enneth R. James pens a useful introduction to this volume of letters--46 long
epistles composed during the Orwellian title year, bracketed by eight from 1983
and three from 1985--all issuing from the then-primitive word processor of honored
SF writer, critic and unshy pornographer Samuel Delany. James succinctly outlines
Delany's career, surveys the circumstances under which these missives were written,
identifies the correspondents clearly and draws the parallels to Orwell's novel
which are implicit in the letters themselves, but not otherwise discussed.
The letters open when Delany is in a paradoxical position. Feted by fans and critics, at a certain high plateau of his creative powers, living in seeming stability with a partner of some seven years, yet still sexually adventurous, he should be on top of the world. But as the reader soon learns, Delany has his share of troubles. Relations with his partner, Frank, are uneasy. Equally bothersome are his dealings with his ex-wife, the poet Marilyn Hacker, especially when it comes to differing views on the raising of their young daughter, Iva. The publishing scene that Delany relied on at this time for the majority of his income is in retrenchment. He feels that his editor at Bantam Books, Lou Aronica, is not wholly understanding or trustworthy. The IRS is dunning Delany for past taxes, forcing him to live on an impossible budget. A close friend from the SF fan community has turned inexplicably against him. But above all, a mysterious plague is abroad in Manhattan, a strange new disease called AIDS that has completely reconfigured the homosexual cruising landscape with which Delany is familiar.
Letter by uncensored letter, Delany delivers to his correspondents
(and hence to the current readers) details on the progress of his two
books central to this year, Stars in My Pocket Like Grains of Sand,
which appears finished in store windows as we follow the narrative,
and Flight from Neveryon, still in flux. The hidden workings
of the publishing industry are laid bare in all their muck and glory.
He paints a minute portrait of his mundane affairs, those dealings
with shopkeepers and landlords common to anyone. He takes us with him
to parties, dinners, lectures, gallery openings, bookstores, family reunions
and conventions. He paints a tender portrait of his adolescent daughter.
He detours into closely reasoned and lengthy theoretical discussions on
art and life. But over everything, he unabashedly chronicles the
libertine sex life he then led, among the X-rated theaters of 42nd Street,
limning the hustlers and johns and fellow cruisers with a keen, sympathetic eye.
Letters in my mailbox like a working time machine
As a supplement to Delany's semi-notorious 1988 autobiography, The
Motion of Light in Water, this book extends Delany's signature themes
of art, sex, semiotics, sociology and science fiction at a level of detail
which longtime afficionados will relish, but which newcomers might find
intimidating. But anyone who comes to this volume will find letters
that are cleverly composed by an undeniable master of prose.
Abstruse or blunt by turns, Delany knows just what degrees of
specificity and abstraction work for varying subjects and auditors. These missives are not the dashed-off scribblings lesser writers might be content with, but instead reflect much focus and energy invested over days.
This aspect of the letters brings up the astounding depth of instinctive friendship Delany exhibits here, perhaps the prime quality of his that emerges above all others. Inquiries from strangers receive considerate and diligent replies. Letters to good friends are composed with love even during harried times and in sickness and in health. Delany's rift with his friend Camilla Decarnin pains him immensely, and he strives to repair it.
His attentions to John Mueller, a hustler serving a jail term during this period, reflect a mentorship that a lesser person would have declined. Even halfway through this book, the reader begins to feel that anyone who entered into correspondence with Delany would have a valuable friend for life.
And after 350 pages, the major threads of Delany's complicated existence shared here are not neatly tied off, yet a certain satisfying sense of climax has been reached.
