The book opens with "Myths and Paramyths." After turning the stale conceits of vampires ("Nobody’s Perfect") and werewolves ("Wolf, Iron, Moth") upside down, Farmer offers us a "wicker man" future in "Mother Earth Wants You." Exiting this section, we encounter one dedicated to "Ralph von Wau Wau," PJF’s canine detective, whose exploits mimic those of Sherlock Holmes and other gumshoes. The standout entry in the category of "Lost Futures" is surely "Seventy Years of Decpop," a richly compressed future history about a world where humanity has been rendered nearly 100 percent sterile. But this is not to slight the marvelous space opera of "Some Fabulous Yonder."

"Psychological Tales" contains material that is creepily mimetic—"The Blind Rowers," "Hunter’s Moon" and "The Rise Gotten." Can there be any doubt that two of PJF’s favorite pulp heroes will get a workout in this volume? The section titled "Doc Savage" features not only nonfiction about the bronze giant, but also two powerful pastiches: "Savage Shadow" and "Doc Savage and the Cult of the Blue God." The latter is in the form of a movie treatment for a film forever unmade. Hard behind Doc S. comes "Tarzan and ERB," that set of initials referring, natch, to Tarzan's creator, Edgar Rice Burroughs. Alas, there is no Tarzan fiction by PJF here, only nonfiction. ("The Princes of Terra" is a tangential exception, concerning John Carter of Mars.) But Farmer has the knack of writing essays as compelling as his novels.

"PJF on SF" is more than 100 pages of reviews, criticism and travelogues ("The Josés from Rio"). The core of this section is surely the 54 pages comprising a partial biography of one of PJF's other heroes, the Victorian Richard Burton, "A Rough Knight for the Queen." Following as lyrical counterpoint to this serious section are PJF's distinguished "Poems." Perhaps the most alluring and fascinating pages of this superb compilation come in "PJF on PJF," where the author details bits and pieces of his life.

Lastly, the editors offer an "Afterword," profiles of the artists who have decorated the volume with snazzy B&W illos, and some photographs of Farmer and friends.

Essential flotsam and jetsam

Perhaps the closest comparative work in range, heft and effect to this gigundo tributary labor of love—long promised from the Rose Press, but just now seeing print thanks to the diligence of Bill Schafer at Subterranean—is Harlan Ellison's The Essential Ellison (2001). But right off the bat, we note that there's one major difference between the two books. The Ellison is full of admitted classics, award winners and canonical landmarks. It truly is "essential." Meanwhile, our current volume seems at first to be packed with "minor" works—stuff that’s remained hidden and uncollected for decades perhaps. Call it a "representative" selection. Can such a compilation truly rank up there with the author's—or the field's—best?

The answer here is "absolutely!" But why? What alchemy transforms these overlooked works into gold?

First, we have to acknowledge that Farmer's unique voice leaps out of every piece. Cumulatively, they represent as clear a transmission of his startling mind and talents as any other book in his oeuvre. The sheer bulk of the material here has the effect of enwrapping the reader in PJF's warm embrace. (Perhaps that image is a bit too creepy, given Farmer's notoriously kinky fiction, but we’ll let it stand.) Farmer's ludic delights in fiction as gameplaying; his nostalgia for the milestones of Western pop culture (Oz, pulps, Hollywood, etc.); his Midwestern moral sunniness underpinned by psychological darkness (Farmer is the genre's Sherwood Anderson or Thornton Wilder); his vibrant prose, packed with wild metaphors—all of this is on display in even the most "trivial" piece herein.

Second, a writer as prolific as Farmer is bound to have tons of items that just barely missed prior collection—great stuff edged out by even greater stuff. For instance: I first read "Seventy Years of Decpop" when it appeared in Galaxy in 1972, and the story has haunted me ever since. It has been unjustly, bafflingly forgotten and rings truer than ever today. And this is just one instance of a gem rescued from history’s uncaring drift.

Thirdly, by gathering material from every era of PJF's career, this book serves as an invaluable textbook in his artistic development and in the coterminous growth of the field. Amazingly, his very first sale, "O'Brien and Obrenov," has never graced one of his own books before—but now you get it here, as full of brio and irony and mordant humor as when it was first published in 1946. Study it, using the Malzberg Theory of First Sales, as the seed of all that was to come.

By the time you reach the end of this embarrassment of riches, you'll feel that you've lived next door in Peoria for a lifetime with this sage, witty, passionate author—and you’ll still have his "best" work ahead of you!