The colors, defense, that sent men to the bottom, their hearts bursting with songs of color and charm. The colors that came from the air and the island and the world itself, which hushed and hurried across the world to here, to meet when they were needed, to stop the seamen who slid over the waves to the break in the breakwall. Oh, mostly the pleasures, one after another, singing, lulling, hypnotically arresting the eye as the ship sped into the heart of the maelstrom of weird, advancing, sky-eating colors. Colors like racing, and pungent, and far-seen shadows, and bitterness, and something that hurt, and something that pleasured. In a rising, keening spiral of hysteria they came, first pulsing in primaries, then secondaries, then comminglings and off shades, and finally in colors that had no names. “Softly at first, humming, creeping, boiling up from nowhere at the horizon line twisting and surging like snake whirlwinds with adolescent intent building, spiraling, climbing in vague streamers and tendrils of unconsciousness, the colors came. a soundless screaming a soundless whirring a soundless spinning spinning spinning. trapped and doomed alone in a mist-eaten nowhere. The notion that abusive men hate women was popularized. this is the stopover before hell or heaven. right that I should be more that way, but Im happy with what I have. pinpoints cast in amber straining and elongating running like live wax. memory the gibbering spastic blind memory.
a soundless owl of frenzy trapped in a cave of prisms. endless nights that pealed ebony funeral bells. LitCharts makes it easy to find quotes by character and theme. a cornucopia that rose up cuculiform smooth and slick as a worm belly. I Have No Mouth, and I Must Scream Quotes. down a bottomless funnel roundly sectioned like a goat' s horn. lights whirling and spinning in a cotton candy universe. At least the four of them are safe at last.
It was first published in March of 1967 and won the Hugo Award in 1968. Living under the land, under the sea, in the belly of AM, whom we created because our time was badly spent and we must have known unconsciously that he could do it better. A post-apocalyptic New Wave Science Fiction short story by Harlan Ellison. Outwardly: dumbly, I shamble about, a thing that could never have been known as human, a thing whose shape is so alien a travesty that humanity becomes more obscene for the vague resemblance. Blotches of diseased, evil gray come and go on my surface, as though light is being beamed from within. Rubbery appendages that were once my arms bulks rounding down into legless humps of soft slippery matter. Smoothly rounded, with no mouth, with pulsing white holes filled by fog where my eyes used to be.
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