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Vampire, whole no. 7, September 1946
31858063101335_010
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of wind from the open window caused the straws to quiver like feelers, and one stroked Honore's chin as he leaned close. Suddenly he laughed, playfully chucking the chin of his late brother. "Jules, mon cher," he roared, "I shall make you a speech. It is altogether fitting that I do so. Eh? Attendez." He leaned forward staring into Jules' dead eyes. "Whether you like it or not, mon petit, a part of your brain is now -- this very minute -- in my great bird. How do you like that?" Suddenly the irony of the situation he himself had created struck him and he choked with gurgling laughter, the tears streaming down his cheeks. So blinded, he could not see the open window reflected in the staring eyes of Jules, nor the shadow that darkened it. Nor could he hear his brother's lips whisper "Touché", above his own hysterical mirth. H.P.L. - A COMMENT by Walter Harwood -- According to a recent note in the Rex Stout Monthly Mystery magazine, even Edmund Wilson, perhaps the greatest and most influential literary critic of the present time, has been compelled to examine, and pass judgment on, the "Lovecraft cult"; with the conclusion -- one almost suspects it was inevitable -- that the devotees of the cult are nothing better than a gang of nit-wits. Ah!, me, the not-so-good old days when I would have permitted a verdict like this to bring me servilely into line. Fortunately one usually acquires a trifle more of respect for his individuality as he grows on in years. Despite Wilson's lofty position in the field of belleslettres, I am obliged to express the opinion that I think his endocrine glands have acquired their own peculiar balance from too many hours spent in a library, and too few in the sunshine, or even at an office desk or behind a retail counter. Lovecraft, in my view, is like a deftly and intelligently-directed B-class mystery picture -- and that is just about the apex of movie entertainment. Even the expression "B-class" is not intended to reduce my expression of praise. I am thinking of a story with the emphasis on entertainment and readability, as contrasted with "serious fiction" which, in order to convey its message of vast artistic significance, has to be so damned boring that only a critic, or servile victim of a critic's intellectual browbeatings, would wade through the morass of tedious, eventless writing. Some of the serious writers of the present day deserve admiration. Theodore Dreiser, for example, was a very great man, and I admire him. But also a lot of heavy dishwater is being brewed for reader-consumption by men who, despite their remarkable abilities, are simply not story-tellers. Lovecraft, at the least, knew how to tell an interesting story; and that, as far as my sentiments are concerned, is the foremost attribute -- or ought to be -- of anybody writing fiction.
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of wind from the open window caused the straws to quiver like feelers, and one stroked Honore's chin as he leaned close. Suddenly he laughed, playfully chucking the chin of his late brother. "Jules, mon cher," he roared, "I shall make you a speech. It is altogether fitting that I do so. Eh? Attendez." He leaned forward staring into Jules' dead eyes. "Whether you like it or not, mon petit, a part of your brain is now -- this very minute -- in my great bird. How do you like that?" Suddenly the irony of the situation he himself had created struck him and he choked with gurgling laughter, the tears streaming down his cheeks. So blinded, he could not see the open window reflected in the staring eyes of Jules, nor the shadow that darkened it. Nor could he hear his brother's lips whisper "Touché", above his own hysterical mirth. H.P.L. - A COMMENT by Walter Harwood -- According to a recent note in the Rex Stout Monthly Mystery magazine, even Edmund Wilson, perhaps the greatest and most influential literary critic of the present time, has been compelled to examine, and pass judgment on, the "Lovecraft cult"; with the conclusion -- one almost suspects it was inevitable -- that the devotees of the cult are nothing better than a gang of nit-wits. Ah!, me, the not-so-good old days when I would have permitted a verdict like this to bring me servilely into line. Fortunately one usually acquires a trifle more of respect for his individuality as he grows on in years. Despite Wilson's lofty position in the field of belleslettres, I am obliged to express the opinion that I think his endocrine glands have acquired their own peculiar balance from too many hours spent in a library, and too few in the sunshine, or even at an office desk or behind a retail counter. Lovecraft, in my view, is like a deftly and intelligently-directed B-class mystery picture -- and that is just about the apex of movie entertainment. Even the expression "B-class" is not intended to reduce my expression of praise. I am thinking of a story with the emphasis on entertainment and readability, as contrasted with "serious fiction" which, in order to convey its message of vast artistic significance, has to be so damned boring that only a critic, or servile victim of a critic's intellectual browbeatings, would wade through the morass of tedious, eventless writing. Some of the serious writers of the present day deserve admiration. Theodore Dreiser, for example, was a very great man, and I admire him. But also a lot of heavy dishwater is being brewed for reader-consumption by men who, despite their remarkable abilities, are simply not story-tellers. Lovecraft, at the least, knew how to tell an interesting story; and that, as far as my sentiments are concerned, is the foremost attribute -- or ought to be -- of anybody writing fiction.
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