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Thing, whole no. 1, Spring 1946
Page 15
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From Crane, just before we went to press: I don't like those Socratic dialogues because dialogues were never conducted like that. This would be a far more natural conversation on the same subject: Socrates in Swing time: GANGLIONIDES: I want to read you something from You Can't Go Home Again, a non-fantasy novel. CALLIPYGOS: To hell with that, I've read it. G: But this proves a point I want to make. C: Tell me the point first. Then we'll see if I have to listen to you reading aloud to yourself. G: It's this: Non-fantasy books throw more light on human nature than fantasy books. C: So what? G: Nothing. C: So I admit your point and you don't have to read anything. But there are some fantasies which do have some pretty acute observations on human nature. Take Stribling's Green Splotches. G: Yes, but are the fantasies any better for giving us anything other than pure science-fiction? C: Wait a minute! You've reversed your position. Does that mean that I have to walk backward, too? G: You do if you want to argue with me. C: Okay. Now I know where you stand. You want human nature kept out of fantasy and fantasy to be all pure ratiocination. G: Yeah, but pure ratiocination is a little far from the experience of the reader. Certainly probing into human nature is a large part of the function of literature. C: Either you've reversed yourself again or I understand you at last! You mean science-fiction can never be literature! G: No. C: Then, what do you mean? G: Let's go get a coca-cola. ((Yes, let's. --Helen)) WITCH WIFE [drawing] The wind howls weirdly down the night-dark roof. And muffled chanting rises from below; I see the imprint of a cloven hoof Where feeble lamplight crouches on the snow. I peer across the icy window sill; My pulses leap, my throat is dry and hot. My wife is a witch? I see her stoop to fill, With herbs and nameless things, a blackened pot; And as she stirs the mixture, muttering, Our horses in the barnyard race and snort, As though in fear of some unholy THING. (All this is nonsense of the rankest sort. I know it is, of course. My wife a witch indeed!) And yet...she cut herself today and did not bleed... ...JAMES RUSSELL GRAY 15
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From Crane, just before we went to press: I don't like those Socratic dialogues because dialogues were never conducted like that. This would be a far more natural conversation on the same subject: Socrates in Swing time: GANGLIONIDES: I want to read you something from You Can't Go Home Again, a non-fantasy novel. CALLIPYGOS: To hell with that, I've read it. G: But this proves a point I want to make. C: Tell me the point first. Then we'll see if I have to listen to you reading aloud to yourself. G: It's this: Non-fantasy books throw more light on human nature than fantasy books. C: So what? G: Nothing. C: So I admit your point and you don't have to read anything. But there are some fantasies which do have some pretty acute observations on human nature. Take Stribling's Green Splotches. G: Yes, but are the fantasies any better for giving us anything other than pure science-fiction? C: Wait a minute! You've reversed your position. Does that mean that I have to walk backward, too? G: You do if you want to argue with me. C: Okay. Now I know where you stand. You want human nature kept out of fantasy and fantasy to be all pure ratiocination. G: Yeah, but pure ratiocination is a little far from the experience of the reader. Certainly probing into human nature is a large part of the function of literature. C: Either you've reversed yourself again or I understand you at last! You mean science-fiction can never be literature! G: No. C: Then, what do you mean? G: Let's go get a coca-cola. ((Yes, let's. --Helen)) WITCH WIFE [drawing] The wind howls weirdly down the night-dark roof. And muffled chanting rises from below; I see the imprint of a cloven hoof Where feeble lamplight crouches on the snow. I peer across the icy window sill; My pulses leap, my throat is dry and hot. My wife is a witch? I see her stoop to fill, With herbs and nameless things, a blackened pot; And as she stirs the mixture, muttering, Our horses in the barnyard race and snort, As though in fear of some unholy THING. (All this is nonsense of the rankest sort. I know it is, of course. My wife a witch indeed!) And yet...she cut herself today and did not bleed... ...JAMES RUSSELL GRAY 15
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