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Fantasy Commentator, v. 1, issue 7, Summer 1945
Page 154
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154 FANTASY COMMENTATOR homely a touch as the Elite Lunch in a small Maine village. Lovecraft's world is never a reality: it is the unique world of accursed Arkham; the dark Miskatonic; great Cthulhu; degenerate Innsmouth; the abhorred Necronomicon of the mad Arab, Abdul Alhazred; eon-cursed R'lyeh in the Pacific deep. This is a vaster and far more picturesque sphere, truly---but one in which we can never truly believe or feel at home. It is a dark intellectual conception and a terrifying emotional experience. Sloane's---on the surface at least---is not too incompatible with what we know and see of existence outside our library window. The people in the world of Sloane are authentic three-dimensional characters. They wise-crack; they dance and mix cocktails; they laugh. Some are recognizable small-town types: narrow, shrewd, suspicions. Others, such as "Prexy," are familiar to any typical college community. Some of these characters fall in love in a beautifully natural manner (such as Anne and Richard) or from exotic fascination (as did Selena and Jerry). We feel a measure of self-identification with them: there is the give-and-take of ordinary persons which we can sense from our own personal experience. Lovecraft, in the main, neglects characterization almost completely. The creations of his Cthulhu mythos are never credible as living things, naturally. Even the narrators and doomed individuals in the tales never have any real existence save as props to be surrounded by an atmosphere of the marvelous and the sustained mood of terror and horror. Almost uniformly they are morbid, sensitive, learned delvers into arcane lore and abysmal night thoughts. Naturally, too, there is never any possibility of love interest. We never imagine ourselves in the places of these unhappy people. Compared to Lovecraft's frequent ponderosity, Sloane's style is for the most part light, cheerful and even breezy. It moves quickly and easily: episode to situation in a straightforward manner. Lovecraft uses a dozen adjectives and qualifying phrases where Sloane is satisfied with a single expertly chosen one. Nor is he morbid---he shuns this trait, while Lovecraft revels in incredible and sometimes revolting ghoulishness. Lovecraft's plots are very involved and complicated. Sometimes we must keep several different sub-plots and psychological concepts in mind simultaneously if we are to grasp the full implications of what is happening. In one or two cases we must remember or turn back to the opening lines of the story if we are to understand its closing sentences. By comparison, Sloane's plots are direct, crystal-clear and simply constructed. Perhaps the most serious and valid criticism of Lovecraft's work has been its characteristic lack of restraint. Sometimes a tale seems to defeat its own purpose by piling horror upon horror to an utterly prodigal degree. Our minds become numb, and we can no longer register any emotion except irritation. That great master of the weird and spectral, Algernon Blackwood, has been reported as saying, in effect, that Lovecraft's horrors leave him absolutely unmoved because of their sheer weight. He admits Lovecraft to have a fine feeling for atmosphere, but he remains cold to the plethora of physical horrors. Blackwood is the acknowledged king in the realm of the psychological terror tale, so we must agree that he is well qualified to judge. It must be admitted that there comes a blocking of the channels of horrific perception when they become overloaded. We become sated and unfeeling under a burden of terrors which if carefully selected, each in a separate story, might have made our flesh creep in the authentic manner. Sloane's terrors are thoughtfully chosen, and, with a distinct faculty for understatement, are completely developed into an absolute artistic unity. Most great tales of the weird have been comparatively short because their effect depends upon the crystallized essence of a single mood which is sustained throughout. Yet Sloane has managed
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154 FANTASY COMMENTATOR homely a touch as the Elite Lunch in a small Maine village. Lovecraft's world is never a reality: it is the unique world of accursed Arkham; the dark Miskatonic; great Cthulhu; degenerate Innsmouth; the abhorred Necronomicon of the mad Arab, Abdul Alhazred; eon-cursed R'lyeh in the Pacific deep. This is a vaster and far more picturesque sphere, truly---but one in which we can never truly believe or feel at home. It is a dark intellectual conception and a terrifying emotional experience. Sloane's---on the surface at least---is not too incompatible with what we know and see of existence outside our library window. The people in the world of Sloane are authentic three-dimensional characters. They wise-crack; they dance and mix cocktails; they laugh. Some are recognizable small-town types: narrow, shrewd, suspicions. Others, such as "Prexy," are familiar to any typical college community. Some of these characters fall in love in a beautifully natural manner (such as Anne and Richard) or from exotic fascination (as did Selena and Jerry). We feel a measure of self-identification with them: there is the give-and-take of ordinary persons which we can sense from our own personal experience. Lovecraft, in the main, neglects characterization almost completely. The creations of his Cthulhu mythos are never credible as living things, naturally. Even the narrators and doomed individuals in the tales never have any real existence save as props to be surrounded by an atmosphere of the marvelous and the sustained mood of terror and horror. Almost uniformly they are morbid, sensitive, learned delvers into arcane lore and abysmal night thoughts. Naturally, too, there is never any possibility of love interest. We never imagine ourselves in the places of these unhappy people. Compared to Lovecraft's frequent ponderosity, Sloane's style is for the most part light, cheerful and even breezy. It moves quickly and easily: episode to situation in a straightforward manner. Lovecraft uses a dozen adjectives and qualifying phrases where Sloane is satisfied with a single expertly chosen one. Nor is he morbid---he shuns this trait, while Lovecraft revels in incredible and sometimes revolting ghoulishness. Lovecraft's plots are very involved and complicated. Sometimes we must keep several different sub-plots and psychological concepts in mind simultaneously if we are to grasp the full implications of what is happening. In one or two cases we must remember or turn back to the opening lines of the story if we are to understand its closing sentences. By comparison, Sloane's plots are direct, crystal-clear and simply constructed. Perhaps the most serious and valid criticism of Lovecraft's work has been its characteristic lack of restraint. Sometimes a tale seems to defeat its own purpose by piling horror upon horror to an utterly prodigal degree. Our minds become numb, and we can no longer register any emotion except irritation. That great master of the weird and spectral, Algernon Blackwood, has been reported as saying, in effect, that Lovecraft's horrors leave him absolutely unmoved because of their sheer weight. He admits Lovecraft to have a fine feeling for atmosphere, but he remains cold to the plethora of physical horrors. Blackwood is the acknowledged king in the realm of the psychological terror tale, so we must agree that he is well qualified to judge. It must be admitted that there comes a blocking of the channels of horrific perception when they become overloaded. We become sated and unfeeling under a burden of terrors which if carefully selected, each in a separate story, might have made our flesh creep in the authentic manner. Sloane's terrors are thoughtfully chosen, and, with a distinct faculty for understatement, are completely developed into an absolute artistic unity. Most great tales of the weird have been comparatively short because their effect depends upon the crystallized essence of a single mood which is sustained throughout. Yet Sloane has managed
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