Sad news. Harlan Ellison, the enfant terrible of the Golden Age of Science Fiction, a man who managed to get into arguments with virtually every major science fiction writer of his day, has passed away at age 84. Ellison tended to be a major pain in the rump to almost everyone who encountered him for more than a few minutes, but he was on Bradbury’s level of ability as a writer. Great artists can be fairly sketchy individuals and I think Ellison fit firmly into that category, although, to be fair, I suspect due to his rep more than a few of his colleagues gained some amusement in baiting him. I have read most of what he wrote, and although I was not a fan of his I recognized both the depth of his imagination and his skill at portraying beings in crisis. Well, whether he lands in Heaven, Hell or Purgatory, I would recommend enlarging the complaint department.