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Fanfare, v. 2, issue 2, whole no.8, February 1942
Page 7
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slan!der 7 I pass over that item with a quiet respect that not even the memory of Singleton can in any way diminish. * * * * * The chief danger in prophesying is that one is likely to be too specific. The way to become a famous prophet is never to be specific. For if one is sufficiently ambiguous and vague, wording his prophesies so that they can be interpreted to mean anything that future article writers wish them to mean, then one can be an-other Nostradamus, and help future authors buy their breakfast bacon at the same time. Superb! Nevertheless, I'd like to relinquish my claims to having my prophesies written up in a 1987 UNKNWON, by stating here and now that I don't believe UNKNOWN will last until 1987. In face, the sad truth is that I don't believe UNKNOWN will last out another two issues. In a field replete with Captain Futures and Thrilling Wonder Stories, its passing will be mourned bitterly; the bitterness made stronger by the fact that it could still be one of the best-sell-ing pulp magazines with an intelligent policy, instead of, quote: "Blah and something-I-don't recall with Yesterday's Ten Thousand Years." Unquote. For instance, if you want to see a flock of fans head to one grand stampede for the Men's room, mention L. Sprague de Camp. You're sick of de Camp, I'm sick of de Camp, we're all sick of de Camp. (Except me - yhos) The prophecy of the Goatherd in the old PLUTO has come true; everybody has had an overdose of the old double entendre master, and wishes heartily that de Camp would de-camp and take up slick writing. It's like eating strawberry jam. The first spoonful is utterly delightful, the fifth not so good, and by the time one has finished the jar, one is inclined to believe that strawberry jam was the chief-stock-in-trade of the gentlemen who made the Spanish Inquisition such a jolly clambake. And yet month after month after month after month, UNKNOWN and de Camp and vice versa. The two go together. And the situation hasn't been improved any by the fact that all the lead novels lately have been almost exclusively by that cynical, worked-out hack. Nor the fact that the writers in UNKNOWN are almost entirely limited to Heinlein, Bond, Cartmill, Hubbard, Kuttner, Sturgeon, Rice, and the penames of those gentlemen. (Jane, being the pseudonym of two writers, one male, specializing in the romance field, does not count.) This overuse of authors of such frequent appearance that they can almost be termed staff writers, is the first step responsible for the decline and eventual disappearance of Unk. The second reason is the magazine's imbecile policy. Campbell will not use atmosphere fantasy of any kind unless a name like C.L.Moore's forces him to. Wacky fantasy, wacky fantasy, and more wacky fantasy is the result. Only a certain type of fantasy
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slan!der 7 I pass over that item with a quiet respect that not even the memory of Singleton can in any way diminish. * * * * * The chief danger in prophesying is that one is likely to be too specific. The way to become a famous prophet is never to be specific. For if one is sufficiently ambiguous and vague, wording his prophesies so that they can be interpreted to mean anything that future article writers wish them to mean, then one can be an-other Nostradamus, and help future authors buy their breakfast bacon at the same time. Superb! Nevertheless, I'd like to relinquish my claims to having my prophesies written up in a 1987 UNKNWON, by stating here and now that I don't believe UNKNOWN will last until 1987. In face, the sad truth is that I don't believe UNKNOWN will last out another two issues. In a field replete with Captain Futures and Thrilling Wonder Stories, its passing will be mourned bitterly; the bitterness made stronger by the fact that it could still be one of the best-sell-ing pulp magazines with an intelligent policy, instead of, quote: "Blah and something-I-don't recall with Yesterday's Ten Thousand Years." Unquote. For instance, if you want to see a flock of fans head to one grand stampede for the Men's room, mention L. Sprague de Camp. You're sick of de Camp, I'm sick of de Camp, we're all sick of de Camp. (Except me - yhos) The prophecy of the Goatherd in the old PLUTO has come true; everybody has had an overdose of the old double entendre master, and wishes heartily that de Camp would de-camp and take up slick writing. It's like eating strawberry jam. The first spoonful is utterly delightful, the fifth not so good, and by the time one has finished the jar, one is inclined to believe that strawberry jam was the chief-stock-in-trade of the gentlemen who made the Spanish Inquisition such a jolly clambake. And yet month after month after month after month, UNKNOWN and de Camp and vice versa. The two go together. And the situation hasn't been improved any by the fact that all the lead novels lately have been almost exclusively by that cynical, worked-out hack. Nor the fact that the writers in UNKNOWN are almost entirely limited to Heinlein, Bond, Cartmill, Hubbard, Kuttner, Sturgeon, Rice, and the penames of those gentlemen. (Jane, being the pseudonym of two writers, one male, specializing in the romance field, does not count.) This overuse of authors of such frequent appearance that they can almost be termed staff writers, is the first step responsible for the decline and eventual disappearance of Unk. The second reason is the magazine's imbecile policy. Campbell will not use atmosphere fantasy of any kind unless a name like C.L.Moore's forces him to. Wacky fantasy, wacky fantasy, and more wacky fantasy is the result. Only a certain type of fantasy
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