Вместо флейты подымем флягу...
The last book I have before me is sadly the most disappointing in that it was written by a relative newcomer who does not seem ready yet to begin fulfilling his early promise. Perhaps he is over-producing and should slow down. The writer is Roger Zelazny, the book is Lord of Light (Doubleday, $4.95) and it is Zelazny's first hard-bound publication in the US. It seems a shame, therefore, that this will be his introduction to a number of critics who, not knowing his earlier novels (This Immortal and The Dream Master), will not know that, in fact, Zelazny can be a disciplined and thoughtful writer. The stuff is self-indulgent, infantile, self-conscious, escapist, derivative fantasy fiction that lacks even the saving grace of Tolkien's relatively clean style. The book is pretty near unreadable, is based on Indian mythology, has a style derived, apparently, from that abominably decadent language Sanskrit, is patronising in tone (so that one cannot even think of it as a good children's book as one can, with an effort, think of The Lord of the Rings), is arid in idea and inspiration, and is altogether a very embarrassing book indeed. If science fiction has shifted itself from the ghetto, this kind of SF has turned itself into gâteau. I can only hope that Zelazny (who I hear is planning a series of nine in this vein) will pull himself together before he wastes any more of his undoubted talents on this sort of stuff.

Муркок о Lord of Light