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Direct-seeming in the mythic way, Nova still belies its modest page count, bursting at its seams with Delany's muscular world-building prowess. How could it come to an end so quickly, I thought, with how full it is growing. And Delany's world! Constructed with an innate faith in the ability of his readers to keep up, or perhaps simply not caring if they do. Having only read Dhalgren prior to this, I wasn't sure what to expect. More of the same? And that I did find in certain ways. How he only half-sketches out some aspects in concrete terms, leaving the rest to be filled out in the reader's mind with the aid of abstract impressions. I like this. It scratches flint for the imagination. How his outsider characters interact in unexpected ways—how from strangers they grow close and support each other. How he seems to relish showing us a good party. How his keen class consciousness pervades the text. And always his imagination glittering on the page—even on the yellowed pages of this old paperback. It was interesting to read this in parallel with Robert Sheckley's science fiction stories. Delany's worlds, so intricately textured and fully alien, contrast sharply with those of Sheckley, whose settings evoke Earth-centric roots and often read as if they are but window dressing for their creator's social commentary. The two could not be farther apart in style, and yet I enjoyed both, just in different ways. But comparisons to Sheckley aside, I won't rehash the storyline of Nova here, as I don't see the point. If you've read Dhalgren, you should enjoy this. And if you have not, this would certainly be a good precursor to that fine novel.