Читать книгу Life & Other Passing Moments - Victor J. Banis - Страница 5

INTRODUCTION

Thirty Years Among the Dead

I first heard the name “Victor Banis” some three decades ago, while I was working on the several volumes of a bibliography on Science Fiction and Fantasy Literature (Gale Research Co., 1979-92). He was apparently the real author behind “Jan Alexander” and “Lynn Benedict,” two pseudonymous writers of a series of supernatural horror paperbacks published from 1970 on. And he was also, or so it seemed to me, one “Victor Jay,” who’d penned a couple of raunchy, funny ghost stories in the late ’60s and early ’70s.

I hadn’t read any of his books, although I acquired most of them for my collection of historical pbs—but I wondered occasionally who he was and what he’d done, and whether he was an old-time pulpster or a child of the paperback era.

Thirty years are a very long time. Three decades ago I was a not-yet-thirty editor and publisher and writer with unlimited energy and an unlimited event-horizon ahead of me. A millennium later I’m a not-yet-sixty editor and writer with limited energy and a much shorter way to go on the road of life.

Most of the writers and editors that I met or knew in my youth are gone now: Robert Nathan, Leonard Wibberley, Malcolm “Mac” Hulke, Jerome Bixby, and so many others from the fantasy and science fiction and mystery communities. They helped shape my career—and greatly enriched my life.

Victor Banis was not among them, however.

My brief sojourn in L.A. during 1969-70 may well have overlapped his own, but our professional circles did not intersect, save peripherally through my compilations and acquaintances. I continued thereafter to write and edit and eventually publish from San Bernardino, driving into L.A. several times a month during the 1970s—but I just never encountered the man, which was entirely my loss. And so it goes—and so it went—for the both of us during the ensuing decades. Thirty-plus years are a very long time indeed.

And then, just over a year ago, I encountered the elusive Banissimus once more, and that, my dear friends, is a story in and of itself.

A while back I was asked by my friend Bill Contento to update my old SF biblio on CD-ROM, and I’d started checking and rechecking the author information and bib data, a long, tedious, and as yet unfinished business. Lo and behold, I found a few more tomes by Mr. Banis to add to my growing list—but nothing published past 1980. Either the man was dead, or he’d completely stopped writing fantasy and horror (false syllogisms both, as it turned out).

Then in March 2006, I was approached by Wildside Press to edit a line of reprints for them, to be partially derived from the old Borgo Press list that Mary and I had published for a quarter century. I missed editing, so I agreed to participate.

But I was still working on that blankety-blank update to SF&FL, and while checking authors’ names on the Internet, I was pulled to a website featuring the pseudonymous works of one William Maltese—including a number of SF titles already listed in my oversized reference tomes. I dropped him an e-note, and immediately got a response that helped clarify what he’d penned.

And in the course of our several conversations I began to wonder, oh yes I did, ladies and gents, whether or not I could expand my offerings at WP by reprinting fiction by Mr. Maltese—and possibly others. For it seemed to me that the market was ripe for such a revolution. And, wonder of wonders, my prescient publisher did agree.

And then William mentioned several friends of his—all longtime pros in the business—who might also be interested. There was Ms. X. There was Mr. Y. And there was Mr. Z—that damned name again: BANIS! Victor J. Banis!

After thirty years among the dead, the man had resurrected himself. He was living in the wilds of West Virginia (at which point I wondered if he was actually brain-dead, having encountered some of the rougher areas of that lovely state in my many meanderings!).

“No, no, no,” the Maltese falcon chirped back at me, “he’s living in a suburb of D.C. He’d be happy to hear from you. Just mention my name in Atlantis.”

So I did—write him, that is—and did—hear back from him—and did eventually publish him, and did finally talk to him—and found a lovely person and a helluva good writer in the process—and, I hope, a lifelong friend.

You see, gentlefolks—there are writers, and then there are WRITERS. I ran that one in all-caps so that those of you are just dozing will sit up and take notice. Fra Reginaldo is about to make one of his official pronunciamentos: those of us who sling this shit professionally know the difference between the hacks and the hack-nots. We recognize the prose that sings, the words that bite, the verbs that grab. We wish those talents were ours—oh, we do so envy those penmen who make it look that easy. Because it’s not that easy, people. In fact, it’s not easy at all!

Read a passage from one of Victor’s novels. Note the smoothness of the dialogue, the way the story flows, the rhythm of the language, the subtle, special touch of the master wordsmith as he paints his portraits in prose. It doesn’t get much better than this.

So why isn’t Victor Banis a household name?

If life were fair, the many talented writers that I’ve known would all have died rich and championed and well-read. Sadly, that’s not the case, and there isn’t any good reason for it. For every J. K. Rowling, there are ten thousand, a hundred thousand Jerry Bixbys, who at the end of his life was staying alive by selling off pieces of his treasured art book collection.

There’s a lesson in there somewhere, I suppose. The best way to support the writers you like is by buying their books, savoring their books, cherishing their books. The really top-notch writers are rare birds indeed, but their works merit rereading again and again.

Victor Banis is definitely a member of this exclusive club. You need go no further than the first paragraph in this new collection of tales and reminiscences to relish the magic of his pen. He sets the tone, grabs the eye, and rivets the reader right to the page. And he’s funny—ha, ha, I mean, not peculiar—I swear that I’ve eaten at some of the places reviewed by The Underground Diner, including a houseboat restaurant run by a distant cousin of mine in Tennessee.

So, gentle readers, it’s time to praise Caesar and to hail Caesar. He came, he saw, he conquered, but the “Victor”y—hey, it’s all ours! In the words of the immortal Horace, Victor J. Banis has created a monument more enduring than brass—and a much more readable one too!

—Robert Reginald

San Bernardino, California

27 July 2007