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Amateur Correspondent, v. 2, issue 2, September-October 1937
Page 11
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Disbeliebers Ever (Dedicated to the late H. P. Lovecraft) By R. W. Sherman HOW IRONIC is the attitude of humans towards genius of any kind! Subjected to the ridicule and whims of narrow-minded people, the great inevitably go to their death long before the time appointed. Whether directly or indirectly, public sentiment will always play an important part in the life of any man---especially in the lives of those who openly and without recourse to hypocrisy present their unorthodox themes to skeptical eyes. Such a man was the late H.P. Lovecraft. Throughout the course of his entire literary career he found himself wedged between two factions---a group of enthusiastic followers who worshipped his very name, and a clique of vehement scoffers who seemed to achieve delight in the berating of this master. Which one was the more irritating remains a moot question. His admirers, spurred on by his kindly, intelligent aid in their own endeavors, succeeded only in unearthing further troubles to place upon his already bowed shoulders; while his critics reeled blast upon blast of biting criticism of his works across the editorial desk. Always strife. Always trouble and hardship. And suddenly, with serpentine swiftness, death intervenes. For a while there is a stunned silence, a cessation of activities. Lovecraft's followers are stricken by the appalling suddenness of the disaster; in the minds of his critics there is great mental conflict regarding the advisabilty of continuing on their past course. Unwillingly, forced by their consternation, they once again peruse the works they had so bitterly condemned. And, fighting through wave after wave of weakening resistance, the seed of the genius of the man takes root in their minds. They read further with greater concentration, and the seed begins to sprout. In a flash, the implanted idea has grown to maturity, and they are overcome by many bewildering emotions. They arise, shaken in soul. In a moment their course, as they see it, is set. In a vain endeavor to cover up their blind criticism, they glibly sing his praises and raise fantastic monuments to his greatness. Too late they have seen the light; and the thought most appropriate for their behavior lies in the last lines of Felix Kowalewski's poem, Death of the Artist: "O Muse of Art, what bitter irony! Alive they hound, but dead they worship me! 'Tis my poor name floats up in cadenced song!" 11
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Disbeliebers Ever (Dedicated to the late H. P. Lovecraft) By R. W. Sherman HOW IRONIC is the attitude of humans towards genius of any kind! Subjected to the ridicule and whims of narrow-minded people, the great inevitably go to their death long before the time appointed. Whether directly or indirectly, public sentiment will always play an important part in the life of any man---especially in the lives of those who openly and without recourse to hypocrisy present their unorthodox themes to skeptical eyes. Such a man was the late H.P. Lovecraft. Throughout the course of his entire literary career he found himself wedged between two factions---a group of enthusiastic followers who worshipped his very name, and a clique of vehement scoffers who seemed to achieve delight in the berating of this master. Which one was the more irritating remains a moot question. His admirers, spurred on by his kindly, intelligent aid in their own endeavors, succeeded only in unearthing further troubles to place upon his already bowed shoulders; while his critics reeled blast upon blast of biting criticism of his works across the editorial desk. Always strife. Always trouble and hardship. And suddenly, with serpentine swiftness, death intervenes. For a while there is a stunned silence, a cessation of activities. Lovecraft's followers are stricken by the appalling suddenness of the disaster; in the minds of his critics there is great mental conflict regarding the advisabilty of continuing on their past course. Unwillingly, forced by their consternation, they once again peruse the works they had so bitterly condemned. And, fighting through wave after wave of weakening resistance, the seed of the genius of the man takes root in their minds. They read further with greater concentration, and the seed begins to sprout. In a flash, the implanted idea has grown to maturity, and they are overcome by many bewildering emotions. They arise, shaken in soul. In a moment their course, as they see it, is set. In a vain endeavor to cover up their blind criticism, they glibly sing his praises and raise fantastic monuments to his greatness. Too late they have seen the light; and the thought most appropriate for their behavior lies in the last lines of Felix Kowalewski's poem, Death of the Artist: "O Muse of Art, what bitter irony! Alive they hound, but dead they worship me! 'Tis my poor name floats up in cadenced song!" 11
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