I
instantly disliked Harlan Ellison when I first met him, two weeks
ago. He struck me as the type of guy I've run into over the years who
is smart as a whip and lives on his wits. The type of guy who picks
fights in bars—or anywhere—because he knows he can cow most
opponents without having to throw a punch. He does this because he's
learned he can take a punch if necessary, and can handle getting the
crap kicked out of him if it comes to that, without letting go of his
quick, cocky mouth. Being relatively slow-witted myself, and
nonviolent as default, I try to avoid guys like this.
I'm
pretty good at spotting them in a crowd, as they tend to be smaller
than average in stature. That's the first clue. If they're louder
than those around them, their voices penetrating and persistent, eyes
assertive, roaming...the aversion I feel is proof positive. Mere
awareness of their presence at, say, a party, sullies the convivial
ambience I'd anticipated. Thus my introduction to Harlan Ellison, by
way of the cover photo on the book I bought two weeks ago. I did not
look closely at the photo when I clicked the download button. It was
the title that sold me: The Beast That Shouted Love to the Heart of the World
