Harlan Ellison thought he had a right to criticize other people's writing when his own shit was like>Darkness falls early. From the horizon comes the wail of creatures pretending to be human. The red tide has come in, and shapeless things float toward the shore. He stands before the altar of Art, naked and with fists raised, and he vows: I will not be lied to. Hello. My name is Harlan Ellison and I am a writer.
