I said that I not only didn’t believe in his death but that I didn’t believe in his body either. I said this mainly for dramatic effect as I suspect that Miss Collins is a materialist, and, although I never show any prejudices and am as friendly as possible to those with different opinions, I always maintain my own beliefs whether it does them any good or not.
“One has to make some concessions to the views of others. Society and . . . et cetera.”
Often, at times like this, I play a game called “logical positivist” where one makes minute inquiry into other people’s grammar and sentential constructions, confuses their vocabulary in every possible manner, and pays no attention to the standard procedures of communication. Although I feel that this is a sensible approach to Miss Collins’s foray of jargon, it does make one appear unfortunately naive so I don’t play the game much.
Next, Miss Collins began a long harangue about normal responses to one’s uncle’s “passing” into which I interjected several polite replies. Health and Hygiene was almost over, and I kept glancing at the clock. I also noticed that Miss Collins had taken a good page and a half of notes although I seriously doubt that a direct quotation would have resulted in that much. Miss Collins is, I believe, somewhat imaginative.
When the bell rang, I left and went to my classes. In art I made several charcoal drawings. I think that all art should be as uplifting and serene as possible, and so, usually, I just take some blue charcoal, blue is my favorite color, and then I cover a piece of drawing paper with it. One can, if they hurry, make several such drawings in one period. Today, I made three; I have done more. They are all quite good—nice and blue, all of them.
Next, I went to history, American history—meaning the Civil War, as usual. There is another history class at this same time called the Civil War Period, a title that seems to me to be a lot more honest and straightforward. Now and then, however, I work up some enthusiasm for American history’s progression as I am well aware that the world didn’t end in 1865. I have not, of course, expressed to my teacher my general disinclination to be excited by the study of the Civil War, year after year.
After a rousing list of famous dates, I went to math. We looked at obtuse triangles. From there I went to lunch and then to Latin and French classes. It was generally a nice day; I wouldn’t want to complain.
The sun was shining, and I walked down Pico to Beverly Drive and then home. When I got to the house, my cousins weren’t there. Usually, they get home from work before I get home from school, but today they didn’t; in fact, they weren’t there for dinner either; so I just had a sandwich.
Finally, these two policemen came to the door. I don’t know why I went with them except that I didn’t have anything else to do and they seemed very nice—they wanted to know about my cousins. I didn’t know that my cousins knew any policemen, but I just assumed that maybe they did after all, and I was very pleasant because any friends of my cousins are also friends of mine. After a while, however, it became apparent that they didn’t know my cousins after all because they wanted me to describe them in great detail. I don’t mean to seem critical, but I tend to find the police mentality somewhat delinquent. I had to repeat myself over and over again. I didn’t complain, of course, and don’t now. I suppose that some people just have a greater memory span than others, a peculiar and interesting fact, but I know that in God’s mind it doesn’t really matter and that it shouldn’t bother me, one of God’s creatures, either.
I have been conscious for some years of the gradual merging of SF with the “mainstream.” The trend is dramatically noticeable this year; but my own big discovery in the work on this Annual was the extent to which SF and the avant-garde had already merged, and begun to overlap.
For some time, Reginald Bretnor and David Bunch had been murmuring about the reviews and quarterlies and “little magazines”; they still seemed unlikely sources to me, until Carol Emshwiller called my attention to the Redgrove story in Paris Review last year.
About the same time, James Ballard wrote me the first of several angry letters of praise for William Burroughs. During the year, I had occasion to review Burroughs’ strange, brilliant surreal-science-fantastic Nova Express, and found myself impressed and fascinated by a book whose confusing (and perhaps pretentious) style might otherwise have prevented me from reading it at all. Meanwhile, Short Story International had begun demonstrating, with reprints, that the magazines I had thought of as “anti-story” were not necessarily to be so considered.
There were the letters from Redgrove, and more from Ballard and Bunch. And somewhere in there, I met Seymour Krim, then editor of Nugget (and of the Leets,, an anthology of same), who set about undercutting my preconceptions mercilessly.
My sincere thanks to all these people. The fruits of the explorations I was led to are just beginning to show in this Annual; meanwhile, it is most hopeful to have become aware of the extent to which the experimentalists in style and the explorers in ideas have begun to identify with each other.
Robert Wallace is neither SF-er, avant-garde-ist, foreign-born, student, teacher, nor—exactly—newsman. He is a staff writer for Life magazine, which I feel completes the spectrum almost unbelievably well.
A LIVING DOLL
Robert Wallace
You must excuse the rambling quality of this letter, irksome as it may be to your legal mind. But you are my attorney; I may be in some kind of trouble. I would like to know exactly what sort of trouble it is, and what can be done about it.
Doubtless you recall my daughter. A few years ago, when you were in my apartment on 55th Street going over the details of my will, she bit you on the wrist. I will always recall your graceful attitude—it must have been a painful bite because she had already cut her twelve-year molars, but you merely whimpered. Today, at sixteen, she still has the distressing habit. Or at least I believe she has. As you will note from the postmark, I am out of the country and have not seen her for several weeks.
Early in December I went shopping for her Christmas presents. She wanted a book on voodoo and a large doll, as lifelike as possible. She also wanted a packet of needles and pins and a primitive drum from some Caribbean country, Haiti I believe, but in consideration of the neighbors I decided not to buy her one.
I had no difficulty in locating the needles and pins, and was much pleased with them. Today they make needles and pins exactly as they did when I was a boy. It is satisfying to find an old-fashioned product still manufactured in the old-fashioned way, containing no plastic. As you know, I detest technological advance. The sight of Park Avenue, lined with those hideous steel and glass buildings, brings tears to my eyes. Indeed, prior to my departure I had formed a small committee with the object of changing the name of Park Avenue to Fourth Avenue North. But that is another matter.
You may not be familiar with the technological advances that have been made in dolls. I certainly was not. It had been a good many years since I had taken a close look at a doll, and when I went into the toy store I expected to find dolls of the classic clothespin type with china heads and glass eyes. I knew that some of these dolls could, when properly manipulated, open and close their eyes and say “Mama.” However, I was totally unprepared for what I saw. When I located the doll counter I was shocked; more than shocked. It looked like the municipal morgue.