From enfant terrible to grand old man of science-fiction, Michael Moorcock has served the field that he's so often voiciferously criticized for over fifty years.
In the mid-1970s, as I omnivorously read anything fantastic, Michael Moorcock seemed to be everywhere; he edited eight reprint Best-of-New-Worlds’ anthologies, and as the magazine folded, ten more original paperbacks. At the same time he was churning out umpteen novels a year, albeit many so short that they were almost novellas, but nonetheless, there they were, all handsomely illustrated; The Books of Corum; The Nomad of Time; Count Brass were just a few of them.
All that and playing with the rock band ‘Hawkwind’-- how much more rock ’n’ roll could a writer’s life be to a teenager? It’s in no small part due to Moorcock that I wanted to be a writer. What I didn’t know was that he was factory-farming those novels to pay off the debts he had accumulated as New Worlds’ editor – the other side of writing, that of financial hardship.
He continued to write, and often to experiment, making him an uncomfortable bedfellow for many genre die-hards, and at times almost invisible to SF readers, especially as he achieved literary respectability with two Guardian Fiction Prizes.
Now, finally, there seems to be a rapprochement in the air, with the SFWA bestowing the latest Damon Knight Grand Master Award upon him. Welcome back, Mr. Moorcock.
