DIY History | Transcribe | Hevelin Fanzines | Fantascience Digest, v. 2, issue 1, Novermber-December 1938

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Fantascience Digest, v. 2, issue 1, Novermber-December 1938

Page 20

Page 20     FANTASCIENCE DIGEST

"DEATH IS A DIPLODOCUS"
by Henry Kuttner

For some unguessable reason the editor of FD has asked me for an article. *Funny stuff, he says, leering. *Yuh know, buddy, , . funny stuff. Just why the writing of fantasy should qualify a guy for writing funny stuff is difficult to imagine. But that's the way it seems to work out. I have had friends, after reading a yam of mine, burst
into uncontrolled fits of laughter— a development rather startling to me, for the story was a heart-wrenching tragedy involving the thwarted
love of a highly evolved but nevertheless, inhibited avocado tree for a gentleman named Cyaxares Whee, who
liked Marlene Deitrich, as who
doesn't?
     On the other hand, I have asked friends to read awfully funny yarns I have written, and when they have finished they seem very sad about the whole thing, Sometimes they fall down, writhing in uncontrolled fits which I cannot bring myself to believe are laughter. it is all very confusing.
     On the other hand (which makes three hands so far)„ I have received letters from people I have never met who tell me they don't like my stuff
and they don't like me, so there. Well,, I don't like t̲h̲e̲m̲. That makes us even all around   and should make everybody happy. Where was I?
     Oh, yes—all this ls a rather
unnecessary Introduction to a curious incident which occurred the other night in my eighty-room cotttage at Malibu Beach (The town house—the big one—ls being repaired, for horses keep rushing through the french windows and
breaking them. Perhaps the fact that the house is built on the Santa Anita racetrack has something to do with it, I cannot tell )
     At the tine I was writing, er
at any rate staring at my typewriter with a stupid expression somewhat reminiscent of a Pekingsese
with catarrh   (This is called Seeking Inspiration by the way. Dreiser does It too.) As I say. there I was, when without   warning a little guy popped out of the bookcase and breathed heavily down my neck. He had a long white beard,  a black
eye. and a peculiarly desperate expression.
    "I've succeeded," he gurgled. "At last! My experiments of years have proved successful! Yeah man!"
     I looked at him coldly, *Who
asked you in?" I inquired cordially. He paused long enough to grin at me.
     "You've been writing about me long enough, kid ," he said. "You know—the old professor—"
     "Oh-oh, " I said, getting up in a hurry. "You ought to have a beautiful daughter around somewhere." I straightened my tie.
     Whiskers chuckled. "And here she is—Sandra. Sandra Burns."
     A gal fell out of the bookcase. She had big blue eyes, coils of golden hair, and an anxious espression. "Oh,   dear, oh dear," she murmured. "Father has gone mad--mad--
m̲a̲d̲! He will destroy the earth. "

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Page 20 FANTASCIENCE DIGEST "DEATH IS A DIPLODOCUS" by Henry Kuttner For some unguessable reason the editor of FD has asked me for an article. *Funny stuff, he says, leering. *Yuh know, buddy, , . funny stuff. Just why the writing of fantasy should qualify a guy for writing funny stuff is difficult to imagine. But that's the way it seems to work out. I have had friends, after reading a yam of mine, burst into uncontrolled fits of laughter— a development rather startling to me, for the story was a heart-wrenching tragedy involving the thwarted love of a highly evolved but nevertheless, inhibited avocado tree for a gentleman named Cyaxares Whee, who liked Marlene Deitrich, as who doesn't? On the other hand, I have asked friends to read awfully funny yarns I have written, and when they have finished they seem very sad about the whole thing, Sometimes they fall down, writhing in uncontrolled fits which I cannot bring myself to believe are laughter. it is all very confusing. On the other hand (which makes three hands so far)„ I have received letters from people I have never met who tell me they don't like my stuff and they don't like me, so there. Well,, I don't like t̲h̲e̲m̲. That makes us even all around and should make everybody happy. Where was I? Oh, yes—all this ls a rather unnecessary Introduction to a curious incident which occurred the other night in my eighty-room cotttage at Malibu Beach (The town house—the big one—ls being repaired, for horses keep rushing through the french windows and breaking them. Perhaps the fact that the house is built on the Santa Anita racetrack has something to do with it, I cannot tell ) At the tine I was writing, er at any rate staring at my typewriter with a stupid expression somewhat reminiscent of a Pekingsese with catarrh (This is called Seeking Inspiration by the way. Dreiser does It too.) As I say. there I was, when without warning a little guy popped out of the bookcase and breathed heavily down my neck. He had a long white beard, a black eye. and a peculiarly desperate expression. "I've succeeded," he gurgled. "At last! My experiments of years have proved successful! Yeah man!" I looked at him coldly, *Who asked you in?" I inquired cordially. He paused long enough to grin at me. "You've been writing about me long enough, kid ," he said. "You know—the old professor—" "Oh-oh, " I said, getting up in a hurry. "You ought to have a beautiful daughter around somewhere." I straightened my tie. Whiskers chuckled. "And here she is—Sandra. Sandra Burns." A gal fell out of the bookcase. She had big blue eyes, coils of golden hair, and an anxious espression. "Oh, dear, oh dear," she murmured. "Father has gone mad--mad-- m̲a̲d̲! He will destroy the earth. "