"New York Vignette" - читать интересную книгу автора (Sturgeon Theodore)

THEODORE STURGEON

NEW YORK VIGNETTE

Ted Sturgeon's "The Hurkle Is a Happy Beast" appeared in volume 1, number 1 of
this magazine fifty years ago. His story "Blue Butter" appeared in our
Twenty-fifth Anniversary issue. Mr. Sturgeon himself didn't stick around to see
us hit the big five-oh, but it's sure nice to have something new from him.

Paul Williams and Noel Sturgeon discovered this story in the course of
assembling Sturgeon's complete stories. (The sixth volume of the collection,
entitled Baby Is Three, is due out shortly.) This vignette dates from 1955 or
thereabouts, when TS lived in Congers, New York, and the context of it should be
self-evident. While it's not a masterpiece to rival Mr. Sturgeon's greatest
works, "NY Vignette" is a lovely little examination of that realm between
reality and fantasy, a realm his brilliance often illuminated.

JOHN: WE WANTED TO TELL you a story this morning...a New York story but
something special...something different, and so we asked a special, different
sort of writer to send us one. His name is Theodore Sturgeon...and he's the
winner of the International Fantasy Award for the best science fiction novel of
1954 -- a beautiful and enchanted novel called...More Than Human. In just a few
days, you'll be able to see Ted's award, a gleaming chromium spaceship, in the
window of Brentano's Fifth Avenue shop.

We're really not altogether certain whether Ted's written us a story or
not...but I'll read you his letter.

It begins -- Dear Pulse:

MUSIC: OPENING CURTAIN... NICE, NORMAL... BRIGHT. UNDER FOR:

JOHN: When I got your note, I was delighted at the idea of doing a story for
you. I went straight to the typewriter, unwound the typewriter ribbon from the
neck and ears of my baby daughter, Tandy, sat down on my son Robin's plastic
automobile, got up again, picked the pieces of plastic out of myself and the
chair, dried Robin's tears, handed Tandy to her mother for a bath, rewound the
ribbon, put some paper in the machine, and nothing happened.

You see, what you did is ask for a story at one of those times when a writer
can't write and nothing can make him write. I tried, honestly I did. I played
all the tricks on myself I ever learned. I drank two cups of strong, black
coffee, I did some knee-bends, I filed my nails, read the morning paper all the
way through, ate a stale bagel and a handful of raisins, sniffed at a bottle of
aromatic spirits of ammonia to clear my head, and lit my pipe. I don't like a
pipe but it makes me feel like an author. I even had a small quarrel with my
wife, which sometimes works wonders. Still no story.