"Harry Harrison - Galactic Dreams" - читать интересную книгу автора (Harrison Harry)

to mention London or Anacapri.

And thereby hangs the tale. Life becomes art; art becomes life. One shapes the
other always, forcefully and immutably.

We lived in New York in an air-conditioned apartment. My wife, Joan, was a
successful dancer and dress designer before devoting most of her time to the
family and our son Todd and our daughter Moira. I was a successful commercial
artist, art director, editor, writer.

But I was writing for money not pleasure. It was like being a prison guard or
an elevator operator. You did it to stay alive, not because you enjoyed it.
Only the fiction, particularly the science fiction, gave me any pleasure and
sense of purpose.

But in those penny and two-cent a word days you couldn't live by writing
science fiction. You would have to write - and sell! - at least two stories a
week to earn as much as a shoe salesman. Impossible! As for writing a novel,
earning no money at all for one or two years, that was simply out of the
question. Many writers have written novels in their spare time while holding
down a regular job. I could not do it. It fitted neither my temperament nor my
work patterns. Joan and I discussed the problem at great length and came up
with what appeared to be an obvious solution.

I would quit my job, we would give up the apartment, sell the air conditioner,
put all our goods in storage and drive to Mexico. Todd, aged one, did not seem
bothered about the idea.

His grandparents thought quite differently. As did all our friends. Words like
"insane" and "impossible" were muttered about and occasionally shouted aloud.
Perhaps they were right.

We did it anyway. Padded the backseat of our Anglia Ford 10 to make a playpen,
tied the crib to the roof, filled the trunk with our belongings and drove
south.

The funny part is that it worked. We only had a bit over $200, but that
princely sum went a long way in Mexico in the 50's. We drove farther south
still until the paved road ended, turned back and stopped at the first town.
Cuautla, Morelos. We rented a house there, learned to speak Spanish, drank
Tequila at 75 cents a liter, and employed a full-time maid at $4.53 a month. I
wrote on a tiny screened balcony with a view of growing banana trees just
outside. My magazine articles were selling well back in New York. The income
from one sale, that might have bought a good meal and a night in the theater
in the Apple, supported us in Mexico for a month. Once I was ahead on article
sales, some short science fiction written and sold - I took a deep breath and
started the novel.

Mexico was warm, beautiful and comfortable. But the social life was
nonexistent and the tropics no place to bring up a baby. So after one year,