I don’t know what got Mugs started. It could be our conversations about Eric Ambler, who
\nI’ve been reading lately with an avidity bordering on madness. Some Amblers remain in print,
\nabout a half dozen. Many more are out of print. When you find them, they’re shelved
\namong the mystery and thriller novels. Mugs says that’s the equivalent of putting Conrad in the
\nnaval section or shelving Melville under oceanography.<\/P>
\n
If you think that’s an exaggeration, Anyway, whatever got Mugs started really doesn’t matter. He invariably offers a combination Ladies and gents, Mr. Mugs McGuiness: “I remember my early experiments with “I knew all of the $50-per cover boys when I was 15: Virgil Finley, Frank Paul, Ed Emsh, the “The goddam magazines were 5 cents per, 25 for a buck, and wrapped discretely in a grocery “It ain’t nostalgia to know that kids today haven’t a prayer of playing in those lost reader’s And whatta guy.<\/P><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" 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 […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":4,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_genesis_hide_title":false,"_genesis_hide_breadcrumbs":false,"_genesis_hide_singular_image":false,"_genesis_hide_footer_widgets":false,"_genesis_custom_body_class":"","_genesis_custom_post_class":"","_genesis_layout":"","jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":false,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","default_image_id":0,"font":"","enabled":false},"version":2}},"categories":[4],"tags":[],"class_list":{"0":"post-495","1":"post","2":"type-post","3":"status-publish","4":"format-standard","6":"category-main","7":"entry"},"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/pbvgEs-7Z","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.artsjournal.com\/herman\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/495","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.artsjournal.com\/herman\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.artsjournal.com\/herman\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.artsjournal.com\/herman\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/4"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.artsjournal.com\/herman\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=495"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/www.artsjournal.com\/herman\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/495\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.artsjournal.com\/herman\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=495"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.artsjournal.com\/herman\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=495"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.artsjournal.com\/herman\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=495"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\nDecember issue of The Atlantic Monthly: “The best novel of the postwar Stalinist purges — the
\nones that spread to Eastern Europe — is Eric Ambler’s Judgment on Deltchev<\/I> (1951).”
\nHitchens has long held that opinion and written it before.<\/P>
\n
\nof outrage, insight and nostalgia. His memories, in this case literary memories, recall a city
\nthat has long since disappeared.<\/P>
\n
\nhookey trips to the Big Town, frequently climaxing at the second-hand magazine store on the
\nnorth side of 42nd Street about 200 feet east of 8th Avenue. My obsession with science fiction —
\nanother zone of futile expertise — led me there. The place was about the size of a baseball
\ndiamond, all of it stacked with mags except for maybe nine cubic feet. The
\ncovers of those ancient pulps tore my pablum brain to shreds with erotic dreams, revenge
\nfantasies and space-going escapes. <\/P>
\n
\nlot. And the drama of the damned things led me to the still un-pulped mystery monthlies — Spicy
\nDetective, Dime Detective, Dime Novels, ancient Black Masks; into the fantasy game with Wierd
\nStories, starring endless reprints of H.P. Lovecraft’s stuff. Christ, it was great. Gave me my first
\npush into slobism. I’ve never recovered. <\/P>
\n
\nbag. I’d land in those piles of decaying wonder with five bucks, spend three hours and about
\n$4.70, leaving just enough to arrive home penniless and complaining like a crucified man about
\nthe torments of the schoolroom — after stashing my stash at Artie Shapiro’s house. It was pure
\nheaven. <\/P>
\n
\nleagues —
\nstores, and a crazy gypsy lady on 46th near the Algonquin, who would describe your past, read
\nyour fortune, and give you a vivid look at her breasts — all for fifty cents. What a town.”<\/P>
\n