R.I.P. Harlan Ellison

Writer Harlan Ellison died yesterday at the age of 84. I was going to say "science fiction writer," but Ellison would have probably yelled at me for five minutes (from wherever he is) for using the term. He made his fame as a science fiction writer, but he wrote about anything and everything: he was a crime novelist, a TV critic, a screenwriter, and he approached everything with the same passion, the same furious commitment to basic human decency that he brought to his more fantastic stories. It was that passion that made Ellison one of my boyhood heroes, a prickly role model for me as a writer and a Jew. I can imagine him arriving in heaven and being distinctly unimpressed:

ELLISON [looking around]: Really? Clouds, the gates, St. Peter, the whole deal? Gotta say, I thought God had more imagination....
ST. PETER: Mr. Ellison, I presume.
ELLISON: Yeah, the late and great. Y'know, I didn't think I'd wind up here. Kinda thought I'd be doing the reincarnation routine, like a wildebeest or a butterfly. Or if you ask one of my exes, a cockroach....
ST. PETER: That's not really my department, Mr. Ellison. Shall we get started with your eternal reward?
ELLISON: Eternity? Hanging out here? Hope it's not as boring as it is in the movies. And no offense, Pete--if this is Heaven, I thought I'd be brought in by guys who are a little more my style! Where's Moses? Where's Maimonides? Where's Philip Roth, for God's sake?
ST. PETER: Well, I--
ELLISON: And another thing, Pete: do you people ever take time out from fluttering around in the clouds to take a look at what's happening on Earth? Because it is a f***ing mess down there! There's war and starvation and corruption and people straight up treating each other like garbage, and you don't do anything about it!
ST. PETER: God gave mankind free will, Mr. Ellison. What they do with it is their choice.
ELLISON: Well, they're making some lousy choices.

[Suddenly, the gates of heaven open and a lone figure strides out of the mists. He's wearing slacks, a button-down shirt and rolling a huge cigar in his mouth. Ellison recognizes him instantly:]

ELLISON [smiling]: Jack. Jack Kirby.
ST. PETER: Your welcoming committee, Mr. Ellison.
KIRBY [vigorously shaking Ellison's hand]: It's about time! The gang was starting to think you were too stubborn to die.
ELLISON: The gang?
KIRBY: Yeah, the gang. Me, Sol Brodsky, and Will Eisner got a regular poker game going. Fanny Brice is making blintzes. We need a fourth. You in?
ELLISON: Oh hell yeah, I'm in. You know, maybe this place won't be so bad after all.

[Ellison and Kirby pass through the gates, but Ellison stops to clear up one more point:]

ELLISON: Uh, Pete?
ST. PETER: Yes, Mr. Ellison?
ELLISON: He's not here, is he?
ST. PETER: Who?
ELLISON: You know... Hitler.
ST. PETER: That was just in your story, Mr. Ellison.
ELLISON: Whew. Good to know. But Pete? After a few hands with my buddy here, tell God I want to see him. There's a whole lot we need to discuss....