Dell Mapbacks

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Dell 5, Four Frightened Women by George Harmon Coxe, was the first of the mapbacks. On the back cover of each of these books is, naturally, a map—a cutaway bird’s-eye view of the apartment building, house, hotel or city-section in which the events of the book take place. These drawings were generally quite faithful to the books; the most careful one was probably the map sketched by author Hake Talbot for his own book, Rim of the Pit (Dell 173), and executed, as were most of the mapbacks, by Ruth Belew.

Almost all Dell Books published until 1951 were provided with a mapback; beginning in that year, the practice was gradually abandoned. Dell’s sales department hated the idea; they found the maps unnecessary and noncommercial, and felt that back covers could better be reserved for advertising blurbs.

The Book of the Paperback: A Visual History of the Paperback Book (1982) by Piet Schreuders

I’ve long been fascinated by the Dell Mapbacks even though I’ve only ever seen pictures of them. (And to stave off the inevitable emails: no, I don’t want to buy any.) They form a truncated path in the evolution of the paperback book, one where the gimmick of creating a map for each title was globally applied, regardless of whether the contents warranted such a thing. Dell began life as a publisher of mysteries, hence the logo of an eye peeping through a keyhole. Maps are more justifiable if applied to a detective story, where a map may help the reader picture the layout of a location or trace the movements of a character. But once Dell branched out into other areas of fiction the maps seemed increasingly superfluous, especially those that limit themselves to the plan of an office or apartment. For some there’s also the question of accuracy. The novelisation of Alfred Hitchcock’s Rope shows a map of the apartment that doesn’t correspond to the layout of the rooms as they’re seen on the screen, something that readers who’d seen the film would have been quick to recognise.

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For this post I went looking for a few of the more unusual mapbacks, prompted by the discovery of Invasion from Mars. I’d been watching an Orson Welles’ question-and-answer session from 1982 which was recorded after a screening of Welles’ adaptation of The Trial. Welles declares at one point that he “used to write for the pulps, as we called them then”. The claim surprised me. I knew that Welles had been writing newspaper columns in the 1940s; he’s also credited as the author of a novel, Mr Arkadin (1955), which was actually written by a Frenchman, Maurice Bessy, whose serialised adaptation of Welles’ Mr Arkadin screen story was published in novel form. Invasion from Mars seems to be Welles’ sole encounter with pulp-land unless you include the pulpy origins of The Lady from Shanghai and Touch of Evil. Invasion from Mars collects a handful of Mars-related SF stories, together with the Howard Koch script for the Mercury Theatre radio broadcast of The War of the Worlds. The superfluous map on this occasion is for The Million Year Picnic, one of Ray Bradbury’s Martian Chronicles stories. Dell didn’t publish very much science fiction so the Mars book and First Men in the Moon are the only titles I’ve seen with maps showing extraterrestrial locations. Would-be collectors may like to know that after writing a history of the paperback book Piet Schreuders put together a short guide to collecting this series, The Dell “Mapbacks”, which was published in 1997.

• Further reading: Dell Mapbacks: A History.
• Dell Mapbacks (sorted). An extensive cover collection at Flickr.

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Another film tie-in, published for the US release of Powell & Pressburger’s Gone To Earth (1950).

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Continue reading “Dell Mapbacks”

Weekend links 824

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“A view of Earth taken by NASA astronaut and Artemis II Commander Reid Wiseman from one of the Orion spacecraft’s windows after completing the translunar injection burn on April 2, 2026. The image features two auroras (top right and bottom left) and zodiacal light (bottom right) is visible as the Earth eclipses the Sun.”

• I was surprised this week to find myself quoted by David Hudson at Criterion Current in an overview of the schedule for Cold War Visions: Nuclear Anxiety in Eastern Bloc Cinema, a short season of films that will be showing at the Barbican throughout this month. One of those films is Andrei Tarkovsky’s Stalker, a cult film round here, which a handful of lucky Londoners will be able to see on a big screen.

• 邪神三十六景 (Thirty-six Views of the Evil Gods) is collection of drawings by Takeki Yamada that combine Hokusai’s celebrated views of Mount Fuji with beings from Lovecraft’s Cthulhu Mythos. I’m a little underwhelmed by the results but the book is out there for those who want it.

• Among the new titles at Standard Ebooks, the home of free, high-quality, public-domain texts: Last and First Men by Olaf Stapledon. (Previously)

• Coming soon at Unquiet Things: The Art of the Unknown: A Visual Treasury of the Esoteric, Uncanny, and Unexplained by S. Elizabeth.

• At Public Domain Review: Elizabeth I’s manuscript copy of Pierre Boaistuau’s Histoires Prodigieuses (1559).

• New music: Enter the Nuummite Cosmos by Brotherhood Of Sleep.

• At the BFI: Where to begin with Peter Weir.

• A Brief History of the Dust Jacket.

• Out Of The Unknown (1984) by Died Pretty | Brian’s Nightmare / The Unknown, Part One (2005) by Robin Guthrie / Harold Budd | A Gift Of Unknown Things (2017) by Teleplasmiste

Weekend links 821

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The first UK paperback edition, 1976. Cover art by David Bowie’s illustrator friend George Underwood.

• At the BFI: “Humanity, lost and found”. The original Sight and Sound review by Tom Milne of The Man Who Fell to Earth which was released 50 years ago this month. The film is another Nicolas Roeg project whose lofty reputation today has made everyone forget the bewildered or even hostile reaction it generated at the time, including from the US distributor, Paramount, who hated it. Milne, by contrast, had read the novel it was based on, and paid close attention to what the film’s writer, Paul Mayersberg, described as its “minefield of images”.

• Among the new titles at Standard Ebooks, the home of free, high-quality, public-domain texts: The Varieties of Religious Experience by William James.

• Issue 13 of Verbal magazine features an interview with Michael Moorcock, Iain Sinclair in the “Talking Books” section, and more.

• New music: 4 Hours (DVATION 2026 Version) by Clock DVA; -Music For Oriental Hotel Okinawa Resort & Spa- by Harikuyamaku.

• The Shaw Brothers Cinema YouTube channel has whole feature films from the studio’s huge archive free to view.

• At Colossal: “Historic architecture emerges from stone in Matthew Simmonds‘ ethereal sculptures”.

• “Music with Balls”: Terry Riley performing live with an arrangement of shiny silver spheres on KQED TV in 1969.

• Mixes of the week: DreamScenes – March 2026 at Ambientblog, and Motorik by Jon Savage.

• “What is electronic music?” Daphne Oram explains.

• RIP Country Joe MacDonald.

• Stardust (1941) by Artie Shaw And His Orchestra | Stardust (1959) by Martin Denny | Stardust (1985) by Yasuaki Shimizu & Saxofonettes

Weekend links 820

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Lust, from the Seven Deadly Sins (circa 1550–55) by Léon Davent, after Luca Penni.

• At Dennis Cooper’s: Bill Hsu presents…High Anxiety: tense, dark films from 2010–2019 (for fans of Robert Aickman and Brian Evenson) (restored).

• New music: Ever No Way by Seefeel; In A Few Places Along The River by Abul Mogard; Displaces by Francesco Fabris.

• At Inconspicuous Consumption: Paul Lukas investigates a Frank Lloyd Wright typographic mystery.

In the late 19th century, Rops created a vast oeuvre of drawings, etchings, prints and paintings of such breathtaking fruitiness—often laced with satanic elements—that even Picasso responded to him in awe (in homage, the Spaniard drew a cartoon of a man in the form of a pig performing cunnilingus on a woman). Rops’ works depicted naked witches riding brooms, voyeurs in top hats and courtesans riding penis-shaped bicycles. The French art critic Félix Fénéon called him an artist “who paints phalluses the way others paint landscapes”.

Christian House on a new exhibition, Laboratory of Lust, showcasing the erotic art of Félicien Rops

• At Public Domain Review: Wayang Kulit: Raden Soelardi’s Illustrations of Javanese Puppets (1919).

• At Criterion Current: David Hudson explores the fantastic realism of Georges Franju.

• At Unquiet Things: The Nocturnal Visions of Nona Limmen.

• Steven Heller’s font of the month is Curve Display.

• RIP TV producer Kenith Trodd.

• Exploratorium

• Lust (1954) by Les Baxter Featuring Bas Sheva | Monster Lust (1989) by Helios Creed | Keine Lust (2004) by Rammstein

Reversible men and Lipský’s Happy End

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A paperback ravaged by the passage of time. Art by Ray Ginghofer.

Time of Passage, a piece of short fiction by JG Ballard, received its first publication in Science Fantasy magazine in February, 1964. The piece was subsequently collected in two paperbacks, The Impossible Man and Other Stories (Berkley Medallion, 1966), and The Overloaded Man (Panther, 1967). Time of Passage is more of a biographical sketch than a story, describing in reverse the life of a stockbroker, James Falkman, a man “born” in 1963 by being dug out of a grave while surrounded by tearful relatives. Ballard goes on to describe the major events of Falkman’s life, from retirement to career to marriage, charting the man’s gradual descent into youth and eventual infant helplessness. The story ends with Falkman being taken to a hospital in 1900 for a final encounter with his mother, his “death” in Ballard’s words.

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A revised reprint of The Overloaded Man, 1980. The artwork by Peter Gudynas may be the only Ballard cover to feature flying saucers.

There may be earlier literary examples of the life described in reverse but Ballard’s is the earliest one I know of. I’m thinking here of explicit reversals of human circumstance, as opposed to the more common reverse chronology whereby an otherwise forward-flowing story is chopped into episodes which are then presented in a reversed order. Philip K. Dick’s Counter-Clock World (1967) is a novel-length extrapolation of Ballard’s concept, set in a future where time has started to run backwards, and the dead are being born again in cemeteries. The 1960s saw a peculiar spate of fiction along these lines; to paraphrase Charles Fort, it must have been time-reversal time. In an earlier Ballard story, Mr. F is Mr. F, the titular character finds himself aging in reverse while time continues to run forward for his wife and the world outside their home; in An Age (1967) by Brian Aldiss scientific experiments reveal that time is actually moving in reverse despite our perceptions to the contrary.

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Art by Mike White.

Alan Moore would no doubt have been familiar with one or more of these stories when he wrote The Reversible Man for 2000 AD in 1983, a four-page strip which shows the life of an ordinary man from death to birth. Moore freshens the concept a little by the use of first-person narration. The most well-known treatment of the idea is Time’s Arrow by Martin Amis, a novel whose structure was taken by some reviewers as wholly original even though Amis said he was inspired by a passage in Kurt Vonnegut’s Slaughterhouse-Five. I’ve always felt Amis was being evasive on this point; he was very familiar with Ballard’s fiction, he interviewed Ballard and reviewed his novels on several occasions. Anyone with this much interest in Ballard’s work would have read Time of Passage in one of its many reprintings.

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Design by Milan Grygar.

When it comes to authorial influence it seems unlikely that Czech film-maker Oldřich Lipský could have been influenced by Ballard or Dick’s time-reversals, which makes the appearance of Happy End in 1967 all the more remarkable. Lipský’s feature film, which I watched last week, is essentially Ballard’s death-to-life narrative played for its comic potential, with the film itself running in reverse for much of the time. Happy End opens with a title card in Czech—”Konec” (“The End”)—before presenting the “birth” of its protagonist by means of a guillotine. The decapitated head of Bedřich Frydrych (Vladimír Menšík) is attached to his body, after which the guards lead him (backwards) to the place described by his cheerful voiceover as a school (aka prison) where he says he’s being prepared for life in the outside world. Before he sets off to his waiting apartment the police give him a suitcase containing the body of his wife, Julie (Jaroslava Obermaierová), the pieces of which he assembles in the bath in his apartment. Julie is “revived” when Frydrych pulls an axe from her forehead, after which Julie’s lover, Ptáček (Josef Abrhám), makes his first arrival, jumping backwards into the bedroom through the window.

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The love-triangle between Frydrych, Julie and Ptáček forms the bulk of the story, and also the basis for much of the film’s black humour. One of the hallmarks of the reversed biography is ironic reinterpretation, something that Amis makes a substantial meal of in his novel. In many cases it’s easier to do this with film than it is with words: a fight between Frydrych and Ptáček becomes an energetic “tidying up” of the apartment, with the cuckolded husband and the wife’s lover reassembling broken furniture and clearing away all the signs of destruction. Happy End is a long procession of these reversals, accompanied by Frydrych’s voiceover narration which persists in giving any tragic and difficult moments a positive gloss. Most of them, anyway. A substantial win at the racetrack becomes a negative incident when the events are played in reverse. But the loss of money is offset by Frydrych and Julie’s young daughter who pulls fresh banknotes out of an impromptu fire on the kitchen floor.

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For non-Czech speakers the humour and invention of Happy End is undermined by the effort required to keep up with the film’s frenetic pace (many of the scenes are speeded-up as well as running in reverse) while reading subtitles which reinterpret everything you’re seeing on the screen. My own viewing was further compromised by amateurish subtitles, but this is all the more reason to watch it again. Second Run have recently released Happy End as a region-free blu-ray with “new and improved English subtitle translation”. This is the second Lipský film I’ve watched to date (thanks, Jay!). I’ll be looking for more.

Previously on { feuilleton }
• Art on film: Je t’aime, Je t’aime