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Acolyte, v. 3, issue 1, whole no. 9, Winter 1945
Page 13
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W.T., but in non-fantastic fields. His earlier weird yarns,plus his "rational" stories of modern times, Texan characters, were the cream; his Conan series were really the dregs of his talent, not the tops. That obituary--- hell, I don't know what I could write. A lot of silly sounding drool--- my effort to say what I found when I went to Cross Plains. How I drove to the "Accursed Mountain" with him. How I went from village to village listening to local lore of mighty slayings, maimings, battles, how he found me an oil driller in operation, presented me to the old Pennsylvania Dutchman, who courteously explained all the finess of a "Ft. Worth spudder" as compared with other drilling tools. And how Howard, after we left, seriously told me that if the Dutchman had omitted one trivial detail or held out one fine point, he, Two Gun, would go back and maul him to a pulp with his bare hands, just as a lesson and a warning that visiting dignitaries were not to be slighted. How he would from time to time draw his Colt Automatic from the side pocket of his car as he approached locales where his "enemies" might be lurking--- how he gravely and seriously queries me as to my enemies. And so on--- a man of such dazzling whims and humors and fancies, profound, naive, philosophic, boyish--- aw, hell--- how would a heap of suchlike drool look in print? How we led the Sacred Cow to pasture--- how he had a sens, deeply and unwarrantably ingrown, of his own unworthiness and ineptitude as a warrior. How the town despised him as a loafer and varmint and freak, and how it pleased him to have "nationally known" writers visit him, so that "these G-- D-- x-- ng x-- ng": yokels of Cross Plains will know I at least have friends who amount to something in this writing business, even if I don't." And he'd write me, "My stock went up a good many points since I showed you around town--- " Too sincere and hearty to say such things as a "compliment" to a guest; just his incomprehensible and utterly unwarranted self deprecation beyond any traditions of "modesty". Now was it as a crude bait to "fish" for a compliment to assure him he was quite a great fellow. He was so damn simple and hearty, sincere; so devoid of any cheap tricks of that sort that in piecing together those trifling remarks, I can only conclude that it was neither flattery to a guest, nor "fishing" for a compliment, but an humility and sense of inferiority that no one shared with him. So--- and I cut this short--- how the hell can I write about the man without, through my crudeness of expression and inaptitude of example and interpretation, doing him injustice, making him seem odd, freakish, uncouth--- instead of just unique; a person unlike any other ? Doubtless he WAS freakish, uncouth, provincial in some aspects--- when viewed by an UNSYMPATHETIC PERSON --- but the man himself had so many diverse aspects that no one, no two, no twenty facets can possibly characterize" him. Perhaps I liked him well enough to see all these many facets--- liked him, so that I joined him in his freaks and whims rather than viewing them from a detached angle. I can't "interpret" him. Howard was a unit--- remove any one facet, and you no longer have Howard, the man of dizzying contradictions. And now my great grief is that en route from Mexico to California I "didn't have time" to detour and spend another day with him--- I visited him, you know, en route from California to Mexico. But I didn't anticipate this. And it leaves me feeling sort of amputated, bludgeoned, robbed, or something. And what the hell can I write? I did appreciate his writings, deeply and heartily, and often wrote him to that effect. I was deeply grateful for his encouragement when -- 13 --
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W.T., but in non-fantastic fields. His earlier weird yarns,plus his "rational" stories of modern times, Texan characters, were the cream; his Conan series were really the dregs of his talent, not the tops. That obituary--- hell, I don't know what I could write. A lot of silly sounding drool--- my effort to say what I found when I went to Cross Plains. How I drove to the "Accursed Mountain" with him. How I went from village to village listening to local lore of mighty slayings, maimings, battles, how he found me an oil driller in operation, presented me to the old Pennsylvania Dutchman, who courteously explained all the finess of a "Ft. Worth spudder" as compared with other drilling tools. And how Howard, after we left, seriously told me that if the Dutchman had omitted one trivial detail or held out one fine point, he, Two Gun, would go back and maul him to a pulp with his bare hands, just as a lesson and a warning that visiting dignitaries were not to be slighted. How he would from time to time draw his Colt Automatic from the side pocket of his car as he approached locales where his "enemies" might be lurking--- how he gravely and seriously queries me as to my enemies. And so on--- a man of such dazzling whims and humors and fancies, profound, naive, philosophic, boyish--- aw, hell--- how would a heap of suchlike drool look in print? How we led the Sacred Cow to pasture--- how he had a sens, deeply and unwarrantably ingrown, of his own unworthiness and ineptitude as a warrior. How the town despised him as a loafer and varmint and freak, and how it pleased him to have "nationally known" writers visit him, so that "these G-- D-- x-- ng x-- ng": yokels of Cross Plains will know I at least have friends who amount to something in this writing business, even if I don't." And he'd write me, "My stock went up a good many points since I showed you around town--- " Too sincere and hearty to say such things as a "compliment" to a guest; just his incomprehensible and utterly unwarranted self deprecation beyond any traditions of "modesty". Now was it as a crude bait to "fish" for a compliment to assure him he was quite a great fellow. He was so damn simple and hearty, sincere; so devoid of any cheap tricks of that sort that in piecing together those trifling remarks, I can only conclude that it was neither flattery to a guest, nor "fishing" for a compliment, but an humility and sense of inferiority that no one shared with him. So--- and I cut this short--- how the hell can I write about the man without, through my crudeness of expression and inaptitude of example and interpretation, doing him injustice, making him seem odd, freakish, uncouth--- instead of just unique; a person unlike any other ? Doubtless he WAS freakish, uncouth, provincial in some aspects--- when viewed by an UNSYMPATHETIC PERSON --- but the man himself had so many diverse aspects that no one, no two, no twenty facets can possibly characterize" him. Perhaps I liked him well enough to see all these many facets--- liked him, so that I joined him in his freaks and whims rather than viewing them from a detached angle. I can't "interpret" him. Howard was a unit--- remove any one facet, and you no longer have Howard, the man of dizzying contradictions. And now my great grief is that en route from Mexico to California I "didn't have time" to detour and spend another day with him--- I visited him, you know, en route from California to Mexico. But I didn't anticipate this. And it leaves me feeling sort of amputated, bludgeoned, robbed, or something. And what the hell can I write? I did appreciate his writings, deeply and heartily, and often wrote him to that effect. I was deeply grateful for his encouragement when -- 13 --
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