Roger Zelazny infuriates me. I am not speaking as a reader. As a science fiction reader for seventeen years, I am impressed almost to the point of reverence by Zelazny. Nor am I speaking in personal terms. I've met Roger, and he is at the very opposite end of the spectrum from infuriating. But in my capacity as a reviewer, I am infuriated by Roger Zelazny. He does things, magic things, with words, things that cannot be neatly marked, catalogued and described. He employs concepts and symbolism that shimmer like a mirage whenever I stare hard in an effort to make certain that I really comprehend. Whenever I am found perspiring under the heat of my desk lamp, staring at a piece of blank paper in the typewriter, and aimlessly twisting and untwisting a paper clip, chances are that Roger Zelazny is the culprit.

Take Isle of the...