, there's a part of me that's sulking and sad that that experience is in my past, now. Rereading is good... but it's just not the same.
I know that Harlan Ellison is apparently a complete nozzle of a human being. But I will always be a little bit in love with him for his writing. Most stories are just that - stories. The words are just there to convey information and tell the tale. And there are great stories out there, that make me laugh and cry and wonder and care, but the words themselves are less important than the ideas.
With Ellison, the words themselves matter. The story is there, and it's good, but the individual words are so important, and chosen just so, such that the rhythm and the pattern and the feel becomes a part of the work, and it ends up somewhere between Beowulf and beat poetry. It's a sensory experience, instead of just an intellectual one.
I've said before that if I could, I would wrap myself up in his words and roll around on them like a giant bear skin, and I can't find any better way to describe it. There are a very few authors who have this gift - sometimes Bradbury reaches it. And, for better or for worse, Ellison - for me - is the pinnacle of it.
And now there's one less story of his I have to read.
Darnit.
Get your own valentinr
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I wouldn't want to have dinner with the man, but I'll dine on his stories any chance I get.
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