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Fantasy Aspects, issue 2, November 1947
Page 20
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Cont. from Page 14 EBLIS IN BAKELITE by James Blish FROM TUMBRILS #2 -------------------------- appears to be more than a little overly sensitive to the decadent-Romantic universe of discourse, still and all such a pressure is not lightly shrugged off. In addition, the synthesis of the best of bygone poems, up to an including direct quotation, has become by The Waste Land and the Cantos a nearly standard Twentieth Century technique; and Smith occasionally achieved some really moving effects with such electric material -- witness the ending of Medusa, or In November, or even more markedly in Chant of Autumn where the intoxication is no less magical for being the heritage of Swinburne. Occasionally the results are more unfortunate and Smith gushes forth a Hashish -- Eater -- "perilous nightmares of superterrestial fairylands accursed," in Lovecraft's mashed-potato language, but to the sober reader merely the sewage of a plastic-and-chromium Eblis...The matter, it appears, is not entirely under Smith's control, and until he decides just who he is, we must be content to spear the effective poems like fishes as they float by. In prose the matter is entirely under Smith's control. In the two works I have named above, and in one or two others, he has demonstrated conclusively that he has the sensibilities and the sensitivity to handle nearly any prose style that happens to appeal to him, excepting only the very tightest and sparest of modern idioms. The inevitable conclusion is that his characteristic prose manner, with its material drawn exclusively from the Poe horror story and the Wilde fairy tale, and its style from the glaucous logorrhea of Sir Thomas Browne's Hyrotaphia, is a bad one. It is incomprehensible and boring to the pulp readers whom he has -- perhaps perforce -- addressed most often. It is moribund and intolerably "arty" to a literate reader. The best he can hope from it is that it will please the very tiny segment of the reading public which is made up of men like Derleth and Lovecraft, who, incapable of distinguishing the artistic from the arty, can pass it through their digestive tracts and absorb from it the little nourishment that it contains. As a product of irresistible influences and inclinations it might have been forgivable. As the conscious choice of a man who has shown that he can do better, it is funny. And tragic? Yes; if you think Smith could do that much better. When the laughter is over it might also be counted as evidence for damnation, however; and probably it is better, in the long run, to let his admirers attend to that. -------------------------- REPRINTED FROM TUMBRILS #2 Published by James Blish of 325 West 11th St., New York City. Distributed through the Vanguard Amateur Press Association. -------------------------- Dear Editor Merwin: When are you going to revive the one and only UNKNOWN WORLDS. Phil Confan. ----(Page 20)----
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Cont. from Page 14 EBLIS IN BAKELITE by James Blish FROM TUMBRILS #2 -------------------------- appears to be more than a little overly sensitive to the decadent-Romantic universe of discourse, still and all such a pressure is not lightly shrugged off. In addition, the synthesis of the best of bygone poems, up to an including direct quotation, has become by The Waste Land and the Cantos a nearly standard Twentieth Century technique; and Smith occasionally achieved some really moving effects with such electric material -- witness the ending of Medusa, or In November, or even more markedly in Chant of Autumn where the intoxication is no less magical for being the heritage of Swinburne. Occasionally the results are more unfortunate and Smith gushes forth a Hashish -- Eater -- "perilous nightmares of superterrestial fairylands accursed," in Lovecraft's mashed-potato language, but to the sober reader merely the sewage of a plastic-and-chromium Eblis...The matter, it appears, is not entirely under Smith's control, and until he decides just who he is, we must be content to spear the effective poems like fishes as they float by. In prose the matter is entirely under Smith's control. In the two works I have named above, and in one or two others, he has demonstrated conclusively that he has the sensibilities and the sensitivity to handle nearly any prose style that happens to appeal to him, excepting only the very tightest and sparest of modern idioms. The inevitable conclusion is that his characteristic prose manner, with its material drawn exclusively from the Poe horror story and the Wilde fairy tale, and its style from the glaucous logorrhea of Sir Thomas Browne's Hyrotaphia, is a bad one. It is incomprehensible and boring to the pulp readers whom he has -- perhaps perforce -- addressed most often. It is moribund and intolerably "arty" to a literate reader. The best he can hope from it is that it will please the very tiny segment of the reading public which is made up of men like Derleth and Lovecraft, who, incapable of distinguishing the artistic from the arty, can pass it through their digestive tracts and absorb from it the little nourishment that it contains. As a product of irresistible influences and inclinations it might have been forgivable. As the conscious choice of a man who has shown that he can do better, it is funny. And tragic? Yes; if you think Smith could do that much better. When the laughter is over it might also be counted as evidence for damnation, however; and probably it is better, in the long run, to let his admirers attend to that. -------------------------- REPRINTED FROM TUMBRILS #2 Published by James Blish of 325 West 11th St., New York City. Distributed through the Vanguard Amateur Press Association. -------------------------- Dear Editor Merwin: When are you going to revive the one and only UNKNOWN WORLDS. Phil Confan. ----(Page 20)----
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