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Spaceways, v. 4, issue 5, whole no. 28, June 1942
Page 4
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4 SPACEWAYS AVE ATQUE VALE! small world of his few acquaintances in Providence was another. As a young man departed from the funeral, I overheard him say to his companion, "I didn't know. Mr. Lovecraft well--I'd only met him a few weeks ago at his boarding house--but I recognized him as a most unusual man and shall always remember the few visits I made to his room." The world of writers of weird stories and mystery tales was a third. He has been acclaimed (probably too fulsomely) as the equal of Poe. There were still other worlds of which I know too little to write. Barlow, who knew him very intimately, and who lived with him daily during two summers, ventured the thought that Lovecraft's true talent lay in essay-writing. On one occasion he had expressed that idea to Howard himself. Lovecraft had partly agreed. "Why don't you publish your essays, then?" Whereupon Lovecraft had replied, "Because my best work is for my friends. What I do for pay is done because I must live, but it's hack work, and my heart's not in it. I put myself into what I do for my friends." If there is any finer expression of the amateur spirit, I have yet to hear it. Lovecraft dissipated his energies upon his friends, but it was a most excusable and lovable dissipation. His friends were immerable; he was constantly seeking out kindred spirits with whom he might correspond There was hardly a limit to then number of such friends or to the multiplicity or to the length of the letters he would write. He is said to have been in active correspondence with at least a hundred persons, and during the last year of his life he undertook vigorous communication with fifteen new friends. Anyone so blessed as to receive his letters, moreover, can testify that he was the ideal correspondent. Replies were never delayed. The letters he wrote were marvels of wit, understanding, sympathy, encouragement, genuine solicitude for the well-being of the recipient, and a most lively and compelling narrative of the writer's recent activities. He put to shame the ordinary letterwriter by the promptitude and the voluminousness of his own correspondence. Yet he always permitted the other fellow to set the tempo of the exchange My own files reflect perfectly the years in which other affairs prevented me from active correspondence, likewise those occasional years in which my leisure permitted participation to the full. I never had a dull letter from him, and his post cards were sources of piquant delight. He filled every iota of blank space and often part of the picture with closely packed minuscular handwriting with the archaic spellings to which he was given. I used to make him laugh by telling him I should find his cards a source of never-ending wonder, for every time I reread them I discovered a new meaning or deciphered another word. To the present day I am still mystified as to many blurred phrases. His communications were always a challenge to my ingenuity with script and never failed to serve as a stimulus to my frequently flagging spirits. Barlow and I sat talking of these things. Lovecraft's aunt, Mrs. Phillips Gamwell, and my wife joined us. The late March sun sank rapidly in a flawless sky; twilight cast its deepening shadows; a star here and there gleamed in the gray-blue; then the lights in the buildings of downtown Providence began to shine forth, too. We sat in silence, spiritually stirred by the peace and beauty of the sight which had exercised its mysterious spell over Lovecraft himself on many an evening and had caused him to write in terms of unrestrained joy and happiness of the content that filled his soul in this, his home. And as light faded gently into night, and we scarcely could see one another's faces, Mrs. Gamwell expressed the thought that we all were suppressing: "It seems as though Howard himself were here." Perhaps he was. Probably his spirit was there, if there is anything in the thought that the souls of the departed return to commune with those who sorrow. Such an hour, such friends, such utter majesty and beauty of scene, such peace would have been to him inescapable. In the years that have passed since those fateful days over five years ago, I have pondered deeply about Howard Lovecraft. He is peculiarly in my mind because so many of the avenues of my life are haunted with intimate memories of him. For nearly twenty-five years was he intertwined with the events of my life,
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4 SPACEWAYS AVE ATQUE VALE! small world of his few acquaintances in Providence was another. As a young man departed from the funeral, I overheard him say to his companion, "I didn't know. Mr. Lovecraft well--I'd only met him a few weeks ago at his boarding house--but I recognized him as a most unusual man and shall always remember the few visits I made to his room." The world of writers of weird stories and mystery tales was a third. He has been acclaimed (probably too fulsomely) as the equal of Poe. There were still other worlds of which I know too little to write. Barlow, who knew him very intimately, and who lived with him daily during two summers, ventured the thought that Lovecraft's true talent lay in essay-writing. On one occasion he had expressed that idea to Howard himself. Lovecraft had partly agreed. "Why don't you publish your essays, then?" Whereupon Lovecraft had replied, "Because my best work is for my friends. What I do for pay is done because I must live, but it's hack work, and my heart's not in it. I put myself into what I do for my friends." If there is any finer expression of the amateur spirit, I have yet to hear it. Lovecraft dissipated his energies upon his friends, but it was a most excusable and lovable dissipation. His friends were immerable; he was constantly seeking out kindred spirits with whom he might correspond There was hardly a limit to then number of such friends or to the multiplicity or to the length of the letters he would write. He is said to have been in active correspondence with at least a hundred persons, and during the last year of his life he undertook vigorous communication with fifteen new friends. Anyone so blessed as to receive his letters, moreover, can testify that he was the ideal correspondent. Replies were never delayed. The letters he wrote were marvels of wit, understanding, sympathy, encouragement, genuine solicitude for the well-being of the recipient, and a most lively and compelling narrative of the writer's recent activities. He put to shame the ordinary letterwriter by the promptitude and the voluminousness of his own correspondence. Yet he always permitted the other fellow to set the tempo of the exchange My own files reflect perfectly the years in which other affairs prevented me from active correspondence, likewise those occasional years in which my leisure permitted participation to the full. I never had a dull letter from him, and his post cards were sources of piquant delight. He filled every iota of blank space and often part of the picture with closely packed minuscular handwriting with the archaic spellings to which he was given. I used to make him laugh by telling him I should find his cards a source of never-ending wonder, for every time I reread them I discovered a new meaning or deciphered another word. To the present day I am still mystified as to many blurred phrases. His communications were always a challenge to my ingenuity with script and never failed to serve as a stimulus to my frequently flagging spirits. Barlow and I sat talking of these things. Lovecraft's aunt, Mrs. Phillips Gamwell, and my wife joined us. The late March sun sank rapidly in a flawless sky; twilight cast its deepening shadows; a star here and there gleamed in the gray-blue; then the lights in the buildings of downtown Providence began to shine forth, too. We sat in silence, spiritually stirred by the peace and beauty of the sight which had exercised its mysterious spell over Lovecraft himself on many an evening and had caused him to write in terms of unrestrained joy and happiness of the content that filled his soul in this, his home. And as light faded gently into night, and we scarcely could see one another's faces, Mrs. Gamwell expressed the thought that we all were suppressing: "It seems as though Howard himself were here." Perhaps he was. Probably his spirit was there, if there is anything in the thought that the souls of the departed return to commune with those who sorrow. Such an hour, such friends, such utter majesty and beauty of scene, such peace would have been to him inescapable. In the years that have passed since those fateful days over five years ago, I have pondered deeply about Howard Lovecraft. He is peculiarly in my mind because so many of the avenues of my life are haunted with intimate memories of him. For nearly twenty-five years was he intertwined with the events of my life,
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