I don’t know what got Mugs started. It could be our conversations about Eric Ambler, who
I’ve been reading lately with an avidity bordering on madness. Some Amblers remain in print,
about a half dozen. Many more are out of print. When you find them, they’re shelved
among the mystery and thriller novels. Mugs says that’s the equivalent of putting Conrad in the
naval section or shelving Melville under oceanography.
If you think that’s an exaggeration, consider this from Christopher Hitchens in the
December issue of The Atlantic Monthly: “The best novel of the postwar Stalinist purges — the
ones that spread to Eastern Europe — is Eric Ambler’s Judgment on Deltchev (1951).”
Hitchens has long held that opinion and written it before.
Anyway, whatever got Mugs started really doesn’t matter. He invariably offers a combination
of outrage, insight and nostalgia. His memories, in this case literary memories, recall a city
that has long since disappeared.
Ladies and gents, Mr. Mugs McGuiness: “I remember my early experiments with
hookey trips to the Big Town, frequently climaxing at the second-hand magazine store on the
north side of 42nd Street about 200 feet east of 8th Avenue. My obsession with science fiction —
another zone of futile expertise — led me there. The place was about the size of a baseball
diamond, all of it stacked with mags except for maybe nine cubic feet. The
covers of those ancient pulps tore my pablum brain to shreds with erotic dreams, revenge
fantasies and space-going escapes.
“I knew all of the $50-per cover boys when I was 15: Virgil Finley, Frank Paul, Ed Emsh, the
lot. And the drama of the damned things led me to the still un-pulped mystery monthlies — Spicy
Detective, Dime Detective, Dime Novels, ancient Black Masks; into the fantasy game with Wierd
Stories, starring endless reprints of H.P. Lovecraft’s stuff. Christ, it was great. Gave me my first
push into slobism. I’ve never recovered.
“The goddam magazines were 5 cents per, 25 for a buck, and wrapped discretely in a grocery
bag. I’d land in those piles of decaying wonder with five bucks, spend three hours and about
$4.70, leaving just enough to arrive home penniless and complaining like a crucified man about
the torments of the schoolroom — after stashing my stash at Artie Shapiro’s house. It was pure
heaven.
“It ain’t nostalgia to know that kids today haven’t a prayer of playing in those lost reader’s
leagues — Book Row on 4th Avenue, the Marboro Books
stores, and a crazy gypsy lady on 46th near the Algonquin, who would describe your past, read
your fortune, and give you a vivid look at her breasts — all for fifty cents. What a town.”
And whatta guy.
