27 June 2018 — Harlan Ellison was reported to have died in his sleep at age 84. He was a man of two legacies.

I won’t rehash the accounts of Ellison’s abrasiveness, his argumentativeness, or his tendency toward insult, though he described himself as “possibly the most contentious person on Earth.” I never met him, though I have gotten to know quite a few writers in his generation, people who knew him well enough. I know far more who encountered him once or twice, in one way or other, throughout the last decades.

I have crossed paths with only a few who described Ellison in glowing personal terms. He was, by almost every account, an asshole.

Being an asshole is not a legacy. I don’t endorse it as a lifelong pursuit, but assholishness is by itself worthy neither of infamy nor accolades. Ellison, however, crossed the line from asshole to terror, to behavior best described as antisocial or even criminal.

His first legacy is, of course, his writing. Four Nebulas, five Bram Stoker Awards, two Edgar Awards, two World Fantasy Awards, and nine Hugo Awards speak for themselves. My introduction to his work was “The City on the Edge of Forever”, one of the best episodes of the original Star Trek, but of course Ellison’s impact on science fiction spread so much further than Star Trek. For many writers, a dose of Ellison is in everything we create, whether we know it or not. His presence looms large.

His second legacy, sadly, is his history of intimidation and violence.

This was a man who once sent a hitman and a dead gopher to an unruly publisher.1 His alleged assault on Charles Platt in 1985, though it never went to court, was most certainly an actual assault. His groping of Connie Willis at the 2006 Hugos passes beyond the pale—he added insult to injury by complaining that she’d refused his apology. Stories of his unpleasantness abound.

I leave it to others, far better acquainted with the man, to say more-comprehensive things about his life, his work, and his flaws. All humans are complex and none of us are perfect, but Harlan’s imperfections cast a long shadow on his creative genius. His infamy stains his work.

Today, Stephen King wrote, “There was no one quite like [Ellison] in American letters, and never will be.” I hope King is right. We don’t need any more Harlan Ellisons. We can do better, for science fiction and for each other.

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