{"product_id":"dhalgren-isbn-9780375706684","title":"Dhalgren","description":"\u003cb\u003eIn one of the most profound and bestselling science fiction novels  of all time, Samuel R. Delany has produced a novel \"to stand with the best American  fiction of the 1970s\" (Jonathan Lethem, bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eFortress of Solitude\u003c\/i\u003e).\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Bellona is a city at the dead center of  the United States. Something has happened there.... The population has fled. Madmen  and criminals wander the streets. Strange portents appear in the cloud-covered sky. Into this disaster zone comes a young man—poet, lover, and adventurer—known only  as the Kid. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTackling questions of race, gender, and sexuality, \u003ci\u003eDhalgren\u003c\/i\u003e is a literary  marvel and groundbreaking work of American magical realism.After his seventh novel, \u003ci\u003eEmpire Star \u003c\/i\u003e(1966), \u003cb\u003eSamuel R. Delany\u003c\/b\u003e began publishing short fiction professionally with “The Star Pit.” It appeared in \u003ci\u003eWorlds of Tomorrow\u003c\/i\u003e and was turned into a popular two-hour radio play, broadcast annually over WBAI-FM for more than a decade. Two tales, “Aye, and Gomorrah” and “Time Considered as a Helix of Semi-Precious Stones,” won Nebula Awards as the best science fiction short stories, respectively, of 1967 and 1969. \u003ci\u003eAye, and Gomorrah: And Other Stories \u003c\/i\u003econtains all the significant short science fiction and fantasy works that Delany published between 1965 and 1988, excepting only those tales in his Return to Nevèrÿon series. A native New Yorker, Delany teaches English and creative writing at Temple University in Philadelphia. In July of 2002, he was inducted into the Science Fiction Hall of Fame.Prism, Mirror, Lens\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eto wound the autumnal city.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSo howled out for the world to give him a name.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe in-dark answered with wind.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAll you know I know: careening astronauts and bank clerks glancing at the clock before lunch; actresses cowling at light-ringed mirrors and freight elevator operators grinding a thumbful of grease on a steel handle; student riots; know that dark women in bodegas shook their heads last week because in six months prices have risen outlandishly; how coffee tastes after you've held it in your mouth, cold, a whole minute.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA whole minute he squatted, pebbles clutched with his left foot (the bare one), listening to his breath sound tumble down the ledges.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBeyond a leafy arras, reflected moonlight flittered.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe rubbed his palms against denim. Where he was, was still. Somewhere else, wind whined.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe leaves winked.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhat had been wind was a motion in brush below. His hand went to the rock behind.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe stood up, two dozen feet down and away, wearing only shadows the moon dropped from the viney maple; moved, and the shadows moved on her.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFear prickled one side where his shirt (two middle buttons gone) bellied with a breeze. Muscle made a band down the back of his jaw. Black hair tried to paw off what fear scored on his forehead.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe whispered something that was all breath, and the wind came for the words and dusted away the meaning:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Ahhhhh . . .\" from her.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe forced out air: it was nearly a cough.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\". . . Hhhhhh . . .\" from her again. And laughter; which had a dozen edges in it, a bright snarl under the moon. \". . . hhhHHhhhh . . .\" which had more sound in it than that, perhaps was his name, even. But the wind, wind . . .\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe stepped.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMotion rearranged the shadows, baring one breast. There was a lozenge of light over one eye. Calf and ankle were luminous before leaves.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDown her lower leg was a scratch.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis hair tugged back from his forehead. He watched hers flung forward. She moved with her hair, stepping over leaves, toes spread on stone, in a tip-toe pause, to quit the darker shadows.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCrouched on rock, he pulled his hands up his thighs.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis hands were hideous.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe passed another, nearer tree. The moon flung gold coins at her breasts. Her brown aureoles were wide, her nipples small. \"You. . . ?\" She said that, softly, three feet away, looking down; and he still could not make out her expression for the leaf dappling; but her cheek bones were Orientally high. She was Oriental, he realized and waited for another word, tuned for accent. (He could sort Chinese from Japanese.) \"You've come!\" It was a musical Midwestern Standard. \"I didn't know if you'd come!\" Her voicing (a clear soprano, whispering . . .) said that some of what he'd thought was shadow-movement might have been fear: \"You're here!\" She dropped to her knees in a roar of foliage. Her thighs, hard in front, softer (he could tell) on the sides-a column of darkness between them-were inches from his raveled knees.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe reached, two fingers extended, pushed back plaid wool, and touched his chest; ran her fingers down. He could hear his own crisp hair.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLaughter raised her face to the moon. He leaned forward; the odor of lemons filled the breezeless gap. Her round face was compelling, her eyebrows un-Orientally heavy. He judged her over thirty, but the only lines were two small ones about her mouth.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe turned his mouth, open, to hers, and raised his hands to the sides of her head till her hair covered them. The cartilages of her ears were hot curves on his palms. Her knees slipped in leaves; that made her blink and laugh again. Her breath was like noon and smelled of lemons . . .\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe kissed her; she caught his wrists. The joined meat of their mouths came alive. The shape of her breasts, her hand half on his chest and half on wool, was lost with her weight against him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTheir fingers met and meshed at his belt; a gasp bubbled in their kiss (his heart was stuttering loudly), was blown away; then air on his thigh.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThey lay down.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWith her fingertips she moved his cock head roughly in her rough hair while a muscle in her leg shook under his. Suddenly he slid into her heat. He held her tightly around the shoulders when her movements were violent. One of her fists stayed like a small rock over her breast. And there was a roaring, roaring: at the long, surprising come, leaves hailed his side.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLater, on their sides, they made a warm place with their mingled breath. She whispered, \"You're beautiful, I think.\" He laughed, without opening his lips. Closely, she looked at one of his eyes, looked at the other (he blinked), looked at his chin (behind his lips he closed his teeth so that his jaw moved), then at his forehead. (He liked her lemon smell.) \" . . . beautiful!\" she repeated.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWondering was it true, he smiled.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe raised her hand into the warmth, with small white nails, moved one finger beside his nose, growled against his cheek.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe reached to take her wrist.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe asked, \"Your hand. . . ?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSo he put it behind her shoulder to pull her nearer.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe twisted. \"Is there something wrong with your. . . ?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe shook his head against her hair, damp, cool, licked it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBehind him, the wind was cool. Below hair, her skin was hotter than his tongue. He brought his hands around into the heated cave between them.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe pulled back. \"Your hands-!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eVeins like earthworms wriggled in the hair. The skin was cement dry; his knuckles were thick with scabbed callous. Blunt thumbs lay on the place between her breasts like toads.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe frowned, raised her knuckles toward his, stopped.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eUnder the moon on the sea of her, his fingers were knobbed peninsulas. Sunk on the promontory of each was a stripped-off, gnawed-back, chitinous wreck.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"You. . . ?\" he began.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNo, they were not deformed. But they were . . . ugly! She looked up. Blinking, her eyes glistened.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\". . . do you know my . . . ?\" His voice hoarsened. \"Who I . . . am?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHer face was not subtle; but her smile, regretful and mostly in the place between her brow and her folded lids, confused.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"You,\" she said, full voice and formal (but the wind still blurred some overtone), \"have a father.\" Her hip was warm against his belly. The air which he had thought mild till now was a blade to pry back his loins. \"You have a mummer-!\" That was his cheek against her mouth. But she turned her face away. \"You are-\" she placed her pale hand over his great one (Such big hands for a little ape of a guy, someone had kindly said. He remembered that) on her ribs-\"beautiful. You've come from somewhere. You're going somewhere.\" She sighed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"But . . .\" He swallowed the things in his throat (he wasn't that little). \"I've lost . . . something.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Things have made you what you are,\" she recited. \"What you are will make you what you will become.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I want something back!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe reached behind her to pull him closer. The cold well between his belly and the small of her back collapsed. \"What don't you have?\" She looked over her shoulder at him: \"How old are you?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Twenty-seven.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"You have the face of someone much younger.\" She giggled. \"I thought you were . . . sixteen! You have the hands of someone much older-\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"And meaner?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"-crueler than I think you are. Where were you born?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Upstate New York. You wouldn't know the town. I didn't stay there long.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I probably wouldn't. You're a long way away.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I've been to Japan. And Australia.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"You're educated?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe laughed. His chest shook her shoulder. \"One year at Columbia. Almost another at a community college in Delaware. No degree.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"What year were you born?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Nineteen forty-eight. I've been in Central America too. Mexico. I just came from Mexico and I-\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"What do you want to change in the world?\" she continued her recitation, looking away. \"What do you want to preserve? What is the thing you're searching for? What are you running away from?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Nothing,\" he said. \"And nothing. And nothing. And . . . nothing, at least that I know.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"You have no purpose?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I want to get to Bellona and-\" He chuckled. \"Mine's the same as everybody else's; in real life, anyway: to get through the next second, consciousness intact.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe next second passed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Really?\" she asked, real enough to make him realize the artificiality of what he'd said (thinking: It is in danger with the passing of each one). \"Then be glad you're not just a character scrawled in the margins of somebody else's lost notebook: you'd be deadly dull. Don't you have any reason for going there?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"To get to Bellona and . . .\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen he said no more, she said, \"You don't have to tell me. So, you don't know who you are? Finding that out would be much too simple to bring you all the way from upper New York State, by way of Japan, here. Ahhh . . .\" and she stopped.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"What?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Nothing.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"What?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Well, if you were born in nineteen forty-eight, you've got to be older than twenty-seven.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"How do you mean?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Oh, hell,\" she said. \"It isn't important.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe began to shake her arm, slowly.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe said: \"I was born in nineteen forty-seven. And I'm a good deal older then twenty-eight.\" She blinked at him again. \"But that really isn't im-\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe rolled back in the loud leaves. \"Do you know who I am?\" Night was some color between clear and cloud. \"You came here, to find me. Can't you tell me what my name is?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCold spread down his side, where she had been, like butter.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe turned his head.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Come!\" As she sat, her hair writhed toward him. A handful of leaves struck his face.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe sat too.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut she was already running, legs passing and passing through moon-dapple.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe wondered where she'd got that scratch.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGrabbing his pants, he stuck foot and foot in them, grabbing his shirt and single sandal, rolled to his feet-\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe was rounding the rock's edge.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe paused for his fly and the twin belt hooks. Twigs and gravel chewed his feet. She ran so fast!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe came up as she glanced back, put his hand on the stone-and flinched: the rock-face was wet. He looked at the crumbled dirt on the yellow ham and heel.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"There . . .\" She pointed into the cave. \"Can you see it?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe started to touch her shoulder, but no.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe said: \"Go ahead. Go in.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe dropped his sandal: a lisp of brush. He dropped his shirt: that smothered the lisping.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe looked at him expectantly, stepped aside.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe stepped in: moss on his heel, wet rock on the ball of his foot. His other foot came down: wet rock.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBreath quivered about him. In the jellied darkness something dry brushed his cheek. He reached up: a dead vine crisp with leaves. It swung: things rattled awfully far overhead. With visions of the mortal edge, he slid his foot forward. His toes found: a twig with loose bark . . . a clot of wet leaves . . . the thrill of water . . . Next step, water licked over his foot. He stepped again:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOnly rock.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA flicker, left.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eStepped again, and the flicker was orange, around the edge of something; which was the wall of a rock niche, with shadow for ceiling, next step.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBeyond a dead limb, a dish of brass wide as a car tire had nearly burned to embers. Something in the remaining fire snapped, spilling sparks on wet stone.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAhead, where the flicker leaked high up into the narrowing slash, something caught and flung back flashings.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe climbed around one boulder, paused; the echo from breath and burning cast up intimations of the cavern's size. He gauged a crevice, leaped the meter, and scrambled on the far slope. Things loosened under his feet. He heard pebbles in the gash complaining down rocks, and stuttering, and whispering-and silence.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThen: a splash!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe pulled in his shoulders; he had assumed it was only a yard or so deep.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe had to climb a long time. One face, fifteen feet high, stopped him a while. He went to the side and clambered up the more uneven outcroppings. He found a thick ridge that, he realized as he pulled himself up it, was a root. He wondered what it was a root to, and gained the ledge.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSomething went Eeek! softly, six inches from his nose, and scurried off among old leaves.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe swallowed, and the prickles tidaling along his shoulders subsided. He pulled himself the rest of the way, and stood:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt lay in a crack that slanted into roofless shadow.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOne end looped a plume of ferns.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe reached for it; his body blocked the light from the brazier below: glimmer ceased.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe felt another apprehension than that of the unexpected seen before, or accidentally revealed behind. He searched himself for some physical sign that would make it real: quickening breath, slowing heart. But what he apprehended was insubstantial as a disjunction of the soul. He picked the chain up; one end chuckled and flickered down the stone. He turned with it to catch the orange glimmer.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePrisms.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSome of them, anyway.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOthers were round.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe ran the chain across his hand. Some of the round ones were transparent. Where they crossed the spaces between his fingers, the light distorted. He lifted the chain to gaze through one of the lenses. But it was opaque. Tilting it, he saw pass, dim and inches distant in the circle, his own eye, quivering in the quivering glass.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEverything was quiet.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe pulled the chain across his hand. The random arrangement went almost nine feet. Actually, three lengths were attached. Each of the three ends looped on itself. On the largest loop was a small metal tag.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe stooped for more light.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe centimeter of brass (the links bradded into the optical bits were brass) was inscribed: producto do Brazil.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe thought: What the hell kind of Portuguese is that?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe crouched a moment longer looking along the glittering lines.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe tried to pull it all together for his jean pocket, but the three tangled yards spilled his palms. Standing, he found the largest loop and lowered his head. Points and edges nipped his neck. He got the tiny rings together under his chin and fingered (Thinking: Like damned clubs) the catch closed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe looked at the chain in loops of light between his feet. He picked up the shortest end from his thigh. The loop there was smaller.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe waited, held his breath even-then wrapped the length twice around his upper arm, twice around his lower, and fastened the catch at his wrist. He flattened his palm on the links and baubles hard as plastic or metal. Chest hair tickled the creasing between joint and joint.","brand":"Vintage","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46305389248741,"sku":"NP9780375706684","price":23.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780375706684.jpg?v=1767725067","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/dhalgren-isbn-9780375706684","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}