DIY History | Transcribe | Hevelin Fanzines | Acolyte, v. 2, issue 4, whole no. 8, Fall 1944 |

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Acolyte, v. 2, issue 4, whole no. 8, Fall 1944

everlasting hunger for impressions, sights, knowledge of no matter what kind of source--all fuel for the psychic furnaces, or perhaps, "mash" for the psychic retort from which he distilled personality. 
   He did not drink liquor nor smoke, and, judging from all his conversation and letters, women simply did not exist as far as his personal life was concerned; but in all other fields, I am sure he never willingly left anything untried, untested, unappraised. Detailing the man's versatility would be futile, and i has been done by those who knew him far better than I; my sustained impression from that day in 1932 right up to his last letter to me, shortly before his death in 1937, was that of unbounded gusto, one who like Ulysses had indeed become a part of all that he had seen.
   This trait is what made HPL so fascinating; though our lives, taken detail by detail, could not have been more unlike, we shared this acquisitiveness as to ideas and impressions. And, because of the utter unlikeness of so many aspects of our personalities, each found the other stimulating.
   Twenty eight consecutive hours of fencing, of debating about one of my first professionally written stories, Tarbis of the Lake; the magnificent hair-splitting wrangles over each comma. Later, some of my Vieux Carre crowd came in; persons I felt he'd consider a lewd and bawdy crowd, too alcoholically and carnally and frivolously inclined to be tolerated with ease. I had a few qualms, because I knew that the man was different in outlook and background; I feared that he'd be embarrassed or bored.
   He was neither. When he took the floor, they listened to this odd, this unique, this bookish, this pedantic seeming man; he held their attention from the first word. And his utter assurance was beautiful to see, and so was his entire un-selfconsciousness. That first impression I had gained, of his tendency toward nervousness in encountering strangers, was not typical of him; perhaps it didn't really exist, and was only the result of my misinterpreting a peculiarity or mannerism in speech.
   He went back to Rhode Island, but not until we had decided, in high whimsy, to account for the disappearance of Randolh Carter, a sequel to the Silver Key. The result, Through the Gates of the Silver Key, was published a few years later; the opening scene is a dressed up description of 305 Royal Street. At the time, I did have antique Boukhara and Feraghan carpets hanging on the walls and wrought iron censers sitting here and there; and there was an Adam fire place, though I didn't know it until he identified it.
   In Providence, we had another of those thirty to forty hour sessions, unbroken by any sleep. Harry Brobst, an apprentice psychiatrist working in a local madhouse, joined us, and we went to the cemetery just off Benefit Street, around 4 A.M. Next day, I mad Indian Curry, Harry--I wish I could get his address; my last letter was returned unclaimed--bought six bottles of beer, somewhat to my astonishment, as we were in HPL's house.
   But HPL, the perfect host, had not a frown of disapproval; after all, beer was then legal, we were not violating the law of the land, he asserted by way of justifying his attitude. However, he refused to touch the beer. "What'll you do with it all?" he asked, out of scientific curiosity.
   "Hell, drink it," Brobst said, and I'll never forget HPL's incredulity; it was as though Harry had promised to evoke a familiar spirit. And what I enjoyed most was HPL's growing incredulity as he watched us drink three bottles apiece. He could not quite believe that we would not pass out, almost at any instant; perhaps he expected us to vanish in a puff of flame.
                  --18--

Saving...

everlasting hunger for impressions, sights, knowledge of no matter what kind of source--all fuel for the psychic furnaces, or perhaps, "mash" for the psychic retort from which he distilled personality. He did not drink liquor nor smoke, and, judging from all his conversation and letters, women simply did not exist as far as his personal life was concerned; but in all other fields, I am sure he never willingly left anything untried, untested, unappraised. Detailing the man's versatility would be futile, and i has been done by those who knew him far better than I; my sustained impression from that day in 1932 right up to his last letter to me, shortly before his death in 1937, was that of unbounded gusto, one who like Ulysses had indeed become a part of all that he had seen. This trait is what made HPL so fascinating; though our lives, taken detail by detail, could not have been more unlike, we shared this acquisitiveness as to ideas and impressions. And, because of the utter unlikeness of so many aspects of our personalities, each found the other stimulating. Twenty eight consecutive hours of fencing, of debating about one of my first professionally written stories, Tarbis of the Lake; the magnificent hair-splitting wrangles over each comma. Later, some of my Vieux Carre crowd came in; persons I felt he'd consider a lewd and bawdy crowd, too alcoholically and carnally and frivolously inclined to be tolerated with ease. I had a few qualms, because I knew that the man was different in outlook and background; I feared that he'd be embarrassed or bored. He was neither. When he took the floor, they listened to this odd, this unique, this bookish, this pedantic seeming man; he held their attention from the first word. And his utter assurance was beautiful to see, and so was his entire un-selfconsciousness. That first impression I had gained, of his tendency toward nervousness in encountering strangers, was not typical of him; perhaps it didn't really exist, and was only the result of my misinterpreting a peculiarity or mannerism in speech. He went back to Rhode Island, but not until we had decided, in high whimsy, to account for the disappearance of Randolh Carter, a sequel to the Silver Key. The result, Through the Gates of the Silver Key, was published a few years later; the opening scene is a dressed up description of 305 Royal Street. At the time, I did have antique Boukhara and Feraghan carpets hanging on the walls and wrought iron censers sitting here and there; and there was an Adam fire place, though I didn't know it until he identified it. In Providence, we had another of those thirty to forty hour sessions, unbroken by any sleep. Harry Brobst, an apprentice psychiatrist working in a local madhouse, joined us, and we went to the cemetery just off Benefit Street, around 4 A.M. Next day, I mad Indian Curry, Harry--I wish I could get his address; my last letter was returned unclaimed--bought six bottles of beer, somewhat to my astonishment, as we were in HPL's house. But HPL, the perfect host, had not a frown of disapproval; after all, beer was then legal, we were not violating the law of the land, he asserted by way of justifying his attitude. However, he refused to touch the beer. "What'll you do with it all?" he asked, out of scientific curiosity. "Hell, drink it," Brobst said, and I'll never forget HPL's incredulity; it was as though Harry had promised to evoke a familiar spirit. And what I enjoyed most was HPL's growing incredulity as he watched us drink three bottles apiece. He could not quite believe that we would not pass out, almost at any instant; perhaps he expected us to vanish in a puff of flame. --18--