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Chaos, v. 1, issue 4, April 1945
Page 8
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YOU CAN'T BREATHE AT ALL... THE TROUBLE WITH SCIENCE FICTION FANS POSSIBLY IS THAT THEY THINK about science fiction. I don't think about science fiction. It's all a joke, friends. Something to laugh about when you wake up at twelve o'clock at night and don't know whether to do something about what you have done -- which of course you can't -- or to do (think) about something you will do -- which of course you won't if you're like me, of course. I hope you're hot like me. I've been like me for years and years and, believe me, it's a strain. And don't get me wrong, friends, when I say science fiction is a joke; I mean relatively so. Everything's relative, you know. Everything's relative, you know. Everybody and his brother. Relative. And so is science fiction. A relative dream, a fancy, a conceit-like science, and religion, and the five cent cigar. All that is perfectly useless, said Oscar, and they chucked him in the gaol for his pains. I've never been is jail myself. I once stood by the ocean for half an hour shouting art is useless but they didn't put me in prison. Nobody heard me the seagulls. A seagull is a lovely bird God wot. If I were a bird I would like to be a seagull. It is a punishable offense to kill a seagull. Law, and justice too. And you would like to know my philosophy, friends. Believe me, the best philosophy is no philosophy. Say you have a philosophy, a good sensible philosophy, and everything conforms to your philosophy. And then, you damn fool, you make a lot of money, or go bald or eat too much nut fudge, and get appendicitis or pneumonia or scabies and end up with a hangover and an appointment with the dentist. And then, friend, you damn fool, where are you? If you're still an ignoramus you're figuring out a new philosophy to account for all these things. The human race is going to hell, very likely, but who, friends, who gives a damn? This I ask in all sincerity. I understand that our moral, economic, and cultural background is all shot to hell, but believe me, friend, as long as there's a prophet in it this rotteness will go on. You are the dead, friends, you are the dead. And you don't know it either, which makes the crack such a good one. And in some corner of the hubba hubba coucht makes game of that which makes as much. Of thee? All right, I won't play. I'd rather stand in the corner with a hole in my head. Maybe I like a hole in my head. Maybe it suits my personality. I still won't play. Call me an ectomorph; I have just one personality to give to science fiction. Call me an egotist. I like to be called an egotist. It soothes me. Believe me, friends, only God can make an egotists and I'm God's handiwork. And who is the moon? Who wants the moon, he asked, while fragments of a hyperbole dribbled down his ears. You can't breath on the moon (or my collar) and there is no record of anyone trying. Ai! The smoky candle end of time burns out and where are we, friends, where are we? And the answer rings back from the highest hills : Under the table. Good God -- such an unpresentable place. Science fiction is under the table on a national scale. That's the long and short of it. To hell with you, friends, to hell with you. --- George Ebey
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YOU CAN'T BREATHE AT ALL... THE TROUBLE WITH SCIENCE FICTION FANS POSSIBLY IS THAT THEY THINK about science fiction. I don't think about science fiction. It's all a joke, friends. Something to laugh about when you wake up at twelve o'clock at night and don't know whether to do something about what you have done -- which of course you can't -- or to do (think) about something you will do -- which of course you won't if you're like me, of course. I hope you're hot like me. I've been like me for years and years and, believe me, it's a strain. And don't get me wrong, friends, when I say science fiction is a joke; I mean relatively so. Everything's relative, you know. Everything's relative, you know. Everybody and his brother. Relative. And so is science fiction. A relative dream, a fancy, a conceit-like science, and religion, and the five cent cigar. All that is perfectly useless, said Oscar, and they chucked him in the gaol for his pains. I've never been is jail myself. I once stood by the ocean for half an hour shouting art is useless but they didn't put me in prison. Nobody heard me the seagulls. A seagull is a lovely bird God wot. If I were a bird I would like to be a seagull. It is a punishable offense to kill a seagull. Law, and justice too. And you would like to know my philosophy, friends. Believe me, the best philosophy is no philosophy. Say you have a philosophy, a good sensible philosophy, and everything conforms to your philosophy. And then, you damn fool, you make a lot of money, or go bald or eat too much nut fudge, and get appendicitis or pneumonia or scabies and end up with a hangover and an appointment with the dentist. And then, friend, you damn fool, where are you? If you're still an ignoramus you're figuring out a new philosophy to account for all these things. The human race is going to hell, very likely, but who, friends, who gives a damn? This I ask in all sincerity. I understand that our moral, economic, and cultural background is all shot to hell, but believe me, friend, as long as there's a prophet in it this rotteness will go on. You are the dead, friends, you are the dead. And you don't know it either, which makes the crack such a good one. And in some corner of the hubba hubba coucht makes game of that which makes as much. Of thee? All right, I won't play. I'd rather stand in the corner with a hole in my head. Maybe I like a hole in my head. Maybe it suits my personality. I still won't play. Call me an ectomorph; I have just one personality to give to science fiction. Call me an egotist. I like to be called an egotist. It soothes me. Believe me, friends, only God can make an egotists and I'm God's handiwork. And who is the moon? Who wants the moon, he asked, while fragments of a hyperbole dribbled down his ears. You can't breath on the moon (or my collar) and there is no record of anyone trying. Ai! The smoky candle end of time burns out and where are we, friends, where are we? And the answer rings back from the highest hills : Under the table. Good God -- such an unpresentable place. Science fiction is under the table on a national scale. That's the long and short of it. To hell with you, friends, to hell with you. --- George Ebey
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