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A review by kevin_shepherd
Love Ain't Nothing but Sex Misspelled: Stories by Harlan Ellison
3.0
I consider myself a Harlan Ellison fan—maybe not “fan” as in fanatical but rather as in avid reader or admirer . At last count, I possess approximately twenty of his novels and short story collections. I credit his Approaching Oblivion (1974) with hooking my prepubescent self on the genre of science fiction. For this I am forever grateful and eternally in his debt.
Having said that, Harlan wasn’t really a pillar of politeness and decency. He was, arguably, a first-order A-Hole. His frequently long and self-elevating introductions are often laced with vitriol for anyone who ever dared to cast aspersions on his style, his talent, or his general character. He was skilled at giving his detractors a big fat middle finger—both literally as well as figuratively.
Ellison, by his own admission, chafed under the moniker of “science fiction writer.” I suspect that this book, Love Ain’t Nothing But Sex Misspelled, was his way of defying those who wanted to categorize him as limited and perceptually second rate. There isn’t a SciFi story in this whole collection.
This, in my opinion, is Ellison writing as if he had something to prove. Consequently, this isn’t the Ellison I grew up on—the Ellison that won me over with style and imagination. A few of these stories are quite good but some are also cringeworthy, especially those where his characters are chivalrous (read: chauvinistic) or unrefined (read: bigoted and maybe even racist).
I’m still a fan, but this isn’t his best stuff.
Having said that, Harlan wasn’t really a pillar of politeness and decency. He was, arguably, a first-order A-Hole. His frequently long and self-elevating introductions are often laced with vitriol for anyone who ever dared to cast aspersions on his style, his talent, or his general character. He was skilled at giving his detractors a big fat middle finger—both literally as well as figuratively.
Ellison, by his own admission, chafed under the moniker of “science fiction writer.” I suspect that this book, Love Ain’t Nothing But Sex Misspelled, was his way of defying those who wanted to categorize him as limited and perceptually second rate. There isn’t a SciFi story in this whole collection.
This, in my opinion, is Ellison writing as if he had something to prove. Consequently, this isn’t the Ellison I grew up on—the Ellison that won me over with style and imagination. A few of these stories are quite good but some are also cringeworthy, especially those where his characters are chivalrous (read: chauvinistic) or unrefined (read: bigoted and maybe even racist).
I’m still a fan, but this isn’t his best stuff.