Hubert Selby Jr.

Hubert Selby, Jr. (b.1928) is probably best known for the brilliant and controversial Last Exit to Brooklyn (1964), but has published a total of six works of fiction and two spoken word CDs. At the age of 71, when most people are slowing down, Hubert Selby Jr. continues to write and publish. He also finds the time to work on many other creative ventures, such as the spoken word CD Blue Eyes and Exit Wounds (1998), a collaborative effort with Nick Tosches, and teaching at USC's Creative Writing program. Rachel Philips writes, "A few things you should know about Hubert Selby, Jr. He has the most intense pale blue eyes that completely light up and sparkle when he’s passionate about something (which is often). He is very animated when telling stories and jokes, and punctuates them with his incredibly distinctive laugh that can only be described as a cackle. He is skinnier than Kate Moss. He has lived through incredible hardship, surviving many operations and years of hospital time. (In 1988, the doctor told a friend of his, "According to all accepted medical evidence, your friend is dead.") Yet, he radiates love and warmth, and he is easily one of the nicest people I have ever met." (See Rachel's Interview with Hubert Selby Jr.)
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Requiem for a Dream by Hubert Selby Jr. begins,
Harry locked his mother in the closet. Harold. Please. Not again the TV. Okay, okay. Harry opened the door, then stop playin games with my head. He started walking across the room toward the television set. And dont bug me. He yanked the plug out of the socket and disconnected the rabbit ears. Sara went back into the closet and closed the door. Harry stared at the closet for a moment. So okay, stay. He started to push the set, on its stand, when it stopped with a jerk, the set almost falling. What the hells goin on here? He looked down and saw a bicycle chain going from a steel eye on the side of the set to the radiator. He stared at the closet. Whatta ya tryin to do, eh? Whats with this chain? You trying to get me to break my own mothers set? to break the radiator?—she sat mutely on the closet floor—an maybe blow up the whole house? You tryin to make me a killer? Your own son? your own flesh and blood? WHATTA YA DOIN TA ME???? Harry was standing in front of the closet. YOUR OWN SON!!!! A thin key slowly peeked out from under the closet door. Harry worked it out with his fingernail then yanked it up. Why do you always gotta play games with my head for krists sake, always laying some heavy guilt shit on me? Dont you have any consideration for my feelings? Why do you haveta make my life so difficult? Why do—Harold, I wouldnt. The chain isnt for you. The robbers. Then why didnt you tell me? The set almost fell. I coulda had a heart attack. Sara was shaking her head in the darkness. You should be well Harold. Then why wont you come out? Harry tugging on the door and rattling the knob, but it was locked on the inside. Harry threw his hands up in despair and disgust. See what I mean? See how you always gotta upset me? He walked back to the set and unlocked the chain, then turned back to the closet. Why do you haveta make such a big deal outta this? eh? Just ta lay that guilt shit on me, right? Right????—Sara continued rocking back and forth—you know youll have the set back in a couple a hours but ya gotta make me feel guilty. He continued to look at the closet—Sara silent and rocking—then threw up his hands, Eh, screw it, and pushed the set, carefully, out of the apartment.