DIY History | Transcribe | Hevelin Fanzines | Acolyte, v. 3, issue 4, whole no. 12, Fall 1945 |

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Acolyte, v. 3, issue 4, whole no. 12, Fall 1945

pages, single spaced typing, of the letters Howard wrote Lovecraft makes it clear that he met raw life in oil boom towns, in cow towns, and in travel about Texas. He was a big, solid hunk of man, able and willing to play a spectacular part in any brawl which might be forced upon him. while the things he met couldn't put a dent in his athletic body, they were too much for his sensitive spirit; he saw much more than he could understand or interpret, and these things drove him to create worlds of imagination in which there were greater brawls than any Texas oil boom could offer. Like so many weird story writers, he was an exaggerated escapist, and his exit in 1936 surely indicates that he had, alas, entirely missed the point and the meaning of life. Because of Robert's stupendous misunderstanding of life, his father spent the final eight years of his life alone, with ill health and grief as his only company. And to be anticlimactic, I invite a careful reading of Howard's weird (or any other) fiction. Note the haif touches in the passages wherein the author interprets and expounds; and see that the writer, however broad and through his studies had been, and however rugged his contacts with life, was nevertheless a very small boy who had not yet won any understanding of life. I grant that his power of observation was keen, unusual, shrewd--as witness his humorous western stories--and that his mind was brilliant. But I repeat, he'd not interpreted what he'd seen and learned; in place of a philosophy, he had only emotional expressions. HPL, through Howard's very opposite in so many respects, was another who, despite his impressive intellect and amazing erudition, didn't know the first thing about life. He looked back to antiquity, wished he were in the noble 18th century, and made a virtue of his ignorance of life about him. Granted, his descriptive and expository pages proves him a keen observer of things and people--but again, he wouldn't or couldn't interpret, hence he created fantastic realms for himself to inhabit. He restricted himself largely to the company of the "scholarly", the "literary", the "learned". While a warm human and lovable personality, he nevertheless was at home with only that one type of person --persons who approximated his own intellectual and literary aspirations. His short-lived and entirely inadequate marriage indicates that he couldn't have known anything about life. For him, women simply didn't exist except as occasional names in a story or as creatures of whom a scientist took 
 scientific cognizance as natural phenomena. In this respect, Robert E. Howard was far more a standard model, yet only in comparison with Lovecraft. REH did, I infer, have feminine friends. One phoned during my visit in Cross Plains.  Robert's mother told the lady that Robert was not in; actually he was in his office, within easy call. Add this to the exaggerated filial piety which led to his suicide on learning that his mother's illness would be fatal, and you get the picture: material apron strings keeping a basically solid and salty fellow from meeting and understanding life. Academically, HPL was board, deep and versatile; but with respect to life and living, his first thirty sheltered years kept him from any of the laboratory exercises required for an understanding of life. He was an un-realist whom circumstances permitted to remain unrealistic. His philosophy was selectively deduced from books, not from the living. His life was so specialized in its outlook and contacts that he could not in the ordinary sense of the term have known anything about life. With all respect and friendliness,  I submit the above in objection to Boland,s  enthusiastic appraisal of the two men I greatly admired, and whose company I enjoyed, and whose absence I mourn even to this day: Life is richer for having known them, yet it is impossible for my high regard to becloud the issues so badly as to let me admit that they had any "stupendous understanding of life". I do however concede, had they  (continued, with apologies for format, on p. 28)

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pages, single spaced typing, of the letters Howard wrote Lovecraft makes it clear that he met raw life in oil boom towns, in cow towns, and in travel about Texas. He was a big, solid hunk of man, able and willing to play a spectacular part in any brawl which might be forced upon him. while the things he met couldn't put a dent in his athletic body, they were too much for his sensitive spirit; he saw much more than he could understand or interpret, and these things drove him to create worlds of imagination in which there were greater brawls than any Texas oil boom could offer. Like so many weird story writers, he was an exaggerated escapist, and his exit in 1936 surely indicates that he had, alas, entirely missed the point and the meaning of life. Because of Robert's stupendous misunderstanding of life, his father spent the final eight years of his life alone, with ill health and grief as his only company. And to be anticlimactic, I invite a careful reading of Howard's weird (or any other) fiction. Note the haif touches in the passages wherein the author interprets and expounds; and see that the writer, however broad and through his studies had been, and however rugged his contacts with life, was nevertheless a very small boy who had not yet won any understanding of life. I grant that his power of observation was keen, unusual, shrewd--as witness his humorous western stories--and that his mind was brilliant. But I repeat, he'd not interpreted what he'd seen and learned; in place of a philosophy, he had only emotional expressions. HPL, through Howard's very opposite in so many respects, was another who, despite his impressive intellect and amazing erudition, didn't know the first thing about life. He looked back to antiquity, wished he were in the noble 18th century, and made a virtue of his ignorance of life about him. Granted, his descriptive and expository pages proves him a keen observer of things and people--but again, he wouldn't or couldn't interpret, hence he created fantastic realms for himself to inhabit. He restricted himself largely to the company of the "scholarly", the "literary", the "learned". While a warm human and lovable personality, he nevertheless was at home with only that one type of person --persons who approximated his own intellectual and literary aspirations. His short-lived and entirely inadequate marriage indicates that he couldn't have known anything about life. For him, women simply didn't exist except as occasional names in a story or as creatures of whom a scientist took scientific cognizance as natural phenomena. In this respect, Robert E. Howard was far more a standard model, yet only in comparison with Lovecraft. REH did, I infer, have feminine friends. One phoned during my visit in Cross Plains. Robert's mother told the lady that Robert was not in; actually he was in his office, within easy call. Add this to the exaggerated filial piety which led to his suicide on learning that his mother's illness would be fatal, and you get the picture: material apron strings keeping a basically solid and salty fellow from meeting and understanding life. Academically, HPL was board, deep and versatile; but with respect to life and living, his first thirty sheltered years kept him from any of the laboratory exercises required for an understanding of life. He was an un-realist whom circumstances permitted to remain unrealistic. His philosophy was selectively deduced from books, not from the living. His life was so specialized in its outlook and contacts that he could not in the ordinary sense of the term have known anything about life. With all respect and friendliness, I submit the above in objection to Boland,s enthusiastic appraisal of the two men I greatly admired, and whose company I enjoyed, and whose absence I mourn even to this day: Life is richer for having known them, yet it is impossible for my high regard to becloud the issues so badly as to let me admit that they had any "stupendous understanding of life". I do however concede, had they (continued, with apologies for format, on p. 28)