This book is Harlan Ellison at his truest, and has some classics, like the titular story "I Have No Mouth and I Must Scream", and "Pretty Maggie Moneyeyes." I'm familiar with Ellison as the grand old asshole of science fiction, and this volume, with it's brief introductory remarks, doubles down on that impression. Beyond the misanthropy and notable misogyny, Ellison also displays a remarkable disdain for the craft of writing and his readers. He's a genius, you see, and whatever comes out of his typerwriter is, with as little editing as possible, what we need; a jagged streak of hate, rage, betrayal, despair.

It's so fundamentally adolescent, and not nearly as well crafted as I expected. Ellison puts so much emotion into the stories that they barely have room for plot or character. Either he, or Ted Sturgeon's introduction, describe his style as 'an assault.' That's absolutely true. Up to you if you want to pay for the privilege of a punch in the face.