Howard Who?: Stories [Anglais] [Broché]

Howard Waldrop is a writer’s writer. His fiction is erudite, gonzo, wistful, funny, and beautifully written. Waldrop has a capacious, encyclopedic knowledge of superheroes, baseball players, Mexican wrestlers, world wars, longdead film stars, oddball television shows, pulp serials, radio plays, fairy tales, scientific expeditions, extinct species, and knockknock jokes. His stories are sophisticated, magical recombinations of the stuff that our popculture dreams are made of. Never published in paperback, long out of print, and extremely collectible, Howard Who’ was Waldrop’s seminal debut collection. If you haven’t read Waldrop before, you’re in for a treat.

Howard Waldrop, born in Mississippi and now living in Austin, Texas, is an American iconoclast. His highly original books include Them Bones and A Dozen Tough Jobs, and the collections Howard Who’, All About Strange Monsters of the Recent Past, Night of the Cooters, and Going Home Again. He won the Nebula and World Fantasy Awards for his novelette The Ugly Chickens.

The Ugly Chickens: My car was broken, and I had a class to teach at eleven. So I took the city bus, something I rarely do. I spent last summer crawling through The Big Thicket with cameras and tape recorder, photographing and taping two of the last ivorybilled woodpeckers on the earth. You can see the films at your local Audubon Society showroom. This year I wanted something just as flashy but a little less taxing. Perhaps a population study on the Bermuda cahow, or the New Zealand takahe. A month or so in the warm (not hot) sun would do me a world of good. To say nothing of the advance of science. I was idly leafing through Greenway's Extinct and Vanishing Birds of the World. The city bus was winding its way through the ritzy neighborhoods of Austin, stopping to let off the chicanas, black women, and Vietnamese who tended the kitchens and gardens of the rich. I haven't seen any of those ugly chickens in a long time, said a voice close by. A greyhaired lady was leaning across the aisle toward me. I looked at her, then around. Maybe she was a shoppingbag lady. Maybe she was just talking. I looked straight at her. No doubt about it, she was talking to me. She was waiting for an answer. I used to live near some folks who raised them when I was a girl, she said. She pointed. I looked down at the page my book was open to. What I should have said was: That is quite impossible, madam. This is a drawing of an extinct bird of the island of Mauritius. It is perhaps the most famous dead bird in the world. Maybe you are mistaking this drawing for that of some rare Asiatic turkey, peafowl, or pheasant. I am sorry, but you are mistaken. I should have said all that. What she said was, Oops, this is my stop, and got up to go. ú ú ú ú ú My name is Paul Linberl. I am twentysix years old, a graduate student in ornithology at the University of Texas, a teaching assistant. My name is not unknown in the field. I have several vices and follies, but I don't think foolishness is one of them. The stupid thing for me to do would have been to follow her. She stepped off the bus. I followed her.