By Scott A. Cupp This is the th in my series of Forgotten Books. They say the golden age for reading science fiction is I think the same is true for discovering rock-n-roll. Whatever you are listening to when you are 15 is permanently ingrained in your genes.
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After all, it gave this blog its name. The feeling that had filled me with the creation of each of them came over me then. I had hurled something into the pit.
Where there had been darkness, I had hung my worlds. They were my answer. When I finally, walked that Valley, they would remain after me. Whatever the Bay claimed, I had made some replacements, to thumb my nose at it.
I had done something, and I knew how to do more. I misread that the first time around as "Where there had been darkness, I had hung my words.
He reminds me a bit of Random from the Amber novels, when Random rather reluctantly went to rescue Brand. This is the point where my personal Zelazny chronology gets fuzzy. It puts brackets about each day. If you do something foolish or painful today, you get irritated if somebody mentions it, today. If it happened yesterday, though, you can nod or chuckle, as the case may be.
Working the graveyard shift will screw you up, because there is no clearly delineated transitioned between days. Go in on Monday, get out on Tuesday. I would lose track of what day it was. I thought of Martin Bremen when my daughter first started talking, because she would pronounce "just" as "chust" exactly like he did.
How go things with you? And yourself? Oh, and I guess the Martians from A Rose for Ecclesiastes, but they always struck me as green humans. Their heads look like funnels, flat on top, their necks like the necks of funnels. Their eyes are enormous and liquid green or yellow.
Their noses are flat upon their faces--wrinkles parenthesizing nostrils the size of quarters. They have no hair whatsoever. Like, I guess the best example is an elasmobranch.
They are constantly swallowing their skins. They lack lips, but their dermis bunches and hardens once it goes internal and gives them horny ridges with which to chew.
After that, they digest it, as it moves on and is replaced by fresh matter. Other than this, they are bilaterally symmetrical and possess two arms and two legs, five digits per.
Both sexes wear jackets and skirts and sandaIs, generally dark in color. The women are shorter, thinner, larger about the hips and chests than the men-- although the women have no breasts, for their young do not nurse, but digest great layers of fat for the first several weeks of their lives, and then begin to digest their skins.
After a time, they eat food, pulpy mashes and seastuff mainly. Their language is difficult. I speak it. Their philosophies are complex. I know some of them. Many of them are telepaths, and some have other unusual abilities. Me, too. I liked the bit with Bayner on Driscoll. The whole thing on the planet, really. Nice to see some mundane detective work. Later on Zelazny gets in a couple jabs at civil servants, whose ranks he had recently departed.
For there comes a time in the history of all bureaucracies when they must inevitably parody their own functions. Look what the breakup of the big Austro-Hungarian machine did to poor Kafka, or the Russian one to Gogol. It drove them out of their cotton-picking minds, poor bastards, and now I was looking at a man who had survived an infinitely more inscrutable one until the end of his days was in sight.
This indicated to me that he was slightly below average intelligence, emotionally handicapped, insecure, or morally suspect; or else he was an iron-willed masochist. For these neuter machines, combining as they do the worst of both father-image and mother-image--i. And this is why, Mother Earth, I wept inwardly for thee at that moment of the immense parade called Time: the clowns were passing, Harsh.
The bit below always reminds me of the the Krikketers from Life, the Universe and Everything. There is a place. It is a place where broken rocks ring a red sun. Several centuries ago, we discovered a race of arthropod-like creatures called Whilles, with whom we could not deal.
They rejected friendly overtures on the parts of every known intelligent race. Also, they slew our emissaries and sent their remains back to us, missing a few pieces here and there. When first we contacted them, they possessed vehicles for travel within their own solar system.
Shortly thereafter, they developed interstellar travel. Wherever they went, they killed and they stole and then beat it back home. They guessed right if they thought it would take an awfully long time to reach an accord when it came to declaring war on them. There is actually very little precedent for interstellar war. So the attacks failed, what remained of our forces were withdrawn, and we began to bombard the planet.
They had a near-perfect defense system against missiles. So we withdrew and tried to contain them. Later, within the system of the Whilles, beyond the orbit of their home world, a belt of asteroids began to collapse upon itself, forming a planetoid.
Rock by rock, it grew, and slowly it altered its course. When the Whilles realized what was happening, they tried to destroy it. But it was too late. They never asked for mercy, and none of them tried to flee. They waited, and the day came.
The orbits of the two worlds intersected, and now it is a place where broken rocks ring a red sun. I stayed drunk for a week after that. You scared of me, Frank? She says she does. How much will it take for you to pick up your marbles and go away? How much? A lot, though. I propose we drop our screens. She means more to me. Shadowjack does, but Corwin, Dilvish, Sandow, something prevents it for each of them. It seems a more mature route to take and it reminds me of a Lincoln quote I like: "Am I not destroying my enemies when I make friends of them?
Isle of the Dead
Kajizshura Okay, to be fair, the cover art is atrocious. Gringrin in turn loses his dread of death, and walks happily into the Valley. Final clash of powers. Not so much, as it isl out, but still a decent story. Get to Know Us. They guessed right if they thought it would take an awfully long time to reach an accord when it came to declaring war on them.
ISLE OF THE DEAD ZELAZNY PDF
Vusida Notify me of follow-up comments by email. Rowan rated deadd liked it Aug 27, I presume it was also a personal commentary for the author, whose worlds I have derived great enjoyment from. He was also the last of his tribe: If you do something foolish or painful today, you get irritated if somebody mentions it, today. He comes upon Gringrin himself, alive but injured. A tale full of psychedelic trips into other realities a-la Amber Shadowtravel, Native American mysticism, and tense moments follow.
After all, it gave this blog its name. The feeling that had filled me with the creation of each of them came over me then. I had hurled something into the pit. Where there had been darkness, I had hung my worlds. They were my answer. When I finally, walked that Valley, they would remain after me.