Originally published in 1962 and re-issued in 1974 and in 1983, Ellison Wonderland contains sixteen stories with copyrights ranging from 1956 to 1961. This edition contains an Introduction written for the 1974 edition and updated for the 1983 edition. This collection was among Ellison's first and it shows a writer with a wide-ranging imagination, ferocious creative energy, devastating wit and an eye for the wonderful and terrifying and tragic. Among the gems are "All The Sounds of Fear", "The Sky is Burning", "The Very Last Day of a Good Woman" and "In Lonely Lands". Though they stand tall on their own merits they also point the way to the sublime stories that followed soon after and continue to come even now, more than forty years later.
guileful offers of a prisoner-for- prisoner exchange! We will have our fleet in Quorth City within months, then we can rescue our own captured without submitting to the demands of foul monsters! In the meantime, why feed these beasts of another world? “I say, destroy them! Launch all-out attack now! Rescue our people from the alien’s slave camps on Quorth and Fetsa!” He had been speaking smoothly and forcefully. The nods of assent and agreement from the assembled nobles made Marmorth wary. A
attractive youth, lying in the bathroom, his skull crushed by a length of pipe. The old bum extended the jacket, the pants, and the rest of the clothing the young man had been wearing, and in a voice that was thirty years younger than the body from which it spoke, he explained, “I won’t be needing these, ladies. Sell them to someone who can make good use of them.” The voice of the young man, from this husk. And he paid for the rags he wore. They watched him as he limped and rolled through the
Forty-seven minutes into town on the train five days a week (and sometimes Saturday, which was happening all too frequently lately) and Lexington Avenue greets me. My health and the family’s is good, except for an occasional twinge in my stomach, so most 0f the agony in the world stays away from me. I don’t get worried easily, because I stay out of other people’s closets. But this time I was worried worse than just,badly. I drew a line and started writing in the liabilities column: Item: Clark
feet, a long, dinky keychain (what the Hell kinda keys could a gnome have?), repulsive loud tie and sunglasses. Now maybe you would be too stoned to move, or not believe your eyes, and let a thing like that rock you permanently. But I got a good habit of believing what I see—especially when it’s in Technicolor—and besides, more out of reflex than anything else, I grabs. I’d read some Grimm-type fairy tales, and I know the fable about how if you grab a gnome or a elf, he’ll give you what you
in my life dragged out my square-folded lapel hankie to mop my face. Then I saw Da Campo. He was sitting in one of the plush seats, reading a newspaper. The headline read: SELFGEMMEN-BARNSNEBBLE J’J’KEL-WOLO-BAGEDTAR! I blinked. I blinked again. It was Da Campo all right, but that newspaper! What the Hell was it? I made my way over to him, and tapped him on the shoulder, “Say, Da Campo, how the deuce do I—” “Good Tilburr all mighty!” he squawked, his eyes bugging, the newspaper falling to the