The Unique Legacy of Weird Tales Studies in Supernatural Literature Series Editor: S. T. Joshi Lovecraft and Influence: His Predecessors and Successors, edited by Robert H. Waugh, 2013 Lord Dunsany, H. P. Lovecraft, and Ray Bradbury: Spectral Journeys, by William F. Touponce, 2013 Critical Essays on Lord, edited by S. T. Joshi, 2013 Ramsey Campbell: Critical Essays on the Modern Master of Horror, edited by Gary William Crawford, 2014 Lord Dunsany: A Comprehensive Bibliography, Second Edition, by S. T. Joshi and Darrell Schweitzer, 2014 Disorders of Magnitude: A Survey of Dark Fantasy, by Jason V. Brock, 2014 The Unique Legacy of Weird Tales: The Evolution of Modern Fantasy and Horror, edited by Justin Everett and Jeffrey H. Shanks, 2015 The Unique Legacy of Weird Tales The Evolution of Modern Fantasy and Horror Edited by Justin Everett Jeffrey H. Shanks ROWMAN & LITTLEFIELD Lanham • Boulder • New York • London Published by Rowman & Littlefield A wholly owned subsidiary of The Rowman & Littlefield Publishing Group, Inc. 4501 Forbes Boulevard, Suite 200, Lanham, Maryland 20706 www.rowman.com Unit A, Whitacre Mews, 26-34 Stannary Street, London SE11 4AB Copyright © 2015 by Rowman & Littlefield All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote passages in a review. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Information Available Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data The unique legacy of Weird Tales : the evolution of modern fantasy and horror / edited by Justin Everett and Jeffrey H. Shanks. pages cm. — (Studies in supernatural literature) Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-1-4422-5621-7 (hardback : alk. paper) — ISBN 978-1-4422-5622-4 (ebook) 1. Weird tales. 2. Fantasy fiction, American—History and criticism. 3. Horror tales, American—History and criticism. 4. Periodicals—Publishing—United States—History—20th century. 5. Pulp literature, American—History and criticism. I. Everett, Justin, editor. II. Shanks, Jeffrey H., 1972– editor. PS228.F35U55 2015 813'.0876609—dc23 2015020167 TM The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of American National Standard for Information Sciences Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992. Printed in the United States of America Contents Acknowledgments vii Introduction: Weird Tales—Discourse Community and Genre Nexus Justin Everett and Jeffrey H. Shanks ix Part I: The Unique Magazine: Weird Tales, Modernism, and Genre Formation 1 “Something That Swayed as If in Unison”: The Artistic Authenticity of Weird Tales in the Interwar Periodical Culture of Modernism Jason Ray Carney 2 Weird Modernism: Literary Modernism in the First Decade of Weird Tales Jonas Prida 3 The Lovecraft Circle and the “Weird Class”: “Against the Complacency of an Orthodox Sun-Dweller” Dániel Nyikos 4 Strange Collaborations: Weird Tales’s Discourse Community as a Site of Collaborative Writing Nicole Emmelhainz 5 Gothic to Cosmic: Sword-and-Sorcery Fiction in Weird Tales Morgan T. Holmes v 1 3 15 29 51 63 vi Contents Part II: Eich-Pi-El and Two-Gun Bob: Lovecraft and Howard in Weird Tales 6 A Nameless Horror: Madness and Metamorphosis in H. P. Lovecraft and Postmodernism Clancy Smith 7 Great Phallic Monoliths: Lovecraft and Sexuality Bobby Derie 8 Evolutionary Otherness: Anthropological Anxiety in Robert E. Howard’s “Worms of the Earth” Jeffrey H. Shanks 9 Eugenic Thought in the Works of Robert E. Howard Justin Everett Part III: Masters of the Weird: Other Authors of Weird Tales 10 Pegasus Unbridled: Clark Ashton Smith and the Ghettoization of the Fantastic Scott Connors 11 “A Round Cipher”: Word-Building and World-Building in the Weird Works of Clark Ashton Smith Geoffrey Reiter 12 C. L. Moore, M. Brundage, and Jirel of Joiry: Women and Gender in the October 1934 Weird Tales Jonathan Helland 13 Psycho-ology 101: Incipient Madness in the Weird Tales of Robert Bloch Paul W. Shovlin 14 “To Hell and Gone”: Harold Lawlor’s Self-Effacing Pulp Metafiction Sidney Sondergard 81 83 105 119 131 151 153 173 187 201 211 Index 229 About the Editors and Contributors 243 Acknowledgments This volume was the result of much hard work and collaboration on the part of a number of individuals and would not have been possible without their generous efforts. In particular, we would like to thank our contributors, whose excellent work has made this the most important volume of scholarship on Weird Tales to date. We would like to express our appreciation to S. T. Joshi for his guidance and oversight as the series editor for Studies in Supernatural Literature and to Stephan Ryan, senior editor at Rowman & Littlefield. We would also like to thank the Popular Culture Association (PCA) and American Culture Association (ACA); many of the chapters in this volume began as papers in the Pulp Studies area at several of the joint PCA/ACA National Conferences over the last few years, and that venue has been instrumental in creating a core group of scholars who are undertaking academic work on Weird Tales and its authors. Finally, we would like to express our deepest appreciation to our friends and family for their continued patience and forbearance in their support of our often time-consuming research and scholarship. vii Introduction Weird Tales—Discourse Community and Genre Nexus Justin Everett and Jeffrey H. Shanks When the magazine Weird Tales first appeared on newsstands in early 1923, there was nothing else like it—it truly was “The Unique Magazine.” Part of its attraction was, in fact, that it became a place to gather orphan stories together and for new forms to be born. Weird Tales published stories that today we would describe as horror, fantasy, and science fiction (hereafter sf) when these genres were still evolving, but at a time when no such genre labels existed. It would be within the pages of Weird Tales, and the sf periodicals Amazing Stories and Astounding that would appear a few years later, as well within the growing community of fans of these magazines and their own amateur publications, that these genres would come to be distilled and defined. The role of the readers cannot be overemphasized, because the readers were to a large extent also the magazine’s writers, and the letter column, “The Eyrie,” became an important forum for defining exactly what the “weird tale” was supposed to be. With Weird Tales a discourse community was formed, made up of editors, authors, readers, and fans who celebrated the nonrealist, extra-mainstream nature of speculative fiction in the early twentieth century, even as that community took apart that fiction and reassembled it into taxonomic categories—often in heated epistolary exchanges. According to John Swales, a discourse community has “common goals, participatory mechanisms, information exchange, community specific genres, a highly specialized terminology and a high level of general expertise.” 1 While many pulps could meet the basic definition of a discourse community, Weird Tales was particularly, well, “unique” in the sense that it began by announcing its intention to promote and publish a new kind of story. The result was that, as hard sf ix x Introduction began to branch off into its own publications, Weird Tales in the 1920s and ’30s became the home for “weird fiction,” the confluence of supernatural tales, fantasy adventure, and cosmic horror as part of a unique and tightly knit community of editors, readers, illustrators, and writers. The weird tale itself did not originate with the magazine—it had its roots in the works of Edgar Allan Poe, Mary Shelley, Washington Irving, Nathaniel Hawthorne, William Morris, Jules Verne, Edward Bulwer-Lytton, H. Rider Haggard, Arthur Conan Doyle, H. G. Wells, Ambrose Bierce, Arthur Machen, Lord Dunsany, Edgar Rice Burroughs, Abraham Merritt, and many others. But, it was in Weird Tales and in the works of its most influential contributors like H. P. Lovecraft, Robert E. Howard, Clark Ashton Smith, Robert Bloch, C. L. Moore, Seabury Quinn, and others that the threads spun by those many eclectic literary antecedents were woven together into something new. Weird Tales functioned as a nexus point in the development of speculative fiction from which emerged the modern genres of fantasy and horror. Weird Tales was the brainchild of publisher Jacob Clark (J. C.) Henneberger, whose biggest success up to that point was the magazine College Humor. In an attempt to break into the emerging pulp magazine market, Henneberger partnered with J. M. Lansinger to found Rural Publications, Inc., and launched two periodicals: Weird Tales and Real Detective Tales. A fan of Poe since his teens, Henneberger conceived of Weird Tales after a conversation with several authors who bemoaned the fact that there was no venue to publish tales of the outré and the macabre. 2 It wasn’t entirely true that there was no venue available; general interest pulps like Argosy, All-Story, and Blue Book occasionally published speculative fiction by authors like Burroughs and Merritt, and other periodicals like The Black Cat (though not a pulp) and the short-lived, poorly distributed Thrill Book devoted a large amount of space to supernatural stories. But as genre-specific magazines were just starting to take off in the early 1920s, there was not yet a magazine devoted entirely to weird fiction. Henneberger planned to change that. The inaugural issue of Weird Tales was dated March 1923, and the cover featured a scene from the sf story “Ooze” by Anthony Rud with a cephalopodic monster, a damsel in distress, and a squared-jawed hero armed with a knife and shotgun. These images were, of course, standard fare for pulp covers in those days—except for the giant, tentacled amoeba. Other notable names that debuted in that first issue include Otis Adelbert Kline, now known for his Burroughs-style planetary romances, and Farnsworth Wright, who would soon become the magazine’s best-known editor. Later that year, they would be joined by future mainstays Quinn, Smith, and Lovecraft. The magazine also ran reprints of stories by classic weird fiction pioneers like Poe, Bierce, and Bulwer-Lytton. Introduction xi Weird Tales’s struggles, and its eventual success in creating the genre we now know as “weird fiction” is as much the product of Kairos, a unique moment when the time is right for the production of a particular utterance. The magazine, in essence, developed less as a singular text and more as a corpus, a collection of texts, or a discourse community as defined by Swales and as a result became responsible for itself. In rhetoric, Kairos refers to the ability of a rhetor to take advantage of changing circumstances when delivering a speech in accordance with the members of the audience present and their changing mood. In modern rhetoric, in agreement with Aaron Hess, we might think of this as “timely” 3—the right words in the right place at the right time. Weird Tales appeared at just such a moment. Juxtaposed between literary modernism and pulp magazines targeting working-class readers, J. C. Henneberger’s experimental magazine did not belong to either of these worlds. As Jason Ray Carney has pointed out, 4 Weird Tales sought neither the literary license of modernism nor to adhere to the standard formulas of pulp fare, choosing instead to become, in the words of an unsigned manifesto published in the first anniversary issue, devoted to “the weird, the bizarre, the unusual.” 5 As a pulp magazine, Weird Tales was undeniably meant for consumption by the masses, and ran contrary to the currents of modernism. At the same time, by promoting the magazine as “true art,” 6 this manifesto was essentially declaring a break from standard pulp fare. As the debate that took place in the magazine’s letters column, “The Eyrie,” during its inaugural year demonstrates, this self-concept provided it with an exigence, in the words of Lloyd Bitzer, “an imperfection marked by urgency . . . a defect, an obstacle, something waiting to be done, a thing which is other than it should be.” 7 This positioned it against both the other pulps and the Modernists, while looking backward to the Gothic for its literary inspiration. It was, in part, Henneberger’s taste for the literary macabre that put the magazine in a difficult marketing position upon its appearance on the newsstands because the readers didn’t quite know what to do with it. This became evident from the comments published in “The Eyrie,” where readers would bicker over the proper focus of the magazine. While part of this had to do with the messy collection of stories editor Edwin Baird had selected for the first issues, part certainly had to do with the stories readers were encountering (for good or ill) in other pulps, and the fact that most of their forms were rapidly evolving toward the popular genres we are familiar with today. That the readers of Weird Tales desired a magazine that deviated from standard pulp formulas is apparent from letters submitted to “The Eyrie” in the second issue. One reader comments: This willy-nilly stuff of would-be cowboys (when there aren’t any such animals nowadays) is sickening. So is sugar eaten to excess. Keep this magazine xii Introduction going. There is demand for such literature. . . . Believe me, I’m for it! For the same reason I have always read Poe. 8 Another reader complains that editors of other magazines “see nothing but stereotypes”; 9 while a third lists “Dickens, Thackeray, Poe, Bierce, O’Brien, F. Marion Crawford and DeMaupaussant” [sic] 10 as writers of weird tales. In the April issue Baird repeats his complaint that most of the stories submitted are too formulaic, declares “if Poe were living today he would find no market for his work except in Weird Tales,” and repeats his determination to “blaze a new path in magazine literature.” 11 In the regular invocation of the word literature along with references to Poe and slights directed at other pulps we can see the attempt on the part of Henneberger and Baird to carve out a unique, kairotic place in the magazine market. While the reader’s sentiments are no doubt genuine, since the letters are selected by the editor the column must be viewed primarily as the editor’s attempt to build an argument that Weird Tales is a continuation of the literary Gothic. This situates it in a third position opposed, on one hand, to literary modernism and, on the other, to the formulaic stories appearing in other pulps. With the March 1924 issue the genre of weird fiction had begun to consolidate. This issue features the publication of Lovecraft’s “The Rats in the Walls” and a long excerpt of a letter from Lovecraft who both defines weird fiction against modernism and defends its quality as art when he writes, “It occurred to me that I, in my weirder medium, could probably devise some secret behind a man’s ancestry that would make the worst of [Sherwood] Anderson’s disclosures sound like the annual report of a Sabbath School.” 12 Ironically, Baird’s final issue (the oversized May–June–July 1924 issue) would end with an essay, “Why Weird Tales?” attributed to Otis Adelbert Kline. This essay actually reiterated much of what Baird had been saying in “The Eyrie” since the magazine’s inception. It reinforces Poe as its literary inspiration and underlines the idea that Weird Tales was a literary pioneer by publishing material other pulps had to date refused to print. It goes on to address the controversy surrounding the types of stories published in its pages by stating, “We make no pretension of publishing, or even trying to publish, a magazine that will please everybody. What we have done, and will continue to do, is gather around us an ever-increasing body of readers who appreciate the weird, the bizarre, the unusual—who recognize true art in fiction.” 13 This statement addresses the tension between the desire for horror stories on one hand and scientific stories on the other, but more important perhaps is the emphasis on the readers, on the creation of what modern researchers might call a discourse community, with a focus on two core aspects of the weird tale—“the bizarre” and “true art.” The essay is essentially an apologia that both apologizes, at least indirectly, for the controversy Introduction xiii and argues for the magazine’s continued existence. Reflecting the first year’s content, along with the opposite poles of the readers’ preferences, the column defines weird fiction as consisting of the occult stories on one hand and scientific stories on the other. While the essayist was certainly correct that both forms would “live on into the future,” 14 it was not the fate of Weird Tales to carry on these two forms side by side, but to move toward a convergence, with some stories veering more toward the occult and others toward the scientific, but in either case characterized by the presence of the bizarre. But despite the magazine finally beginning to find its unique voice, content, and style, Weird Tales struggled to find marketplace success during its first year and had begun to fall into debt. Henneberger removed Baird from Weird Tales (though he left him at Real Detective Tales) and made a generous offer to Lovecraft to take the position. When Lovecraft declined due to his reluctance to move to Rural Publications’ home city of Chicago, Henneberger gave the editorship to Farnsworth Wright, who had been working as Baird’s assistant. With Wright at the helm, the magazine survived its initial stumbles and, while never a huge financial success, Weird Tales would go on to become one of the most important and influential publications of speculative fiction. A veteran of World War I and a sufferer of Parkinson’s disease, Wright had a mercurial editorial style and an eclectic taste in fiction, but under his watch, the magazine’s stable of core writers grew to include some of the most influential names in early fantasy and horror. Joining Lovecraft, Smith, Kline, and Quinn were Frank Belknap Long in 1924, Robert E. Howard and E. Hoffman Price in 1925, August Deleth and Edmond Hamilton in 1926, Donald Wandrei in 1927, C. L. Moore in 1933, and Robert Bloch in 1935. Wright even published a story from a teenage Tennessee Williams in 1928. He also launched the careers of several notable artists, including Margaret Brundage, whose risqué scenes of scantily clad women—often being tortured or held in bondage—created some controversy among readers (but no doubt increased sales). The Wright years are now looked upon as a golden age for Weird Tales, though with the deaths of Howard in 1936 and Lovecraft the following year, that halcyon period began to wane. In 1938, Henneberger sold Weird Tales to Short Stories, Inc., owner of the popular adventure pulp of the same name. Short Stories editor Dorothy McIlwraith was brought on to assist Wright, but differences of opinion led to Wright resigning in 1940; he passed away a few months later. McIlwraith had a very different, often more-conventional, approach than Wright, and many of the veteran writers of Wright’s tenure had more difficulty selling their stories to the new editor. The new leadership also faced challenges from nascent competitors like Mort Weisenger’s Strange Stories and John W. Campbell’s Unknown. Eventually the page count of Weird xiv Introduction Tales was reduced, as was the word rate for contributors, and as sales began to decline through the 1940s, this situation was exacerbated. Still, there were new writers who came into their own under McIlwraith—Fritz Leiber, Manly Wade Wellman, and most importantly, Ray Bradbury. Despite its struggles, Weird Tales persisted until 1954—the very end of the pulp magazine era. Over the years it has been rebooted under several different formats and editorial hands, including Lin Carter, Darrell Schweitzer, Ann VanderMeer, and most recently, Marvin Kaye. But it’s the Wright years—the so-called golden age of Weird Tales—that still attracts the most attention and the most interest from scholars, fans, and collectors, and it will be on the Wright years that many of the chapters in this volume will focus. This attention is not unwarranted, however, as it was during the magazine’s heyday in the 1920s and ’30s that the gestation and crystallization of the modern American versions of the horror and fantasy genres took place. And while many individuals, including Wright, contributed to the creative melting pot environment that was Weird Tales during that time, two names stand out as transcendently influential in their respective genres: H. P. Lovecraft with horror and Robert E. Howard with fantasy. There were other giants to be sure: Clark Ashton Smith (often placed beside Howard and Lovecraft as part of the great Weird Tales triumvirate), whose beautifully decadent prose and verse may rate him as the most talented of his peers; Catherine L. Moore, who brought a much-needed female voice to speculative fiction in the interregnum years between the two great waves of feminist sf; and Robert Bloch, whose explorations of the darker places in the human psyche would ultimately lead to the creation of one of the greatest fictional serial killers of all time—Norman Bates. But of the major contributors to Weird Tales in its prime, it is Lovecraft and Howard whose innovations had the most long-lasting influence. Lovecraft freed Gothic horror from its Judeo-Christian cosmological framework and replaced it with the more terrifying reality of the insignificance of man in the vast materialistic and mechanistic cosmos. Lovecraft’s cosmic horror is the epitome of the science-fictional sublime of Istvan Csicsery-Ronay, and more particularly the mathematical sublime of Kant, in its most overwhelmingly ego-crushing manifestation. Likewise, Lovecraft’s “gods and monsters” are the science-fictional grotesque 15 taken to the extreme—the familiar elements that are distorted are constituent pieces of living bodies—tentacles, wings, eyeballs, fur, scales—mixed and matched in a mockery of flesh, so that the reader, like the characters in his stories, are both repulsed and yet attracted to his mutable forms. Lovecraft’s new vision of the weird infused the work of the other writers of Weird Tales, both explicitly and implicitly, and the formation of a circle of regular correspondents centered on Lovecraft created a community of writers that were quite selfconsciously inventing a new mode of expressing horror in fiction—a mode Introduction xv that can only be described as Lovecraftian. Thus, the burgeoning modern horror genre was infused at birth with the Lovecraft ideology and aesthetic and their influence on the great names of the field, such as Ramsey Campbell, Stephen King, Peter Straub, Clive Barker, Neil Gaiman, Thomas Ligotti, China Miéville, and many others, can hardly be overstated. While Robert E. Howard also wrote horror stories for Weird Tales, his great contribution to speculative fiction was in fantasy, where he is credited as the originator of the “sword-and-sorcery” subgenre, which blends historical adventure fiction with Gothic or Lovecraftian horror. While earlier authors (many of whom influenced Howard) wrote stories that were in a similar vein, there is no doubt that Howard’s Conan the Cimmerian stories became the archetypal model for the subgenre and took modern fantasy to much darker, grittier, and more cynical places than the sentimental fantasists of the nineteenth century. While Howard’s stories in Weird Tales were sometimes commercial potboilers, the best of them (and there were many) often explored through analogy more modern social themes, such as racial, colonialist, and cultural anxieties; the changing role of masculinity in an industrial technocratic world; and the inevitability of corruption in social power structures. An important difference between Howard’s sword-and-sorcery fiction and more traditional fantasy is that the supernatural element is often portrayed as unnatural—intruding into the story world and threatening the existing paradigm rather than being a natural, inherent part of the world. In fact, this fits very well the story model that Farah Mendlesohn calls an “intrusion fantasy,” 16 in which “the world is ruptured by the intrusion, which disrupts normality and has to be negotiated with or defeated, sent back whence it came, or controlled.” 17 Thus, the defining characteristic of Howard’s swordand-sorcery that sets it apart from classical fantasy may then be said to be the resolution of the conflict resulting from irrational forces intruding upon the rational empirical world, through the agency of a heroic protagonist. 18 This “historical horror” take on fantasy had an immediate impact on Howard’s contemporaries and successors in the weird pulps, in particular Clark Ashton Smith, C. L. Moore, Henry Kutter, and Fritz Leiber. With the paperback boom in the 1960s and the reinvigoration of fantasy through the 1970s, Howard’s influence reached its apex, as the darker sword-and-sorcery fiction of writers like Michael Moorcock, Jack Vance, Karl Edward Wagner, Samuel Delany, Charles Saunders, Gardner F. Fox, John Jakes, Lin Carter, and others provided a popular alternative to the high fantasy of Tolkien. While less obvious than it was three decades ago, it can still be seen as what is arguably the most mainstream and widely read fantasy series today: George R. R. Martin’s A Song of Ice and Fire, which combines Howard’s gritty realism and low-magic style with Tolkien’s focus on epic, multilayered storytelling. xvi Introduction This volume explores the important and unique role that Weird Tales played in taking the many disparate threads of the weird fiction pioneers of the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries and providing a pulpwood paper loom for weaving them into what we now think of as the modern genres of fantasy and horror. Weird Tales served as a crucible for genre exploration, creation, and hybridization at a very particular time and place in American culture and the first section of this volume—“The Unique Magazine”—will explore these ideas in greater detail. As the literary world was undergoing the Modernist revolution, and at the same time mass-produced media and unprecedented literacy was creating the beginnings of a popular culture that would dwarf highbrow literature in social significance, Weird Tales situated itself fitfully and dynamically between those worlds. Jason Ray Carney explores this tension in the opening chapter, “‘Something That Swayed as If in Unison’: The Artistic Authenticity of Weird Tales in the Interwar Periodical Culture of Modernism.” In the second chapter, “Weird Modernism: Literary Modernism in the First Decade of Weird Tales,” Jonas Prida explores the unique ways in which the fiction of Weird Tales reflected and reacted to the modernist movement—and he does so by looking not at the best-known contributors like Lovecraft, Howard, and Smith, but rather lesser-known writers whose output nonetheless shaped the voice and tone of the magazine. In “The Lovecraft Circle and the ‘Weird Class’: ‘Against the Complacency of an Orthodox Sun-Dweller,’” Dániel Nyikos looks at the formation of the Lovecraft Circle within Weird Tales as a reaction to those same tensions and how those writers set themselves in opposition to the mainstream literary world. Nicole Emmelhainz, in “Strange Collaborations: Weird Tales’s Discourse Community as a Site of Collaborative Writing,” explores the types of collaboration, coauthorship, and social networks that emerged within the Weird Tales discourse community by examining letters between writers, letters from editors to writers, and associated fan publications, and shows how this was a vital resource for some of the magazines most notable authors. After the cosmic horror of Lovecraft, the next most important modern genre to coalesce within the unique creative atmosphere of Weird Tales was sword-and-sorcery. Morgan Holmes traces the development of the genre from its prototypical antecedents through its maturation under Howard, Smith, and Moore, to its later evolution following Howard’s death in “Gothic to Cosmic: Sword-and-Sorcery Fiction in Weird Tales.” In the second section of this volume—“Eich-Pi-El and Two-Gun Bob”— the chapters focus on Lovecraft and Howard, exploring some of the critical themes and issues that characterize the works of these two important and influential figures. Introduction xvii Clancy Smith delves into the philosophical underpinnings of Lovecraft’s cosmology in “A Nameless Horror: Madness and Metamorphosis in H. P. Lovecraft and Postmodernism” and its extra-human frame of reference and showing how it has even influenced poststructuralists like Gilles Deleuze. Bobby Derie, in “Great Phallic Monoliths: Lovecraft and Sexuality,” explores four of the most common interpretations—or “faces”—of Lovecraft’s expressions of sexuality implicit in his work: the asexual, the heterosexual, the homosexual, and the transsexual. Robert E. Howard’s work is thoroughly infused with the concept of “race” as it was understood in the early twentieth century and in the racist anthropology of the nineteenth century. The following two chapters attempt, at least in part, to address this important topic. In “Evolutionary Otherness: Anthropological Anxiety in Robert E. Howard’s ‘Worms of the Earth,’” Jeffrey Shanks looks at one expression of nineteenth-century racist anthropology, the Neolithic pygmy theory, and how it informed Howard’s Little People stories such as “Worms of the Earth.” And then, Justin Everett looks specifically at the eugenics movement of the late nineteenth and early twentieth century and its considerable influence on Howard’s work in “Eugenic Thought in the Works of Robert E. Howard,” focusing not only on the Little People stories but also the Conan story “Beyond the Black River.” In the third and final section of this volume we look at some of the other major writers that helped to create and define the type of fiction that developed in Weird Tales and who were major contributors to that discourse community from which much of modern horror and fantasy evolved. Scott Connors leads off this section with a discussion of arguably the most talented stylist of the Weird Tales writers, Clark Ashton Smith. In “Pegasus Unbridled: Clark Ashton Smith and the Ghettoization of the Fantastic,” Connors explores Smith’s struggles for literary acceptance in the face of a critical community that prejudicially confined weird fiction to the realm of the commercial. Geoffrey Reiter continues the discussion of Smith in “‘A Round Cipher’: Word-Building and World-Building in the Weird Works of Clark Ashton Smith,” in which he shows that Smith’s creative use of language becomes itself a framework for the subcreation of his secondary worlds and places him firmly in the tradition of more orthodox fantasists like George MacDonald and J. R. R. Tolkien. Catherine L. Moore was hardly the only female writer for Weird Tales, but she is undoubtedly the most influential and best known. In “C. L. Moore, M. Brundage, and Jirel of Joiry: Women and Gender in the October 1934 Weird Tales,” Jonathon Helland looks at not only Moore but also the wellknown cover artist Margaret Brundage, exploring the intersection of text and illustration in depicting female sexuality using Moore’s sword-and-sorcery xviii Introduction story “The Black God’s Kiss” in the context of its original Weird Tales publication as an example. After his career as a pulp writer, Robert Bloch would become best known for his novel Psycho, but during his early tenure at Weird Tales he had already begun to explore the horrific potential within the human mind. In “Psycho-ology 101: Incipient Madness in the Weird Tales of Robert Bloch,” Paul Shovlin delves into this important theme in Bloch’s early works. In the final chapter of this volume, Sidney Sondergard looks at Harold Lawlor, one of the lesser-known though still prolific Weird Tales authors active in the post–Farnsworth Wright period. In “‘To Hell and Gone’: Harold Lawlor’s Self-Effacing Pulp Metafiction,” Sondergard explores the metafictional aspects of Lawlor’s stories, which often utilize a protagonist who is a struggling writer looking for literary acceptance—a situation that reflects not only Lawlor but many of the other Weird Tales authors discussed in this volume. It is hoped that the chapters in this volume will show that to fully appreciate the development of weird fiction from the pioneers of the nineteenth century to the modern creators in the genres of horror, fantasy, and the new weird, it is imperative that one look at the pulp magazine Weird Tales as a crucial contextual nexus within which much of that evolution took place—or was at least greatly accelerated. Only at that particularly time and place—that moment of Kairos—were all of the elements present, socially, creatively, critically, to provide a venue for such minds as Lovecraft, Howard, Smith, Moore, Bloch, and many others to come together and along with editors like Baird and Wright and their actively engaged readership create a discourse community that elevated speculative fiction to new heights and whose influence reverberates through modern popular culture; a discourse community, Weird Tales, that has more than earned its famous sobriquet of “The Unique Magazine.” NOTES 1. John Swales, “The Concept of Discourse Community,” in Writing about Writing, ed. Elizabeth Wardle and Doug Downs (Boston and New York: Bedford/St. Martins, 2014), 224. 2. Robert Weinberg, The “Weird Tales” Story (West Linn, OR: Fax Collector’s Editions, 1977), 3. 3. Aaron Hess, “Critical-Rhetorical Ethnography: Rethinking the Place and Process of Rhetoric.” Communication Studies 62, no. 2 (2011): 127–52, 138. 4. Jason Carney, “The Shadow Modernism of Weird Tales: Experimental Pulp Fiction in the Age of Modernist Reflection” (PhD diss., Case Western University, 2014). 5. Anonymous, “Why Weird Tales?” Weird Tales May/June/July 1924, in Weird Tales: The Magazine That Never Dies, ed. Marvin Kaye (Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1988), 569–73, 569. 6. Ibid., 569. 7. Lloyd F. Bitzer, “The Rhetorical Situation.” Philosophy & Rhetoric 1, no. 1 (1968): 1–14, 6. Introduction xix 8. Anonymous, letter to “The Eyrie,” Weird Tales, April 1923, 181. 9. Ibid., 181. 10. Ibid., 182. 11. Edwin Baird, “The Eyrie,” Weird Tales, 114. 12. H. P. Lovecraft, letter to “The Eyrie,” Weird Tales , March 1924, 89. 13. Anonymous, “Why Weird Tales?” 569. 14. Ibid., 570. 15. Istvan Csicsery-Ronay Jr., “On the Grotesque in SF.” Science Fiction Studies 29, no. 1, March 2002, 71–99. 16. Farah Mendlesohn, Rhetorics of Fantasy (Middletown, CT: Wesleyan University Press, 2008), 114–81. 17. Ibid., 115. 18. Jeffrey Shanks, “History, Horror, and Heroic Fantasy: Robert E. Howard and the Creation of the Sword-and-Sorcery Sub-Genre,” in Critical Insights: Pulp Fiction of the 1920s and 30s (Ipswich, MA: Salem Press, 2013), 15–16. Part I The Unique Magazine: Weird Tales, Modernism, and Genre Formation Chapter One “Something That Swayed as If in Unison” The Artistic Authenticity of Weird Tales in the Interwar Periodical Culture of Modernism Jason Ray Carney On April 29, 1923, an aspiring modernist poet, Samuel Loveman (1887–1976), received a letter from an aspiring pulp fiction writer, H. P. Lovecraft. In this letter, Lovecraft tells Loveman a strange story: his experience of gaining entry into and exploring the attic of a colonial house in Salem, Massachusetts, the house of one Rebekah Nurse, a woman hanged for witchcraft in 1692. I cannot resist representing Lovecraft—a legend in the modern genres of fantasy, science fiction, and supernatural horror—as a literary character: pale; hair meticulously parted; speaking tremulously in his high-pitched voice; sharp Rhode Island accent; wringing his hands nervously as he asks the pensive caretaker to allow him to climb into that attic. Lovecraft’s successful entry confirms his enigmatic attraction to the past in both his art and life: “I saw something hanging from the wormy ridge-pole—something that swayed as if in unison with the vesper breeze outside, though that breeze had no access to this funeral & forgotten place—shadows . . . shadows . . . shadows.” 1 Lovecraft’s letter to Loveman begins to hint at the network of connections that I outline in this chapter, a relationship between pulp writers and high modernists that, properly traced back to a site of confluence in Weird Tales, troubles traditional “high/low” dualism that for many years conditioned literary history’s elite/popular understanding of the interwar period of Anglophone literature: the idea that literature “split” in the early twentieth century between a high and a low, the “great divide” between elite 3 4 Jason Ray Carney modernism and populist mass culture memorably argued for by Andreas Huyssen in his classic After the Great Divide (1987). In the introduction to his study, referring to modernism as an “adversarial culture,” Huyssen sums up his argument succinctly: “[M]odernism constituted itself through a conscious strategy of exclusion, an anxiety of contamination by its other: an increasingly consuming and engulfing mass culture.” 2 But Lovecraft’s letter to Loveman in 1923, a year after the annus mirabilis of literary modernism; their correspondence; and their enduring friendship appears as anything but adversarial. In fact, it would be accurate to say Loveman was a literary colaborer with Lovecraft, a fellow writer publishing in a variety of small circulation, privately printed magazines. Lovecraft and Loveman were friends with similar artistic ambitions equally invested in each other’s literary careers. In April of 1923 Lovecraft was alone in a shadowy attic haunted by America’s colonial past, was metaphorically dwelling in the past, while Loveman was social, living among a group of Bohemians—writers, artists, musicians—recently returned to Brooklyn and Greenwich Village from Europe. Lovecraft and Loveman’s correspondence is a confluence of old and new, the past and present. Moreover, these two writers’ geographical distinctiveness is also worth emphasizing. As exemplar of the most artistically ambitious pulp fiction, Lovecraft in 1923 here reminds us that its production took place spatially as well as temporally outside of the regular sites of modernism and publishing: from Loveman in modern Manhattan we can distinguish Lovecraft in “colonial” Massachusetts, in the shadows of a witch’s attic. The Loveman–Lovecraft relationship challenges the distinction between high and low and pulp and modernism. It also emphasizes a unique tension at play in the context of modernism, a tension characterized by concrete and historical spatial and temporal elements. In highlighting these issues of geography and temporality, there is a periodical culture distinction that needs to be emphasized as well, one linked to the publishing context of interwar urban America. Like many poets living in New York, Loveman sought publication in “little magazine” periodicals like the Little Review, Poetry, and the American Mercury—publications highly regarded by the poetry mainstream. Not so Lovecraft. During the summer that Lovecraft was poking about in the attic of a reputed witch, admiring and reflecting on the shadow, he was urged by Loveman and his many literary correspondents to submit to a newly launched, experimental, “all-fiction” magazine. This was, of course, Weird Tales. Although Weird Tales, published in Chicago by a commercial firm, would later come to be framed as a “pulp,” at the time of its launch it was just another all-fiction magazine, quality of writing aside. Along with single-spaced typewritten manuscripts for five stories, Lovecraft enclosed a snobbish letter of introduction to the first editor of Weird “Something That Swayed as If in Unison” 5 Tales, Edwin Baird (1886–1957). Although the role Baird would play in the Weird Tales story was a short one—he left the magazine after it nearly went bankrupt in order to edit another pulp, Real Detective and Mystery Stories— his contribution to it was important: he made the decision to publish Lovecraft’s strange manuscripts. In his initial letter to Baird, Lovecraft does not cast himself as a professional writer but frames himself as a noncommercial amateur, a dilettante who merely dabbles in writing grotesque fiction as a distraction, a man who had to be convinced by his well-meaning friends, against his sense of propriety, to consider something so vulgar as selling his work: “I have lately been simultaneously hounded by nearly a dozen well-meaning friends into deciding to submit a few of these Gothic horrors to your newly founded periodical . . . I have no idea that these things will be found suitable, for I pay no attention to the demands of commercial writing.” 3 Here is a version of that rhetorical stance familiar to scholars of interwar Anglophone literature— the noncommercial artistic writer who is suspicious of the literary marketplace, editorial demands, the conventional tastes of the newly literate masses—a pose held, in one way or another, by the “usual suspects” of traditional canons of what has been called “high modernist” literature: Pound, Eliot, Joyce, Lawrence, Woolf, Hemingway, Yeats. It has been documented elsewhere how these high writers appear to withdraw from the anonymity and aesthetic degradation threatened by the market and the conventionalisms demanded by the newly literate consumer of literary commodities while at the same time participating fully in them, financially capitalizing on their status as cultural elites. The inverse, though, has not been documented: how certain commercial and pulp writers, like Lovecraft, also adopted noncommercial stances despite their marketplace publishing context. In Lovecraft’s letter to Baird is confirmation of Michel Houellebecq’s interpretation of Lovecraft as “resolutely anticommercial.” 4 To the extent that it suggests modernism, I find it provocative to see the anticommercial pose held by a writer like Lovecraft who, because he entered the literary world through a commercial magazine like Weird Tales, has been often framed in the past by literary historians as artistically degraded, as a producer of mass appeal culture, pleasurable entertainment worthy of appearing in extensive surveys but not worthy of close scrutiny. A gloss of Lovecraft’s literary output reveals a writer reluctant to mass-produce literary works; as a writer of pulp fiction, the pace by which he produced manuscripts is low. And yet, as interesting as Lovecraft’s artistic pose might be in itself, the fact that he had, at last, found a unique magazine to suit his noncommercial artistic ambitions concerns me here. In hindsight, we would call Weird Tales a “pulp magazine,” but in 1923 the idea of the “pulps” as kitschy publications of low-grade commercial fiction written by tyro hacks was still in the process of emergence. At this 6 Jason Ray Carney point the reference would have been the “pulpwood paper” magazine, a term that simply referred to the type of paper the magazine was printed on; the allegorical projection that carried the “low-grade/low-cost” connotations of pulpwood paper to the aesthetic quality of fiction that was printed on it came years later, after the pulpwood magazine business model—widely implemented and confirmed to be commercially lucrative—caused a boom of titles and the newsstand market became flooded with commodity literature, what one editor writing in the August 28, 1935, issue of the New York Times referred to as “fiction by volume.” Consider the following excerpt: “There is another publishing world little known and certainly unofficially recognized, in which volume of production is more important than literary quality. The pulp magazines, month in and month out, regardless of season and almost without concern for economic depression, go on pouring an endless stream of fiction to the news-stand trade.” 5 “Unofficially recognized”: this phrase is important to note as it reveals that “pulp magazines” as a discrete “Grub street” endeavor, generalizable in terms of high quantity and low quality, only became at hand as a circulating cultural stereotype after and as a result of the massive expansion of the all-fiction magazine market. Though East Coast intellectuals would ironically smile at such Midwest hubris (Weird Tales was published by a Chicago-based outfit), such magazines could and often did entertain literary ambitions in 1923. In fact, Weird Tales was founded in response to what the publisher, Jacob Clark Henneberger, thought of as an aesthetic crisis, a kind of encroachment of the contaminating commercial influence on literary endeavor. Henneberger describes his reasoning for founding the magazine in this way: Before the advent of Weird Tales, I had talked with such nationally known writers as Hamlin Garland, Emerson Hough, and Ben Hecht then residing in Chicago. I discovered that all of them expressed a desire to submit for publication a story of the unconventional type but hesitated to do so for fear of rejection. . . . When everything is properly weighed, I must confess that the main motive in establishing Weird Tales was to give the writer free rein to express his innermost feelings in a manner befitting great literature. 6 Contemporary literary scholars unaware of the history of pulpwood magazines are ill equipped, I think, to read this sloganeering accurately. Suffering from what David M. Earle calls a “prejudice of form” 7—value-laden preconceptions linked to the media vehicle of a literary text’s first appearance— many will tend to read this anecdote as nothing more than a rhetorically savvy brand advertisement, a philistine salesman’s attempt to cash in on what Pierre Bourdieu would call “symbolic capital.” 8 Given that what would come to be labeled as “pulp magazines” were engineered to be purchased on the cheap, printed on acid-rich paper that yellows and disintegrates quickly, adorned with sensationalized art often representing women in sexual scenar- “Something That Swayed as If in Unison” 7 ios, and inaccurately thought to be exclusively read by the uneducated lower classes, one would expect writers who published in them to have a mercenary vision of their artwork more in accord with that of the editor of the Writer’s Digest, the de facto trade magazine of commercial writers publishing in cheap paper, popular publications. Writing in his October 1930 editorial on “Popular Fiction—As It Is Today,” the editor writes, Writing for pulp-paper magazines never can be anything but a trade. Writers should face it as such. Say to yourself, “I am an intelligent writer and have logically figured out the reason why one hundred thousand readers buy a copy of Ravenous Ranch Romances each month. . . . I will write a story that not only coincides with the required word-length, but one that will specifically appease this incentive on the part of the readers.” 9 Here is an arch pulp writer speaking in harmonious accord with the bipolar vision of modern literature the idea of the high and low divide implies: writers in pulp magazines are tradesmen, not artists; their writing is conventional and formulaic; their writing takes this inspired shape in order to satisfy readers who crave formula and, worse still, a politically suspect escape from their daily lives made miserable by a system of exploitation. This glimpse into the trade journal of commercial writers is a confirmation of the vision of popular literature laid out by Adorno and Horkheimer in their Dialectic of Enlightenment: commercial magazines as artistically bankrupt and morally compromised arms of capitalism’s “culture industry,” an ideological apparatus that pacifies the masses, coaxes them into cooperating in their own exploitation. But at the same time that this passage confirms Adorno and Horkheimer’s vision, it subtly opens up space for the artistic pulp writer. The sentence “Writing for pulp-paper magazines never can be anything but a trade” is written as a dialogic response. The editor of Writer’s Digest is responding to, even scolding, a group of pulp writers, publishers, and editors, mute here, who he thinks inappropriately consider their writing efforts as something in excess of mere market exchanges. Seven years before this editorial, Henneberger might have been considered one of the idealistic publishers who considered “pulp-paper magazines” as something more than a mere trade censured here. Henneberger officially founded Weird Tales in 1923, and in the inaugural issue (March 1923), the editor, Edwin Baird, describes the magazine as a rare market for pulp manuscripts that did not follow conventions established by market-focused editors. Using the clipped, minimalistic idiom characteristic of pulp magazine editors concerned about the reading proficiency of their audience, he “brands” Weird Tales in this way: Weird Tales is not merely “another new magazine.” It’s a brand new type of new magazine—a sensational variation from the established rules that are 8 Jason Ray Carney supposed to govern magazine publishing. Weird Tales, in a word, is unique. . . . Our stories are unlike any you have ever read—or perhaps will ever read—in other magazines. They are unusual, uncanny, unparalleled. 10 As a commercial enterprise, Weird Tales might be considered a lackluster enterprise. Where major pulp magazines like Argosy and Blue Book Magazine could boast circulation among two hundred thousand to five hundred thousand readers from 1912 to 1922, Weird Tales’s circulation was below what would have been considered a major success for a pulp magazine business enterprise. Although the scant statistics archive seems to confirm Weird Tales’s tenuous commercial performance (pulp publishers rarely saved their business records), the myth of the magazine’s financial struggles is securely established within the communities of pulp magazine collectors whose underappreciated preservation efforts have resulted in the magazine’s apotheosis: “For all its fame and the legends which still proliferate about it,” writes pulp anthologist and enthusiast Peter Haining, “Weird Tales existed for most of its thirty years (1923–1954) in the most precarious financial state, and probably at the height of its popularity could boast no more than 50,000 readers.” 11 Within a year of the magazine’s inaugural issue, low circulation had resulted in Henneberger’s crippling debt of forty thousand dollars to his printer, B. Cornelius. Because of this, Henneberger was forced to sell his shares in the company that published Weird Tales to his financial partner; furthermore, he was forced to sell his shares in Weird Tales to his printer. As a result of this financial crisis and reorganization, the first editor of Weird Tales, Edwin Baird, left the magazine to edit the more conventional and commercially viable Detective Tales. In the summer of 1924, Henneberger found himself with a magazine that was not selling and that did not have an editor. We can only speculate why Henneberger stuck with the magazine, but he did so, and his decision decidedly repudiates the commercial “mercy killing” logic that typifies the pulp fiction marketplace in such accounts as Harold Hersey’s 1937 memoir, Pulpwood Editor: The Fabulous World of Thriller Magazines Revealed by a Veteran Editor and Publisher: “Only the nonsentimentalist in the pulpwoods—the publisher who has both the business acumen and the courage to commit these ‘mercy killings’—continues to prosper and expand. A lagging title is worse than useless.” 12 Quick to reorganize, Henneberger enlisted the help of contributors to edit a one-year anniversary issue, indexed as May–June–July of 1924. In this issue appears an anonymously authored manifesto titled, “Why Weird Tales?”: “Something That Swayed as If in Unison” 9 What we have done, and will continue to do, is to gather around us an everincreasing body of readers who appreciate the weird, the bizarre, the unusual—who recognize true art in fiction. . . . The writing of the common run of stories today has, unfortunately for American literature, taken on the character of an exact science. Such stories are entirely mechanical, conforming to fixed rules. 13 To an extent, the rhetoric here echoes the clipped editorial of the inaugural issue, but there is a mission zeal in excess of pure commercial branding. Compared to the typical pulp fiction magazine with which Weird Tales shared the cluttered newsstand, we have something different. Lovecraft’s artistic stance toward his writing efforts and Weird Tales’s aesthetic-based mission troubles traditional contexts that produce literary and nonliterary modes of reading. His aesthetic ambition reveals the fictional nature of mass culture, a fiction that in the past sanctioned intensive close reading when works published in “little magazines” held by academic libraries are considered and quasi-sociological readings when “pulp magazines” held by collectors are similarly considered. The reductive ethos and fiction of mass culture, which shades so many of the traditional historical accounts of modern Anglophone literature of the early twentieth century, cannot withstand scrutiny when considered in the light of strange writers like Lovecraft—pulp writers with artistic ambition. And Weird Tales, the unique magazine that became synonymous with Lovecraft’s name, exposes as ideology generalizations about the commodity literature that appeared on newsstands of the interwar period: one might point out the fact that these magazines were all commodities, and many conclude that the fiction is unworthy of intensive reading practices; but Weird Tales, a commercially troubled and aesthetically experimental enterprise informed by a desire to be a playground for otherwise uncategorizable manuscripts, challenges the notion that these magazines were not concerned with issues of art or did not entertain ideas of aesthetic ambition. “We make no pretensions of publishing, or even trying to publish, a magazine that will please everybody,” states the editorial manifesto of the magazine published in the one-year anniversary issue in 1924, an evocation of cultural capital that recalls the slogan of a flagship little magazine of high modernism, the Little Review: “Making No Compromise with Public Taste.” Weird Tales’s editorial manifesto is not only a brand argument functioning to stake out ground in a specific market niche that held out the promise of profit. Weird Tales and Rural Publications, Inc., Henneberger’s company, are also, and crucially so, commercial enterprises that sought authenticity amid an alienated and alienating interwar West. For a long time scholars implicitly hewed to the positions of modernists who offered similar explanations for their art and aloofness from a literary marketplace. Recent revisions have 10 Jason Ray Carney attempted to reconsider literary scholars’ unconscious solidarity with the high modernists’ rhetoric. In the context of such revisions, withholding judgment though not quite “buying into” Weird Tales’s formally and rhetorically comparable rhetoric seems appropriate. In their the study of the periodical culture of literary modernism, Robert Scholes and Clifford Wulfman suggest that considering the table of contents of magazines that published modernist works will help, in part, to explain its difficulty: “[M]odernism was a self-conscious movement, in which works of art appeared together with manifestoes and critical exegeses. Modernism can almost be defined as those visual and verbal texts that need manifestoes and exegeses.” 14 They go on to describe how modernist little magazines like Poetry, the Dial, the Egoist, and Blast! published, alongside literary works, explanatory manifestoes and criticism. The little magazine not only introduced subscribers to new forms of modern art, but also served an additional function: they taught subscribers how to read this new art, to see through its opacity. They taught their subscribers how to experience modern art. Very few of the issues of Weird Tales contained literary criticism of a type highlighted by Scholes and Wulfman, although readers regularly demanded it. Weird Tales was an all-fiction magazine, and one of its major selling points was its lack of extraneous material, including advertisement sheets. Unlike most of the publications we would call “little magazines,” which typically devoted many pages to full-sheet ads and classified pages, the pulp fiction magazine had very little space devoted to advertising and garnered little if any revenue from selling advertising space. This lack of advertisement can be explained by the business model associated with the marketing of pulp fiction magazines. For example, in the chapter “Behind the Scenes” of pulp magazine editor Harold Hersey’s 1937 memoir, pulp fiction magazines appear in this way: “The advertising is the usual run-of-the-mill stuff taken on a contingency basis: not paid for until it pays for itself in results. Still, it does fill the second, third and back covers, and it looks professional. . . . Later on, if our circulation warrants it, we will be able to charge cash for advertising space.” 15 Weird Tales was typical in this regard, foregrounding fiction over advertisements. Yet, like many modernist little magazines, Weird Tales published an important manifesto of goals, an account of aesthetic principles. The manifesto “Why Weird Tales?” (cited earlier) was not the only isolated instance of framing exegesis for the stories included in the magazine. At the end of every issue, the editor, Farnsworth Wright, included a section titled “The Eyrie,” which offered his reflections on the degree to which Weird Tales was living up to his stated goals. “The Eyrie” would also showcase readers’ reactions to the stories, reactions he collated and abridged. Consider, for example, a typical passage from the April 1926 “The Eyrie” section: “Something That Swayed as If in Unison” 11 It has until recently been the fashion to belittle the bizarre stories, the stark school of realism insisting that true literature must be tied to the sordid experiences of everyday life. Weird Tales has answered these “realists” by presenting bizarre and outré stories that are among the gems of imaginative literature. Many of our stories are mere pleasant entertainment for an idle hour, which take the reader away from the humdrum commonplaces of the life about him into a deathless country of imagination and fancy; but others are a very high type of literature. 16 Here is an acknowledgment of the low art cultural stereotype of pulp fiction magazines as commodity literature in the idea that some of the stories are framed as “mere pleasant entertainment for an idle hour.” But in addition to Wright’s posturing of humility is a serious assertion that much of what the magazine was publishing was indeed literature, something in excess of a commodity. As much as Wright’s statement seems to confirm our cultural frame of the pulps as trash, we should guard against the assumption that pulp fiction magazines had then the lurid reputation they have now. Even at the height of their ubiquity, approximately 1935, this stereotype was vexed, with many challenging it. For example, in a New York Times letter to the editor (September 4, 1935), pulp publisher A. A. Wyn writes in response to a negative article on the pulps. His description will allow us to experience some of the contemporary ambivalence toward the cultural status of pulp fiction magazines in circulation at the apex of their ubiquity. Writing as if speaking to the typical cultural elite, Wyn states, You may laugh at the stories we use, you may laugh at the paper we use (we have not as yet archangels for advertising to enable us to sell profitably at a nickel a magazine costing 22 cents to produce). But you can’t quite laugh at the 10,000,000 Americans who plunk down their hard-earned cash each month for their favorite magazine. And who knows what some future historian may say about the relative merits of the forests of pulp that go into the magazines and books of today? After all, the masses throughout the world enjoyed the entertainment of slapstick Charlie Chaplin long before the highbrows discovered that he was an artist “incomparable.” 17 For Wyn, the central issue of the questionable aesthetic status of pulp fiction magazines is not their essential badness, but their vast quantity, which necessarily precludes assessing anything other than the mere myth, a fiction—“the pulps”—that only outlines them, and vaguely so. Thus, Wyn cleverly draws upon another form of the mass media to make his case: to speak of the pulps as trash is to say something like “The cinema is trash.” Like the many films of the massive 1930s film industry, dismissing the majority of them as “mere entertainment” seems reasonable; however, to claim absolutely that all films 12 Jason Ray Carney are nonartistic commodities is not to allow the very real possibility that an occasional director’s or actor’s work will rise to the level of art. Wyn’s letter allows us to see how absolutist claims about the aesthetic inferiority of the pulps is an outgrowth of the same antimodernity, the same antitechnological bias that condemned film as an ephemeral attraction of modern development. Wyn is therefore prescribing a level of restraint to readers and reminding them that one or two pulp fiction magazines or pulp writers may, in fact, come to be seen in the future as artists. Returning to “The Eyrie” section of Weird Tales, one sees that the genuine audacity of the editor, Farnsworth Wright, can be missed, if we choose to read selectively his editorial from the perspective of traditional canons of modernism, which would very likely though quite inaccurately frame Weird Tales as just another degraded mass publication aesthetically contaminated and compromised. More important than Wright’s admittance that some of the stories published in his pulp are “pleasant entertainments for an idle hour,” however, is his sincere statement that some of the stories that Weird Tales publishes are “gems of imaginative literature,” a “very high type of literature.” 18 Lovecraft’s decision to publish in Weird Tales, and Loveman’s decision to publish in the little magazines and to be published by little presses, is significant. When the historical circumstances of these writers are scrutinized closely, we see that their careers as literary artists exceed the high/low binary. This is particularly so in the case of Lovecraft when the idiosyncratic nature of Weird Tales as a literary marketplace is reconstructed. However, to critique the “great divide” in the context of Lovecraft’s and Loveman’s enduring relationship is perhaps to indulge in the tempting idea that they were both what we might call “modernists.” This would be misleading. Though the umbrella term high modernism—used to refer to a small corpus of work produced by a coterie of Anglo-American experimental poets and fiction writers—was yet to be widely used when Lovecraft was choosing pulp magazines over little magazines as his primary medium, Lovecraft knew of Pound, Eliot, Conrad, Joyce, and company, and though he did not refer to them as modernists, he had a sophisticated opinion of them that evolved throughout his writing career. He sought out their work in rare editions, defended it in spite of his distaste for uneducated artistic conservatives in publications of amateur press associations, and poked fun at it in letters, a memorable example of this being his parody of T. S. Eliot’s The Waste Land, a long poem titled “Waste Paper: A Poem of Profound Insignificance.” To preview his vexed relationship with the high modernists, consider this selection from an exemplary letter to fellow Weird Tales writer Frank Belknap Long, written on May 26, 1923: “I have high respect for these moderns as philosophers and intellectuals, however much I may dismiss and disregard them as poets. T. S. Eliot himself was an acute thinker—but I do not believe he is an artist. An “Something That Swayed as If in Unison” 13 artist must always be a child . . . and live in dreams and wonder and moonlight.” 19 Lovecraft’s repeated criticisms of modernist art and poetry make considering him a high modernist, as have some suggested, the insincere domestication of a strangeness that leaves intact the reductivist fiction of a mass culture. Lovecraft has been studied in other contexts, under various rubrics such as “popular culture,” or “Gothic studies,” “science fiction studies,” and so on, but these approaches to a solitary Lovecraft disembedded from his artistic ecology, Weird Tales, implicitly perpetuates the idea that Lovecraft was a solitary genius among pulp hacks—an insidious idea. My impression is that such contexts are ill equipped to consider how Weird Tales the magazine itself shared authorship with him; and it dooms the work of many talented writers who wrote and published with and in that magazine to continued neglect. This is not to say that Lovecraft has no place in the contexts of Gothic literature, science fiction, and popular culture. It is from and through such discourses that Weird Tales and Lovecraft have received enough attention to attract intensive scholarly analysis. To frame as unfinished the uptake of Lovecraft in Gothic studies, science fiction studies, and popular culture studies is merely to point out that these discourses have not yet adequately taken into account the qualitatively distinct nature of the cultural conditions of Lovecraft and, more importantly, Weird Tales’s admirable literary enterprise. Consider this January 1940 statistical speculation offered in the Writer’s Digest, in order to understand the size of the pulp fiction archive: The Digest estimates that there are 9,000 different authors submitting manuscripts to pulp-paper magazines in any one year. Of this number more than two-thirds are not worthy of being read past “page one, middle page, and last page.” Thus the actual competition available to authors submitting scripts to the pulps is 3,000. There are 110 pulps buying about 10,000 stories, shorts, and fillers per year. 20 To set Weird Tales, Lovecraft, and many other artistically ambitious Weird Tales authors—for example, Robert E. Howard, Clark Ashton Smith, C. L. Moore—adrift in the sea of so many magazines ignores the unique conditions and pressures of their production context; their notable singularity; the way that, unlike the majority of those magazines that have since disintegrated, they have been cherished, preserved, replicated, and transferred through anthologists and painstakingly compiled facsimiles and anthologies. It disregards the value placed on Weird Tales. How do we adapt such uncategorizable intrusions into our models of literary history? As pulp writers who think of themselves as artists? A financially troubled commercial magazine with an idealistic mission, to solve an aesthetic crisis? A group of writers who conditionally hew to dead traditions, who happily borrow one another’s tropes, and who extend one another’s 14 Jason Ray Carney narratives in order to suture them together into a decentered allegorical framework? The answers will have to wait until an authentic attempt to situate Weird Tales in relation to high modernism, a movement it learned and even resembles, but only in the way a shadow resembles the object that casts it. NOTES 1. S. T. Joshi, I Am Providence: The Life and Times of H. P. Lovecraft (New York: Hippocampus Press, 2010), 29. 2. Andreas Huyssen, After the Great Divide: Modernism, Mass Culture, Postmodernism (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1986), vii. 3. Joshi, I Am Providence, 333. 4. Michael Houellebecq, H. P. Lovecraft: Against the World, Against Life, trans. Dorna Khazeni (London: Gollancz, 2006), 39. 5. “Fiction by Volume,” New York Times, August 28, 1935, 16. 6. Robert Weinberg, The “Weird Tales” Story (Berkeley Heights, NJ: Wildside Press, 1999), 3. 7. See David M. Earle, Re-covering Modernism: Pulps, Paperbacks, and the Prejudice of Form (Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2009). 8. See Pierre Bourdieu, Distinction: A Social Critique of Judgment of Taste (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1984). 9. John Locke, “Popular Fiction—As It Is Today,” in Pulp Fictioneers: Adventures in the Storytelling Business (Silver Spring, MD: Adventure House, 2004), 34. 10. Weird Tales, March 1923, 180–81. 11. Peter Haining, “Weird Tales”: A Selection in Facsimile of the Best from the World’s Most Famous Fantasy Magazine (New York: Carroll & Graf, 1990), 261. 12. Harold Hersey, Pulpwood Editor: The Fabulous World of Thriller Magazines Revealed by a Veteran Editor and Publisher (Silver Spring, MD: Adventure House, 2002), 18. 13. Weinberg, The “Weird Tales” Story, 17. 14. Robert Scholes and Clifford Wulfman, Modernism in the Magazines: An Introduction (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2010), 74. 15. Hersey, Pulpwood Editor, 17. 16. Weird Tales, April 1926, 566. 17. A. A. Wyn, “Pulp Magazines: A Publisher Cites Figures of Their Number Printing Patronage,” New York Times, September 4, 1935, 18. 18. Weird Tales, April 1926, 566. 19. Joshi, I Am Providence, 478. 20. Locke, “Popular Fiction,” 85. Chapter Two Weird Modernism Literary Modernism in the First Decade of Weird Tales Jonas Prida Although literary modernism is often seen as a rejection of popular forms and culture—think of the imagist poetry of Ezra Pound or the experimental novels of James Joyce—new explorations into the ways that modernism participates in popular culture are complicating this idea. 1 David Earle’s Recovering Modernism argues that pulp magazines, despite publishing modernist writers, have been systematically excluded from the discussion of literary modernism, largely because of the lowbrow connotations of the pulps. At the same time, pulp art, the wonderfully lurid illustrations that drew in readers, became incorporated into the marketing of modernism. Following Earle’s investigation into the importance of disposable fiction in how modernism was constructed, this chapter examines the pulp magazine Weird Tales. Between the magazine’s covers, Gothic tropes—haunted houses, lycanthropes, abandoned castles—vie for space with modernist narratives of repressed memories and monsters in the ether. In Weird Tales, the suppressed history of modernism is written, “The Unique Magazine” acting as a site where various strains of modernist and antimodernist writing and anxieties collide. Weird Tales’s history is well-known enough, as this publication indicates. Many of the major twentieth-century voices in fantasy, horror, and science fiction got their start or were published in Weird Tales. Four of the best known of these authors are H. P. Lovecraft; Robert E. Howard, creator of Conan the Cimmerian; Robert Bloch, who later wrote Psycho; and Tennessee Williams. But to look only at the major authors is to miss the various ways that modernist tendencies infect and impact Weird Tales. Since Lovecraft was specifically antimodernist, calling Eliot’s The Waste Land “a practically meaningless collection of phrases, learned allusions, quotations, slang, and 15 16 Jonas Prida scraps in general,” 2 and Howard’s interest was in barbarism and literary naturalism, isolating both from modernism’s streams, or so they claimed, it is more fruitful to explore how many other, more frequent Weird Tales contributors exploited or reflected what we now think of as literary modernism. For this exploration, the first seven years (1923–1930) of Weird Tales are investigated. Isolating these specific years, which roughly correspond with the high point of literary modernism, allows us to see how similar impulses and anxieties are explored in vastly different ways. The modernist drives and tensions in Weird Tales can be investigated through four categories: weird empires, weird science, weird Darwin, and weird devils. These divisions can be read against the backdrop of the classification struggles in Weird Tales and pulp in general. In “The Eyrie”—the letters to the editor section—exactly what was going to count as “weird” is frequently discussed. Many readers felt that science fiction stories should not be included, arguing that other magazines already incorporated tales of moon civilizations and trips to Jupiter. Lost civilization narratives, popularized by late nineteenth-century writers such as H. Rider Haggard and Jules Verne, also acted as a fault line in what counted as a weird tale. Although many of these narratives include the tropes of the weird tale, readers maintained that adventure alone is not enough. It is in these fraught liminal spaces that Weird Tales’s struggle with modernity is played out. WEIRD EMPIRE The two major twentieth-century wars coincide with the final stages of nineteenth-century empires, like England and France, and the growth of the U.S. empire. Literary modernism explored imperial drives and anxieties in canonical texts such as Forster’s A Passage to India (1924) and Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises (1926). In these modernist empires, the interplay of colonizer and colonized on the psychic landscape is mirrored by the physical landscape. Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness (1899), a seminal modernist novel, uses Marlow’s trip down the Congo to explore the confusion and absurdity of the colonial process. The caves section of Passage to India shows the mutual dependency and distrust of imperialism creating epistemological lacunae where questions of what happened become as important as why something happened. 3 This lack of understanding of even the most basic events is part of the disturbing nature of these novels. Additionally, the alienating effect of the landscape and the confusion over indigenous or colonized cultures creates spaces that can be described as weird. The connection between the field of science fiction and colonization has been explored extensively. Kerslake’s Science Fiction and Empire, for example, argues that as the blank spaces on world maps became filled in, writers Weird Modernism 17 and empires pushed imperial drives outward, writing colonial desires and need for an Other on new star systems or inner worlds. 4 This displacement of imperial energy can easily be identified in pieces such as “The Moon Terror” and “People of the Comet.” But Weird Tales also explores uncanny empires much closer to home. Although less frequently interrogated than their spacefaring kin, these earth-based colonial texts display similar anxieties and fissures. Not surprisingly, the sites that are most explored in the Weird Tales imperial texts are English colonial states—predominantly India—and those won by the United States during its expansionist phase of 1898–1910, in which the Spanish-American War plays a defining role. The Philippines, the city of Santo Domingo, and, most frequently, Haiti 5 show up as spaces where American power runs headlong into the deeply resistant native populations. The popular template set by Edgar Rice Burroughs’s Tarzan of the Apes (1912) of a virile white male forced to survive in noncivilized settings is repeatedly played out in Weird Tales. In stories with titles such as “The Lips of the Dead” or “The Jungle Monsters” or “The Mystic Bowl,” Westerners find themselves facing a variety of nonrational forces, usually as a result of interfering with traditional customs or by efforts to reform the locals. As one character says in John Horne’s 1929 short story “The Speared Leopard”: “Magic! Witchcraft! In the tropics the border-line between reality and fantasy grew blurred more easily than most people cared to admit, and it was a bad business when a white man crossed it.” 6 In almost all these texts, the dynamic forces of Western rationalism—technology, positivism, science— are both the causes of the ghostly manifestations and the temporary solutions to the problems. But in these same cases the solution is only temporary: a brief victory for the empire before the irrational forces [read colonized] once again take precedent. 7 Consider, for example, “In Kashla’s Garden,” written by occasional Weird Tales contributor Oscar Schisgall and published in the May 1927 issue. In a framed narrative, Roger Byrd tells his story of being hypnotized by an Indian woman and marrying her. He realizes that his sexual desire and passivity are constructed through mystical powers and decides that his only way out is killing his wife. 8 Knowing that his wife takes iodine to help keep her healthy, he swaps the iodine for poison. But the poison seemingly has no effect, with Byrd’s wife healthy after repeatedly ingesting it. At the end of the story, Byrd reveals that his wife was already long dead when he was poisoning her. In “Garden,” we see many of the standard imperial anxieties around desire, power, and mysticism. Byrd comments early in the text, “Do you think that under normal circumstances I, Roger Byrd, who could marry any one of a dozen rich American girls, would have selected an Indian mystic from a Calcutta marketplace.” 9 In this quotation, the sexual politics of empire are 18 Jonas Prida reversed; instead of the usual dynamic of the colonizer sexually exploiting the colonized, here the colonized uses the mystical powers available by virtue of her Indian-ness to enslave Byrd psychically. In standard imperial discourse, those who control the technological and economic apparatus are those who determine value, whether it be sexual or monetary. Byrd should, by the simple fact that he is a white male operating in a colonial space, be able to command the attention of whom he wishes; the fact that he cannot and instead finds himself being placed in the position of passive colonial object generates the anxiety for both Byrd and Schisgall’s readers. 10 The thought that he may be attracted to her for other reasons—her actual beauty, for example—is never explored; the only way that an Englishman with the cultural and economic capital to marry “any one of a dozen rich American girls” would find a Indian woman desirable is through magic. 11 Similarly, Byrd’s desire to kill his wife because he cannot break free from her complicates the standard imperial dynamic. Instead of the colonized revolting against outside elements, here we see the colonizer using violence to escape. Byrd’s poisoning of his wife is also a type of violence that can be coded as colonized: it is subtle, happens in a domestic space, and, ultimately, is ineffective. Although Byrd commands the physical through his position as a white male, this power does little for him when faced with the nonrational: in the garden, the locals have the advantage, and Byrd has no defense against it. Arthur J. Burks is another writer who consistently explores questions of the newly emboldened American empire. Burks, who served in the Marine Corps and was stationed in the Caribbean in 1924, wrote multiple stories about Haiti and the Dominican Republic, almost always incorporating some form of Vodou or traditionalist religion as a counterpoint to American expansion. 12 His narratives usually revolve around the narrator being asked to head off a native insurrection that employs a supernatural agency. After a chase through the jungle or mountains of Hispaniola, the narrator captures or kills the revolutionary but learns that the primal force of the jungle (narratively coded as natives/savagery/barbarism) cannot be contained. 13 Burks’s short stories are not anti-imperialistic, but they complicate the usual dynamics of empire. The forces of civilization won’t win, in Burks’s world, because they can’t win; the forces they are trying to control are too powerful, too embedded in the landscape to be conquered or controlled. Burks’s “Black Medicine,” the cover story for the August 1925 Weird Tales, displays this weird take on American imperialism. 14 Much like we saw in “Garden,” “Black Medicine” is an exploration of a weird empire, but this time with American troops and an American colony. The invasion of Haiti in 1915, and subsequent nineteen-year occupation, led to the first American colony in the western hemisphere. Until the early 1920s, the Cacos, groups of Haitians with ties to local villages and historical connections to insurrection, led an organized resistance against the American marines. By Weird Modernism 19 the time the Americans left in 1934, thousands of Haitians had been killed, 15 and tales of atrocities committed by both Haitians and marines circulated in the popular press. In “Black Medicine,” Chandler, an American living in Haiti, where “The late night air, which hung over Port au Prince, weird capital of the Black Republic, seemed laden with the still breath from a smoldering furnace,” is bored with the “silly round of gaiety which seemed the sole aim of the American colony.” 16 After drinking a few too many mixtures of coffee and rum and having a run-in with Chal David, 17 a revolutionary/Vodou priest, Chandler wanders into the jungle and overhears Chal David’s plan to reanimate corpses and drive out the Americans: “There will begin the bloodiest uprising in the history of Haiti; the whites will be slaughtered and their bodies hurled to the sharks which patrol the beach.” 18 All that the spell requires is the blanco blood, which the natives plan on getting by killing mixed-race Dominicans. David’s plan is derailed: after kidnapping a Dominican child, he is killed by the child’s father. Chandler is later returned to Port au Prince, unable to communicate how he returned to the city or what actually happened in the jungle. Burks’s phrasing of Port au Prince as “the weird capital of the Black Republic” immediately codes the area as a liminal area, both weird and modern (a republic). Under imperial command, Haiti operates like one of Chal David’s reanimated corpses; it has the shape of a nation but obeys the dictates of its creators. Following the argument that zombies are, at their nonbeating hearts, symbols of capitalism and consumption, 19 it is not surprising that Chandler, bored with his usual duties of imperial administration, samples the native and the exotic (the local rum and a later blood-colored drink that allows him to see the undead). Possessed by the spirit of the local, he learns of the plan to throw the Americans out in a revolt bloodier than the 1792 revolution. Following the argument posited by Chandler’s quotation late in the text (“Your true Haitian does not dwell long on puzzling happenings. He is too dull and stupid” 20) is standard imperial rhetoric about the need for civilization to come to the aid of the stupid. What makes Burks’s text interesting is the chaotic mixture of imperial and anti-imperial sentiments. The natives are dull and stupid, yet Chandler longs for some attachment to the culture he is nominally in charge of controlling. Vodou will drive the Americans out, but sorcery also leads to Chal David’s downfall. The Haitian population is both sophisticated enough to have formed the “Black Republic” and desperately in need of outside intervention. 21 If the weird is the offsetting and the spaces out of balance, then Burks’s Haiti is weird indeed. 20 Jonas Prida WEIRD SCIENCE The first decade of Weird Tales displays competing tensions about science and technology, both within the many stories that incorporate modernist anxieties about science and in the editorial control of the magazine in general. Its first editor, Edwin Baird, included a variety of texts, with titles such as “The People of the Comet” and “Planet Paradise,” that would later fall under the category of science fiction, a term yet to be coined. Farnsworth Wright, who took over for Baird in November 1924, had a less inclusive scientific vision for the magazine, attempting to limit the scope to stories where science and technology create a sense of unease or menace. 22 In these Wright weird science texts, the almost exclusively male scientists have either lost their jobs at respectable college/research posts because of their experiments or they are independently wealthy, freeing them to explore the arcane without intrusive institutional review boards or nosy colleagues. Recent discoveries in the fields of weapons, such as the tank (1917) and chemical warfare, atomics (Neils Bohr’s description of atomic structure in 1922 and Heisenberg’s Principle of Indeterminacy in 1927), X-rays (1896) and Gamma rays (1900), radio frequencies, and automation drove much of this anxiety about the role of science. Offering the promise of immediate communication and the collapsing of time and space and the fear that, when unleashed, these same forces would destroy us, science, much like empire, became a fertile space for the weird. The high modernism of Mrs. Dalloway (1925) or A Farewell to Arms (1929) is partially a reaction to the scientific horrors and mechanized slaughter of World War I. 23 At the same time, these modernist texts are reacting to advancements in science in general, a feeling that science itself is developing faster than the humans who ultimately control it. The weird science in Weird Tales is invested in these same anxieties but operating in the popular register. Take, for example, Pettersen Marzoni’s two-part cover story “Red Ether,” which ran in the February and March 1926 issues. Thorton, our resident mad scientist, uses the radio to broadcast that, unless all war is ended, he will use his “red ether” super-ray to destroy the world. Not surprisingly, the United States is unenthusiastic about disarming: “Disarm the United States? It was preposterous. California pointed warning fingers across the Pacific. ‘Bolshevik’ cried the Eastern money.” 24 Thorton displays the power of the ray on unsuspecting cities, but before the world disarms Thorton’s plan is foiled and the ether machine destroyed. In “Red Ether,” modernism’s uneasy relationship with science is highlighted. Thorton uses contemporary atomic theory to explain how the ray works: “Knowing the period of the electron, I meet it with an impulse, halt its revolution, halt the system of electrons whose flow makes up the atom, and the atom breaks down.” 25 As mentioned earlier, atomic theory was already Weird Modernism 21 circulating in scientific discourse, and T. S. Eliot discussed Einstein in his 1930 translation of French theorist Charles Mauron’s essay “On Reading Einstein.” 26 James Joyce also incorporated atomic theory in Finnegans Wake: “[A]domic structure of our old Finnius the old One, as highly charged with electrons as hophazards can effective it.” 27 Thorton uses the radio, first introduced commercially in 1920, to relay his message of terror, employing the rhetoric of modernistic progress when justifying his creation of the doomsday weapon: “Less than a half century ago, Marconi would have been a maniac. Why, less than a century ago the bathtub was considered a menace to health. Man’s mind was moving faster than at any period in its history.” 28 Much like chemical warfare, tanks, flamethrowers, and other technologies from the Great War, which were created to make the world safe from war, only to be used to kill and maim millions, Thorton’s ether ray destroys cities in an effort to save them. The science may be a weird amalgam of crackpot atomic theory and electromagnetic waves, but the anxiety is pure modernism. We see a similar anxiety in Edmond Hamilton’s “The Metal Giants,” the cover story from the December 1926 issue. Here, instead of a super weapon using subatomic particles to destroy humanity, the threat is in the form of giant self-aware robots that exhale poison gas and create even larger versions of themselves. Their maker, Professor Detmold, is fired from his university post because of his experiments with artificial brains. After four years of hiding, the professor returns, unleashing his metal giants on West Virginia and Pennsylvania. Realizing the error in his ways, the professor makes an even larger metal wheel that he uses to crush the giants, while dying in the process. In a similar way to Marconi in “Red Ether” as a way to ground the story in scientific reality, “Giants” references Jacques Loeb, American biologist and one of the leading figures in parthenogenesis. In a 1900 experiment, Loeb used electricity to change the chemicals in water, allowing for asexual reproduction in sea urchins. Hamilton’s “electro-brains” are also Loebian; Loeb was one of the first scientists to argue that consciousness was fundamentally chemical in nature. Anxieties about artificial reproduction and human sterility undergird much of Eliot’s epic The Waste Land, and D. H. Lawrence’s Women in Love (1920) and The Rainbow (1915), where the natural sexual impulses of humans are consistently contrasted with the deadening monotony of industrial life. The twin ideas that technology may replicate itself without human intervention and that thought is possible through artificial and chemical process indicate the depth that mechanization, one of the primary impulses of modernism, was a fraught, weird impulse. 22 Jonas Prida WEIRD DARWINISM Closely connected with weird science are the repeated descriptions of Darwinian concepts in Weird Tales, where primates becoming near humans, humans becoming near primates, and plants evolving into animals are standard narrative fare. The Scopes Monkey trial in 1925, approximately two years after Weird Tales started publication, brought Darwinian concepts to a broad audience, and the eugenics movement was nearing its peak during the first decade of Weird Tales, with high school biology texts including basic eugenics. However, newspaper coverage of the Scopes trial and textbooks was not the only place where readers could find evolutionary debates. In texts as diverse as D. H. Lawrence’s Lady Chatterley’s Lover to Eugene O’Neill’s The Hairy Ape (1922) or The Emperor Jones (1920) to the first Seabury Quinn story, “The Horror at the Links” (published in the October 1925 issue), questions about development and devolution were part of modernism’s discourse, and, not surprisingly, part of Weird Tales. 29 A text using a mad scientist and Darwinian evolution is F. Douglas McHenry’s “The Seventh Devil,” published in the November 1925 issue. This first-person narrative focuses on an adventurer/scientist who sets up his lab on the Island of Seven Devils, located in the South Pacific. The local primate population gives him plenty to experiment on; after one successful experience, the narrator claims, “I now had a monkey nine times as intelligent as a normal monkey.” 30 Corpses drifting onto the shore allow our narrator an opportunity to move evolution along by transferring human brains into gorillas, eventually producing a hybrid that “punded [sic] off the most seathing [sic] criticisms—of Kant, of Darwin, of Spencer, of Einstein—such as man had never read before and probably will never read again until the coming of the Superman of Nietzsche.” 31 As is usually the case when science goes too far, the scientist is forced to destroy his creation to save his own life. Two of thinkers whom McHenry’s creation declaims—Darwin and Spencer—indicate the enfolding of evolutionary thinking into popular texts like Weird Tales. Darwin’s effect on the scientific and intellectual culture is difficult to overstate: his rejection of humans operating outside of natural process and his insistence of environmental pressures giving rise to specific adaptions forced new, less anthropocentric conceptions of the universe. Spencer’s popularization of the phrase “survival of the fittest,” first mentioned in his 1864 Principles of Biology, and his placing of Darwinian concepts on the development of cultures changed the trajectory of Darwin’s evolutionary thought, connecting it to the cultural sphere and engendering its use in modernism’s narratives about cultural development or decline. Along with Spencer, Oswald Spengler’s Decline of the West (1918–1922) argues for the possibility of cultural devolution, of a reversion to the chaotic savagery of early history, an idea that operates in many of these Darwinian-influ- Weird Modernism 23 enced tales. 32 The reference to Nietzsche is also highbrow modernism in pulp form. W. B. Yeats described Nietzsche as “a strong enchanter” when he first read him in 1902 and continued with an engagement with Nietzsche idea of art throughout his career. 33 D. H. Lawrence’s novels The Plumed Serpent (1926) and Women in Love engage Nietzschean ideas, and Lawrence’s book of travel sketches, Twilight in Italy (1915), which contains a polemic against Nietzsche’s “will to power,” rings of Nietzsche’s groundbreaking Twilight of the Idols. The connection with the “superman” also links Darwin with philosophy. Popularly seen as an evolutionary jump, able to move beyond good and evil, the Übermensch is the next stage of human development, using its “inexhaustible fertility and power keep up the faith in man.” 34 In “The Seventh Devil,” the superman and the superape are offered as parallels: one needed to explain the other. In the Seabury Quinn text, “The Horror on the Links,” Jules de Grandin and Dr. Trowbridge find “a half score ape creatures, not wholly man, not wholly simian, but partaking horribly of the appearance of each, with fur and handlike feet, but with the face of something which had once been of mankind.” 35 In the November 1926 issue, H. Warner Munn’s “The City of the Spiders” focuses on evolutionary spiders “as far above the ordinary spider as the Anglo-Saxon is above the Australian Bushman.” 36 In the time before the oceans sank Atlantis, humans were slaves to spiders, but thanks to the Ice Age and humanity’s ability to harness fire, the last of the giant spiders have fled south into Venezuela. Munn explains our dislike of spiders: “[I]t is because the hereditary, subconscious memory knows that these creatures were once your lords in another existence and it commands you to obliterate this loathsome, alien life from another age.” 37 Racial memory, evolutionary leaps, environmental pressures—Darwinian concepts that are seen in both literary modernism and Weird Tales. The consistent use of Darwin, Spencer, and their ideas through the range of high and popular texts speaks to the cultural neurosis that evolutionary finding engendered. Modernism’s twin explorations into humanity’s animalistic side and humanity’s unease because of our inability to adapt to these animal roots made for increasingly fraught narratives. With humans no longer ontologically different from their primate ancestors, humans found themselves decentered, potentially adrift in a world where apes can learn or spiders could rule. One reaction to this decentering was the retreat into high culture displayed in the poetry of Eliot and Pound; a second was the linguistic pyrotechnics of James Joyce in Ulysses (1922) and Finnegans Wake (1939); a third was weird explorations into the Darwinian; a fourth was the growing interest in devils, cults, and alternative religions. 24 Jonas Prida WEIRD DEVILS There are several critical commonplaces for the skepticism toward traditional religion and rise of alternative religions in the modernist period: the growing urbanization of America (the 1920s as the first decade where more people lived in cities than rural areas) and England, the growth of secularization (explored in the earlier Darwin section), and the aftermath of the Great War. Canonical modernists like Yeats, Pound, Lawrence, and Eliot were either influenced by or participants in the occult, with Yeats’s “membership” in the Order of the Golden Dawn being the best known. 38 The interest in cultism and what I call weird devils is seen throughout Weird Tales. In the December 1925 issue, the editorial voice in the “The Eyrie” claimed, “Perhaps no stories have found such unfailing popularity with you, the readers, as the devil-tales we have printed.” 39 From E. Hoffmann Price’s “The Stranger from Kurdistan” to Nictzin Dyalhis’s semi-forgotten classic “The Eternal Conflict” to less interesting narratives such as Flavia Richardson’s “Out of the Earth,” Weird Tales exposes the religious anxieties that modernism unleashed. Black Masses and devil worshipping are circulated in a variety of popular texts in the early twentieth century, of which Weird Tales is only one example. H. Rider Haggard’s She, in some ways the progenitor of weird adventure stories, has a woman disguised as a goddess at the center of the text. Robert E. Howard’s El Borak stories, which feature cultists of the desert gods, appeared in pulps like Top Notch, and the weird menace pulps often featured devil worshippers whose job was largely to get the shapely women they chase in various forms of undress. But what makes Weird Tales’s exploration of inverted crossed and flaming pentagrams different is that these exploitations have white cultists attacking white victims, as opposed to the antiimperial cults of Burks and Schisgall. If the cultural logic is that indigenous people’s desire for revenge is part of their primitivism, what then explains the Satanist or the worshipper of the Peacock Throne? 40 Throughout the 1920s, newspapers and journals broke stories about alternative religions (almost always labeled as cults) that made extravagant claims about their ability to secure earthly power and riches for their followers. Additionally, tabloidstyle papers like the New York Herald claimed that cultists were responsible for a variety of murders and disappearances (for example, the Cleveland Torso Murderer and a Detroit murder cult). 41 A story in the August 1928 Weird Tales, “The Witches’ Sabbath,” incorporates this cultural anxiety, stating, “This only shows what peril is threatening civilization. . . . If the world but realized how many suicides, sudden mysterious deaths, murders, and other crimes, are due to evil possession, there’d be a cry of deliverance overnight.” 42 The 1924 English translation of Huysman’s novel Là-bas [Down There], which ends in an extended elaboration of a Satanic Black Weird Modernism 25 Mass, circulated the tropes of chained women as altars, sacrificed infants, and robed priests. The publication of Sinclair Lewis’s Elmer Gantry in 1927 continued the popular discussion of charismatic religion as a front for earthly gain. While people of color used magic, zombies, spirits, and spells to overthrow power structures, Americans or Europeans used it for less politically motivated reasons: sex and power. In the same issue as Lovecraft’s “Call of Cthulhu” (February 1928), Seabury Quinn’s investigative team of Jules de Grandin and Dr. Trowbridge find themselves solving the case of “Mephistopheles and Company Ltd.,” which combines the anxieties of power and sexuality. The duo finds a woman fleeing from a group of men; after securing her safety, they discover that Bertha Mueller is convinced that she has been marked: “Mephistopheles— the Devil—I am possessed by him.” 43 During her recovery, she shows de Grandin and Trowbridge the mark of the beast. “At each place the girl indicated on her white skin there showed, red and angry, the seared, scorched soreness of a newly made burn; the crude design of a countenance of incomparable evil—a horned, bearded face, surmounted by the device of an inverted passion-cross.” 44 The inverted cross popularized by Là-bas and circulated through popular accounts of Satanism marks the flesh of the woman with incomparable evil, which can be read as unregulated sexuality (Bertha is found at night, unescorted). As the narrative unfolds, the detectives discover that the devilish cult is a front to blackmail recent European immigrants by invoking old-world superstitions. The title of the Quinn piece (the devil worshippers are a limited liability corporation) displays the economic nexus at the heart of popular conceptions of cult activity. Exposés in Hearst newspapers about Edwin Wilson’s Aquarian Foundation, which forced members to give all possessions to Wilson, in addition to violent humiliation at his hands, and Oom the Omnipotent, who operated a “love cult” in New York State, drove public enthusiasm and hysteria around alternative religions. In a single issue of Weird Tales, readers get the degenerate orgies of “The Call of Cthulhu” and the econo-sexual dynamics of “Mephistopheles,” indicating modernism’s anxious exploration of a changing religious structure. The May 1928 issue also includes a narrative about the Black Mass, again connecting it to questions of sex and wealth. Written by Bassett Morgan (a pseudonym for Grace Ethel Jones), “The Skeleton under the Lamp” follows the adventures of two down-and-outers who are hired to work at the house of an artist named Caldoon. The house is a cover for local devil worshippers, who use it for a wide range of nontraditional sexual acts. For example, the narrator states, “At dark I opened the door to the party. I don’t know why I didn’t think it queer to see naked men and women riding cattle and goats to Caldoon’s door, but it seemed all right to me then.” 45 Later, the narrator claims, “I heard of a Black Mass. I’ve heard that some dives in big cities put it on for sightseers. But I’ve been through it, and I’m not afraid of hell after 26 Jonas Prida death any more. What happened isn’t printable.” 46 Unlike in “Mephistopheles,” there is no rational explanation given for Caldoon’s power; the narrative ends with the narrator burning the house down, killing everyone inside. The energies of untamed sexuality, energies unloosed in the modern world, are combined with decadent artists to threaten the same world that created the threats. In these two weird devil texts, we see the two competing conceptions of religion in the modernist period. In the Quinn piece, black magic is a front for economic exploitation; in the Morgan text, the otherworldly alternative is the source for worldly power. Weird Tales, in its use of devils, demons, and various forms of magic, is not the only pulp to exploit modern unease about religion. The group of magazines mentioned earlier in the section known as weird menace also incorporated a wide range of similar figures and iconography. In titles like Terror Tales and Horror Stories, cloaked figures armed with knives lurk around every corner, looking to sacrifice curvy heroines and square-jawed heroes to Moloch. But what makes these pulps different from Weird Tales is that at the end of the narrative, Moloch turns out to be a money-hungry man. In this way, Quinn’s “Mephistopheles” is a precursor of a weird menace text with its decidedly human explanation for the supernatural. But Morgan’s text, with its lack of closure or anything close to a rational explanation, is indicative of an investment in the truly weird. Much like the magical powers the colonizers faced in India or Haiti, the supernatural powers of Caldoon are a reaction to modernizing impulses and a reflection of how these impulses are playing out in the public sphere. The lowbrowing of modernism or the highbrowing of Weird Tales is indicative of a range of cultural anxieties set in place by social dislocation, rapid expansion and contraction of a world economy, shifting gender roles, and the expansion of mass culture—forces that permeated 1920s and ’30s culture in ways we are still investigating. Both invested in the project of modernity by virtue of its commodified nature and outré subject matter and antimodern in its questioning of technological progress and revival of the Gothic, Weird Tales displays the various reactions to modernity in its inconsistent and, at times, incoherent manner. Empires, technologies, sciences, and devils are seen as threats in one text and saviors in another. Machines breathing poison gas share print with antigravity orbs, and colonial operatives save Americans while simultaneously questioning the imperial logic. Although the high modernism of Joyce or Faulkner seems a gulf of interstellar space away from robot monsters and ape-men, the pages of “The Unique Magazine” acted as a vessel to cross this void. Weird Modernism 27 NOTES 1. David M. Earle, Re-covering Modernism: Pulps, Paperbacks, and the Prejudice of Form (Farnham, UK: Ashgate, 2009). 2. S. T. Joshi, I Am Providence: The Life and Times of H. P. Lovecraft (New York: Hippocampus Press, 2010), 477. To be fair to Lovecraft, he also commented that he had “high regard” for modernist thinkers and philosophers. 3. See M. Keith Booker, Colonial Power, Colonial Texts (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1997) for more on this discussion. Rieder’s Colonialism and the Emergence of Science Fiction (Middletown, CT: Wesleyan University Press, 2008) is also a useful text. 4. Patricia Kerslake, Science Fiction and Empire (Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 2010). 5. Mary Renda, Taking Haiti: Military Occupation and the Culture of U.S. Imperialism 1915–1934 (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2001) directly discusses Haiti as a site for imperialist weird fantasy, especially Burks. 6. John Horne, “The Speared Leopard,” Weird Tales, August 1929, 186. 7. Istavan Csicsery-Rony Jr. examines the various ways that science fiction is linked to the imperial enterprise, arguing that “sf’s debt to utopia is great; but it owes more to Empire.” “Science Fiction and Empire,” Science Fiction Studies 30 (July 2003): 238. 8. Rieder’s observation that “the double-edged effect of the exotic—as a means of gratifying familiar appetites and as a challenge to one’s sense of the proper or the natural—pervades early science fiction” (Colonialism, 4) is apt here. Although “Garden” isn’t traditional science fiction, this exotic dynamic is certainly in action in Byrd’s confusion. 9. Oscar Schisgall, “In Kashla’s Garden,” Weird Tales, May 1927, 652. 10. Anne McClintock, in Imperial Leather: Race, Gender, and Sexuality in the Colonial Contest (New York: Routledge, 1995), argues in her introduction that colonial narratives are governed by three themes: “the transmission of white, male power through colonized women; the emergence of a new global order of cultural knowledge; and the imperial command of commodity capital” (1, 3). “Garden” fits this description, along with the necessary inversion to create the weird. 11. Another Csicsery-Rony Jr. claim: “What we might call the scientific grotesque comes with the recognition of an embodied, physical anomaly, a being or an event whose existence or behavior cannot be explained by the currently accepted universal system of rationalization.” Byrd’s explanation of the seductive power of magic displays this grotesquery. “On the Grotesque in Science Fiction,” Science Fiction Studies 29 (March 2000): 84. 12. Following the distinction set in Race, Oppression, and the Zombie, edited by Christopher Moreman and Cory Rushton (Jefferson, NC: McFarland, 2011), I use Vodou here as the traditional form of syncretic religion, while voodoo is used for the racist and exploitative misunderstanding of the religion. 13. Csicsery-Ronay’s comment that “Empire continually reproduces and revitalizes itself through the management of local crises” is an accurate one when analyzing Burks’s narrative. “Science Fiction and Empire,” 237. 14. Burks’s most famous short pieces about his time in Santo Domingo and Haiti were later collected in Black Medicine (Sauk City, WI: Arkham House, 1966). 15. The official U.S. estimate is more than three thousand, although other sources place it at more than ten thousand. See Renda, Taking Haiti, for more on this discussion. 16. Arthur J. Burks, “Black Medicine,” Weird Tales, August 1925, 149. 17. Chal David mirrors Charlemagne Péralte, a Caco leader whose capture and death by American forces helped end the most active resistance group. 18. Burks, “Black Medicine,” 153. 19. See Moreman and Rushton’s Race, Oppression, and the Zombie (7–10) for the overdetermined signification of zombies. 20. Burks, “Black Medicine,” 161. 21. Renda’s analysis of Burks is less generous than mine: “Burks’s Haiti was a site of sexual excess, gender disorder, and primitive savagery; it was a land characterized by the effective 28 Jonas Prida absence of the family as a basis for social order. In Burks’s telling, the grotesque horror of Haiti showed the obvious and urgent need for American rule there.” Taking Haiti, 178. 22. However, Nictzin Dyalhis’s “When the Green Star Waned,” published in Weird Tales in April 1925, is inarguably a science fiction text. “Star” was voted best story of the issue and of 1925 but also was central to the ongoing discussion of science fiction in Weird Tales. This schizophrenic response to Dyalhis’s text is representative of the larger anxiety about the place of science and technology in between the wars. 23. Septemus Smith in Mrs. Dalloway is a prime example of the demands modern warfare placed on participants and the human costs of these demands. 24. Pettersen Marzoni, “Red Ether,” Weird Tales, February 1926, 157. 25. Ibid., 172. 26. Ole Bay-Petersen, “T. S. Eliot and Einstein: The Fourth Dimension in the Four Quartets,” English Studies 66, no. 2 (April 1985): 143–55. 27. James Joyce, Finnegans Wake (London: Penguin, 2000), 615. For more on this connection, see Sean Braune, “From Lucretian Atomic Theory to Joycean Etymic Theory,” Journal of Modern Literature 33 (Summer 2010): 167–81. 28. Marzoni, “Red Ether,” 153. 29. John Rieder’s chapter “Artificial Humans and the Construction of Race” also looks at this concept in Colonialism and the Emergence of Science Fiction. For a broader discussion of the importance of Darwinian ideas, see Virginia Richter, Literature after Darwin: Human Beasts in Western Fiction 1859–1939 (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2011). 30. F. Douglas McHenry, “The Seventh Devil,” Weird Tales, November 1925, 632. 31. Ibid., 635. 32. This discussion is also played out in the letters of Lovecraft and Howard, available in A Means to Freedom: The Letters of H. P. Lovecraft and Robert E. Howard, ed. S. T. Joshi, David E. Schultz, and Rusty Burke (New York: Hippocampus Press, 2009). 33. John Burt Foster, Heirs to Dionysus: A Nietzschean Current in Literary Modernism (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1981), 24. 34. Friedrich Nietzsche, The Will to Power (New York: Vintage, 1968), 19. 35. Seabury Quinn, “The Horror on the Links,” Weird Tales, October 1925, 456. 36. H. Warner Munn, “The City of the Spiders,” Weird Tales, November 1926, 631. 37. Ibid., 646. 38. Leon Surette, in The Birth of Modernism: Ezra Pound, T. S. Eliot, W. B. Yeats, and the Occult (Montreal: McGill University Press, 1993), explores the connection between modernism and the occult in detail. 39. “The Eyrie,” Weird Tales, December 1925, 848. 40. Seabury Quinn had a long-running section in Weird Tales, titled “Servants of Satan,” which recounted the crimes of figures such as Gilles de Rais or Countess Bathory. 41. Phillip Jenkins, Mystics and Messiahs: Cults and New Religions in American History (New York: Oxford University Press, 2000). 42. Stephen Bagby, “The Witches’ Sabbath,” Weird Tales, August 1928, 249. 43. Seabury Quinn, “Mephistopheles and Company Ltd.,” Weird Tales, February 1928, 188. 44. Ibid., 199. 45. Bassett Morgan, “The Skeleton under the Lamp,” Weird Tales, May 1928, 606. 46. Ibid. Chapter Three The Lovecraft Circle and the “Weird Class” “Against the Complacency of an Orthodox Sun-Dweller” Dániel Nyikos WEIRD TALES AND THE FORMATION OF THE “WEIRD CLASS” As the Weird Tales writers who became known as the Lovecraft Circle corresponded with one another, 1 they created not only friendships but a cohesive group that consciously set itself apart from the established literary intelligentsia of their age. Their sense of being outsiders and of having been closed out from traditionally legitimate circles appears throughout the writings of this group, reflecting their own position in literary society. In their letters 2 and in the pages of the magazine they wrote for, these writers consciously developed their own separate literary tradition, which was opposed to what was prevalent in the broader world of literature at the time. 3 This chapter will explore what factors led Weird Tales in general and the Lovecraft Circle in particular to adopt this outsider status as a “weird class,” and it will explore the influence of this new literary culture by highlighting some of the varying ways in which these themes appear in the works of the Lovecraft Circle. To them, the weird tale represented both an escape from a society in which they felt like literary and social outsiders and a path into a common kinship with others who shared their taste in imaginative stories. Weird Tales had a unique place in the field of literature as both pulp fiction and a publication of weird fiction. The magazine was forced to find a compromise—not always a happy one—between selling copies and supporting quality literature. This circumstance and the unique genre of the weird tale, particularly as practiced by the Lovecraft Circle, contributed to the 29 30 Dániel Nyikos creation and reification of a separate aesthetic that privileged the ability to create uncanny effects. In representing their literary tradition, these writers traced their genre to such respected authors as Arthur Conan Doyle, H. G. Wells, Mary Shelley, and—particularly—Edgar Allan Poe, thus demonstrating their continuity with established literary greatness. They then established the values of their society in their own works. The solidifying of this weird society can be observed in the writers and readers of Weird Tales in general, but I will look more closely at the way these ideas appear in the writings of the so-called Lovecraft Circle, as this group of writers consciously and explicitly wrote to one another using their unique aesthetic. The Lovecraft Circle contrasted their stories with those of mainstream literary authors, whom they labeled mundane, unimaginative, and unable to appreciate the sublime thrill that uncanny tales produce on an appropriately sensitive reader. While this aesthetic privileged the Weird Tales reader, it particularly honored writers able to produce this effect. As the writings of the weird class are more closely examined, a hierarchy begins to emerge, one that privileges literary ability and imagination where other class structures favor social power and wealth—traditional advantages from which many of these writers felt cut off, often unfairly so. Edgar Allan Poe can be said to be at the top of the weird class; his stories are used as the standard by which all others were judged. Lovecraft himself figures as, perhaps, Poe’s heir, 4 particularly in the eyes of the Lovecraft Circle. He also forms the nexus of that richly varied group of writers through his voluminous letter writing and conscious efforts to encourage writers and introduce them to one another. Though Seabury Quinn’s Jules de Grandin stories are more popular in his time and more prolific, the praise Lovecraft receives from his contemporaries, 5 not to mention his influence as the head of the Circle, mark him as the peak of weird aristocracy. The rest of the shape of this society takes form in letters and anecdotes: readers tell of traveling to meet with their favorite writers with the same breathless language as explorers visiting sages in exotic lands. Their habits, adventures, and eccentricities are described in adoring detail, creating larger-than-life characters who alone, these breathless accounts seem to say, could craft such wild stories of bizarre imagination. We can see the interest the members of the weird class take in one another in their letters to one another and to “The Eyrie.” 6 The language they use mirrors that of society columns introducing the who’s who of a rich culture, and they share stories of one another with a sense of recording the lived lives of literary masters. As an example, Lovecraft writes of a visit from a young protégé thus: “Very shortly I may have another & a longer-term visitor in the person of one of the ‘gang’s’ youngest members—Donald Wandrei of St. Paul, Minn., who turned 21 this summer. He has been working for a year in the advertising dept. of Dutton’s in New York.” 7 In a time when writers first The Lovecraft Circle and the “Weird Class” 31 encountered one another as little more than a name attached to a work, personal stories about the backgrounds of different authors were exchanged with fascination. The struggle between these opposed aesthetic viewpoints plays out in their stories. In weird fiction, this conflict between the mundane and the imaginative is framed in terms of access to cosmic understanding: being able to imagine a world beyond the accepted one gives characters the capacity to see things as they truly are. These characters can, therefore, accurately perceive truth, as the medium of weird fiction allows the authors to create fictive versions of our own world in which the supernatural, though hidden, is very real. In these stories, there genuinely are worlds of cosmic wonder and terror, and the characters who can perceive them as they are gain power by this or are imperiled by it; frequently both. In this cosmology, society at large is fundamentally blind and corrupt, masking with rationality and prosaic indifference the reality that only a few outsiders can perceive. Just as their creators saw themselves as social outsiders, these characters frequently tread paths beyond the well-worn roads of society. While their writers chafed against the perceived unfairness of the dominant aesthetic that marginalized their art, these characters live in a cosmically unbalanced world, threatened by vast forces beyond their ability to control or even fully comprehend. 8 They stand alone against the forces of both blind neglect on the part of their contemporaries and the cosmic danger of the unknown. Thus, the weird class positions its fictive self-representation as sole possessors of genuine knowledge about the world, who, despite their privileged understanding, walk outside of society, seeing too much to integrate with a culture that does not understand them. 9 In this study, I will examine how the weird class was constructed and how the outsider with access to true knowledge is represented both among the writers—and, to a lesser extent, their readers 10—as well as their literary creations. First, I will examine the birth and evolution of Weird Tales, looking both at the creator’s and editors’ intentions for it and at the ongoing debate in the letter column about the literary status of the magazine. Next, I will consider how the genre of weird fiction helped shape the oppositional outsider rhetoric found in many of the stories of the magazine. I will then use Lovecraft’s essay “Supernatural Horror in Literature” and his short story “The Unnamable” to demonstrate the way he positioned the ability to enjoy and create an uncanny effect as proof of superior aesthetic tastes and talent. I will then show how these ideas are also reflected in the writings of Robert E. Howard, another member of the Lovecraft Circle in whose stories the same themes take significantly different forms. I choose the expression “weird class” to refer to the imagined set of writers and readers who are “sensitive” enough, to use Lovecraft’s favored term, to appreciate weird literature. I do this to draw special attention to the 32 Dániel Nyikos class boundaries of that culture. Due to their own outsider status in society in general as well as the cultural marginalization of their chosen medium, this group both cuts across class boundaries and sets itself up oppositionally to the privileged class of writers who did not have to write for the proverbial penny per word to make a living. They belonged to writers of a new class: artists who had to write for a living. This is not to say that the writers of the Lovecraft Circle all saw themselves as kindred to the pulp authors who pounded out formulaic story after story to meet the demands of the ravenous readership of magazines such as Black Mask and Argosy. It must be noted that Weird Tales was started to create a venue for publishing fiction that could not be found elsewhere rather than to milk profit from a popular theme. At this point, it was the weird story, not the pulp form, that marked the magazine as a place for a unique culture to flourish in the form of freedom of expression. Outsiderness was embedded in the magazine from the start. In the words of its founder, Jacob Clark Henneberger, the magazine’s purpose was “to give the writer free rein to express his innermost feelings in a manner befitting great literature.” 11 In 1923, when the magazine was founded, the common stereotypes about the shoddy quality of writing in the pulp magazines had not yet evolved. Henneberger could not have known that his chosen publication medium would lead to the magazine being associated with “the pulps.” In his dissertation, “The Shadow Modernism of Weird Tales: Experimental Pulp Fiction in the Age of Modernist Reflection,” Jason Carney demonstrates a shift in the public perception of pulps, writing that “‘pulp magazines’ as a discrete ‘Grub street’ endeavor generalizable in terms of high quantity and low quality only became at hand as a circulating cultural stereotype after and as a result of the massive expansion of the all-fiction magazine marker.” 12 Carney stresses that it was precisely as a means to create a new place for the publication of unique stories that had no other outlet that Weird Tales came about: “Weird Tales was founded in response to what the publisher, Jacob Clark Henneberger, thought of as an aesthetic crisis, a kind of encroachment of the contaminating commercial influence on literary endeavor.” 13 Thus, it can be said that Weird Tales, at least at its inception, was not yet marked by the stamp of class marginalization that would later fall on the pulp form. 14 On the other hand, the genre of the weird story was distinctly an outsider genre, as the lack of other publications that led to Weird Tales’s creation illustrates. As I mentioned, Weird Tales found itself increasingly associated with the general character of pulp magazines, which, “as a form, became the bottom of the cultural hierarchy of the 1920s and 1930s,” according to David M. Earle, author of Re-covering Modernism: Pulps, Paperbacks, and the Prejudice of Form. 15 Even those responsible for the decisions made by Weird Tales had to struggle both to create quality work and to draw an audience to The Lovecraft Circle and the “Weird Class” 33 help the magazine stay afloat. Earle describes the balance pulp publishers had to strike when constructing their audience. On the one hand, they sought to appeal to readers from more privileged classes; on the other hand, they had to continue to sell to their core, working-class audience. The resulting discourse was complex and not easily summarized: These contemporary portraits of the pulp audience are complex—many selfdescriptive pulp editorials show a hopeful upward mobility, yet are careful not to ostracize the main, working-class readership. . . . For example, in 1935, A. A. Wyn wrote: “We all know that plenty of the bankers and brokers, lawyers and doctors, salesmen and Senators are addicted to reading the pulps.” 16 As writers of both weird fiction and a pulp magazine, the Lovecraft Circle was doubly marked by outsider status through the magazine’s position in the broader world of literature. This anxiety was heightened by what some saw as pandering to scandalous interests. To attract more attention, Weird Tales often sported lurid covers depicting scantily clad women. The lively debate on this topic within the magazine’s letter section, “The Eyrie,” demonstrates the mixed feelings of the readers and writers regarding whether the magazine should aspire to literary status. Some readers felt scandalized by covers they said undermined the esteemed quality of the work in Weird Tales. In the August–September 1936 issue, Marshall Lemer of New York City, in a letter Farnsworth Wright titled “Is This Sarcasm?” writes, I admire the artistic sense that prompts Brundage to select invariably what is frequently the one nude in the entire issue for the cover illustration. . . . I receive a curious glance from the gentleman that presides over the local news stand when I ask for Weird Tales, and once I received a copy of Spice and Ginger Stories in pardonable error. 17 Other readers praised the covers for their artistry and daring. In February 1938, Gertrude Hemken from Chicago, whose outspoken letters written in strong dialect were a regular staple of “The Eyrie,” writes, “Wotta nude . . . ! Honestly, she looks almost real.” 18 Wright, who took over from Edwin Baird as editor with Weird Tales in financial straits in 1924, took a pragmatic approach: the shocking covers sold magazines. Sometimes he took a similar approach to stories: “He featured stories many times that were not up to the quality of the other fiction in the magazine but which he knew would sell copies.” 19 Thus, the magazine walked a line—one that would continue to be debated—between marketability and literary aspiration. In terms of content, Wright included stories by famous authors of literary merit in his “Weird Reprints” section, further demonstrating the magazine’s literary aspirations. Some of these writers included Charles Dickens, Jules Verne, Guy de Maupassant, and Edgar Allan Poe. 34 Dániel Nyikos Rather than attempting to elevate their favorites to join the ranks of accepted literary authors, enthusiasts of weird fiction situated their preferred form in terms of an alternate and equally valid literary tradition, one parallel to the widely accepted canon. To do so, they created their own means by which to judge the value of work, separate from the language of contemporary criticism. The conversation in “The Eyrie” richly praises and criticizes the stories of previous issues, using language suggestive of a set weird aesthetic, such as one letter from B. M. Reynolds in 1934: “Its cosmic scope and imaginative brilliance certainly give one food for thought.” 20 And of another story, “If he can sustain the present high mark of eery mystery and nameless horror . . . , he will have written a masterpiece.” Tone, imagination, and style are key to the weird aesthetic. Among phrases used by other contributors in that issue are such statements of aesthetic value as “sheer pathos and beauty,” “unusual and original,” “fantastic and imaginative,” and “as good a piece of weird fiction as it is possible to find.” The last sentence is worth particular note. Criticism is almost compulsively situated in this alternative aesthetic, rather than in terms of literature as a whole. Readers and writers alike judged the stories of Weird Tales in their own aesthetic terms, generally avoiding using the language of mainstream literature in their criticism. They often contextualized their praise with phrases such as “in the weird tales genre” and compared successful writers to others who wrote in that mode. I chose the October 1937 issue to examine the letter column for comparisons of the work that appeared in the magazine to other literature. There are five instances of Weird Tales writers being compared to other writers of the weird who did not appear in the magazine except in the reprints, notably Poe and H. G. Wells. These comparisons are all positive, illustrating the readers’ interest in connecting their favorites to the more acceptable stories of previous generations. In this way, they helped solidify the pedigree and ongoing continuity of the literary respectability of their genre. Interestingly, writers are only compared to other Weird Tales writers three times. No writers in the magazine are likened to contemporary writers who did not write weird fiction. The only other writer mentioned is Hemingway, and the mention uses Hemingway as the opposite of weird writers. That particular letter warrants special attention, as Wright chose it to lead the column and dedicated almost a page and a half to its content and his own rebuttal of it. It provides a fascinating insight into the balance between popular entertainment and literature that the magazine sought. The letter writer, G. M. Wilson, complains that the virtuous characters in the magazine inevitably win. He could not have won favor with Wright by his choice of wording: “I read some years ago that a writer who wished to achieve success with your type of magazine must never let heroism be overcome by villainy” 21 (emphasis mine). He anticipates that Wright might give a typical reply about not aspiring to a realistic, and hence not literary, representation of life, but insists The Lovecraft Circle and the “Weird Class” 35 that Weird Tales is not a typical pulp: “You may say you are not writing about life, that I can get my sordid realism in the contemporary fiction of the Hemingway school, but . . . [t]he point is that you have the makings of an excellent magazine, above the class of the usual pulp, yet you usually and deliberately tie yourself down with this one flaw” 22 (emphasis mine). Wright might have taken special umbrage at the tone taken by Wilson, which places his argument in commercial terms and suggests that the editorial choices taken by the staff are purely to please readers and sell the maximum number of copies: “I suppose you are a success financially and have a large reading public, but don’t you think you could widen your appeal and increase circulation by adopting the above suggestion? . . . [I]t is your business to know the psychology of your reading public.” 23 Wilson’s assumptions, as we have seen, were basically wrong; Weird Tales was not doing well, and perhaps was never meant to. In his response, Wright makes clear his dedication to quality weird literature over predictable potboilers. He describes two stories in previous issues that caused particular outrage from readers for violent fates that befell their characters, and he names four stories in just the previous issue in which virtue does not triumph. “Most 24 of our stories do end happily because that is the way the authors write them; but our readers can never know in advance whether the ending will be happy or otherwise.” 25 The unpredictable nature of weird fiction allowed writers to push their imaginings even beyond those of other magazines, setting their stories in other worlds, which were often thinly veiled analogues of the contemporary world. “The one thing readers knew with Weird Tales was that the unexpected was always possible. For if the reader knew in advance that the ending would always be a happy one, then all threats and occurrences in the tale could not dispel the knowledge that all would be well in the end. . . . It was that extra dimension that gave Weird Tales the monopoly on real horror stories during the era.” 26 The defamiliarizing 27 influence of the weird tale allowed writers to reshape the contemporary world and make it new in the eyes of the readers. This allowed writers broader freedom to criticize elements of society and to promote their own worldviews; one can see the realworld analogues behind the cosmic horrors, barbarians, and aliens between the covers of Weird Tales. This defamiliarizing effect is particularly strong in this genre of fiction. According to Istvan Csicsery-Ronay Jr. in The Seven Beauties of Science Fiction, science fiction provides a sense of wonder in two primary modes: the sublime and the grotesque. These he defines, respectively, as “a complex recoil and recuperation of self-consciousness coping with phenomena suddenly perceived to be too great to be comprehended” and “the realization that objects that appear to be familiar . . . are actually undergoing surprising transformations.” 28 It is clear that weird fiction falls into both categories. 36 Dániel Nyikos These stories serve to destabilize the audience’s beliefs in rigid concepts: “In both, the perceiver enjoys a sudden dislocation from habitual perception” in which “the testing of the categories conventionally used to interpret the world, and the desire to articulate what consciousness finds inarticulable.” 29 This makes the weird story form an effective vehicle for undermining societal structures and building an alternative system of values. “Behind all of the specific moments are vast and vastly changed conceptual vistas that make possible new imaginary experiences and ways of inhabiting material existence.” 30 It is precisely such “vastly changed conceptual vistas” that the weird class inhabited. The writers of the Lovecraft Circle did more than write for pay: they used their imaginative output to produce a new and alternative literary society that reshaped preconceptions about art and the lived experience of artists. “SUPERNATURAL HORROR IN LITERATURE” Lovecraft explicitly explains his perception of the relationship of weird fiction to literature at large in “Supernatural Horror in Literature,” in which he also lays out his ideas arguing for the superiority of his chosen genre, and therefore the writers of it. In the essay, he creates a dichotomy between the imagination of the weird story 31 and the banality of other literature, yet he also presents weird literature as the principal means of conveying horror, as much a part of human experience as any other emotion captured by other writers. Thus, he presents weird fiction as both more imaginative than and as emotionally true as contemporary literature. In his essay, he suggests that those who dedicate themselves to stories about mundane events lack imagination: “Relatively few are free enough from the spell of the daily routine to respond to rappings from outside, and tales of ordinary feelings and events, or of common sentimental distortions of such feelings and events, will always take first place in the taste of the majority.” 32 In the language he uses, such as the expression “free from the spell,” we see his preferencing of the supernatural over the mundane, which he positioned as deadening to the ability to perceive true beauty. Those who write and enjoy weird stories are not bound by the “common” and “ordinary.” Lovecraft specifically attributes inability to appreciate weird fiction to a lack of sensitivity and insists that the ability to enjoy supernatural horror exists only among a select elite: “But the sensitive are always with us . . . ; so that no amount of rationalization, reform, or Freudian analysis can quite annul the thrill of the chimney-corner whisper or the lonely wood.” It is worth noting that he places rationalism and modernity (to use his word, “reform”) as opponents of his chosen genre. He insists that his “tradition” is The Lovecraft Circle and the “Weird Class” 37 “as real and as deeply grounded in mental experience as any other pattern or tradition of mankind,” thus claiming that supernatural horror is as capable of representing human reality as other forms of literature. In doing so, Lovecraft does something many of his contemporaries do not: he favorably compares weird literature to mainstream fiction in terms of craft and representation rather than merely content. 33 As is usual to the writers and readers of weird fiction, Lovecraft establishes a system for assessing quality within the genre itself, comparing weird stories only to other weird stories when he describes the qualities that mark a particularly successful piece: “If the proper sensations are excited, such a ‘high spot’ must be admitted on its own merits as weird literature” (emphasis mine). He also takes pains to separate his favored literary form from that which might too easily be dismissed as being hackneyed or trashy: “The true weird tale has something more than secret murder, bloody bones, or a sheeted form clanking chains according to rule.” 34 Lovecraft, who believed he had been born in the wrong century, fit perfectly into the outsiders of the weird class brought together by Weird Tales. What for his characters is a source of terror and often mental and physical harm was a source of some hope for Lovecraft: that his artistic endeavors showed his greater sensitivity toward a unique and vibrant art form. It also revealed a duality to his relationship with the literary elite: he presented their unwillingness to accept his art form as an inability to appreciate it. H. P. LOVECRAFT From boyhood, H. P. Lovecraft was made aware of his family’s reduced financial and social status, and his chosen career as a writer of weird stories further strained his position. Lovecraft was born “to a family that was both well-to-do financially and a part of the informal social aristocracy of” Providence, Rhode Island. 35 His father died a gruesome death in 1898 of what is now believed to be syphilis. In 1904, when Lovecraft was fourteen, the mismanagement of his grandfather’s estate “forced the family to move . . . into a smaller house.” 36 Deeply shamed, he later wrote of himself in this time, “How could an old man of 14 . . . readjust his existence to a skimpy flat and new household programme and inferior outdoor setting . . . ?” and contemplated suicide. 37 His melancholic personality surfaced frequently in life and found its expression through his writing; he later wrote, “There is no field other than the weird in which I have any aptitude or inclination for fictional composition. Life has never interested me so much as the escape from life.” 38 Never having attended university, Lovecraft felt the shame of his academic failure all his life. In his construction of cosmic forces in his 38 Dániel Nyikos stories, he separates access not only to imagination but also to knowledge from the privileged academic class. In many of Lovecraft’s stories, true horror comes not from physical danger, but from the realization that the universe is fundamentally ambivalent toward humanity. By making contact with forces that bring irrefutable knowledge about the inhuman nature of the cosmos, Lovecraft’s characters cross from a place of ignorance to one of understanding. Their understanding of the very places with which they were most familiar, which they imagined to be complete and fixed, becomes unhinged as they see the fundamental disharmony of the universe. James Kneale demonstrates that, for someone with Lovecraft’s conservative perspectives on change and space, the liminal divisions between imagined worlds where such contact is possible become a site of anxiety. He writes that, “while thresholds can be read positively or negatively, Lovecraft usually casts his in a negative light because they open up the prospect of change, which can only be threatening to someone obsessed with fixity.” 39 In his story “The Unnamable,” Lovecraft challenges what he sees as a bourgeois prejudice against weird stories, which he attributes to a failure of imagination. In the story, Lovecraft presents an argument between the narrator and his friend, who represents a straw man for contemporary literature. Their debate, which begins about art, moves into basic questions about the essential nature of reality: Whose knowledge of the realities of the world is more complete? The narrator tries to convince Joel Manton, “an orthodox sun-dweller” whose “feelings had fixed dimensions, properties, causes, and effects,” of the “mystical and unexplained.” 40 As Lovecraft’s narrator insists, “‘Common sense’ in reflecting on these subjects . . . is merely a stupid absence of imagination and mental flexibility.” Again, Lovecraft emphasizes the importance of sensitivity to things not felt by most: “No wonder sensitive students shudder at the Puritan age in Massachusetts.” 41 Lovecraft’s satire of contemporary literature is clear in his description of the literary preferences of Manton, for whom anything imaginative is anathema, and the most thorough examination of banal everyday events constitutes true art: It was his view that only our normal, objective experiences possess any esthetic significance, and that it is the province of the artist not so much to rouse strong emotion by action, ecstasy, and astonishment, as to maintain a placid interest and appreciation by accurate, detailed transcripts of everyday affairs. Especially did he object to my preoccupation with the mystical and the unexplained; or although believing in the supernatural much more fully than I, he would not admit that it is sufficiently commonplace for literary treatment. 42 The Lovecraft Circle and the “Weird Class” 39 After the inevitable confrontation with the horror that proves the narrator’s fears, the narrator is left “too dazed to exult.” 43 In this moment, Lovecraft’s own hope for the triumph of the uncanny over rationality, and therein the triumph of Lovecraft’s form of mystical knowledge over accepted academia, is clear. Though the narrator is almost destroyed by the experience, his understanding of the universe is definitively proven. 44 For Lovecraft, who aspired to the identity of a scholar despite his inability to enter academia, the world of politics and science felt as distant and apathetic as the gods of his stories. For all his class pretensions due to his heritage, Lovecraft’s poverty was a constant reminder of this outsider status. He writes of his frustration that his stories did not achieve broader acceptance among readers, and he chafed at the public perception of “the pulps.” As such, many of Lovecraft’s stories form tacit arguments that there is a vital science beyond academic knowledge, which is the knowledge of the uncanny and unknowable that his stories seek to capture. 45 However, for all his imagination and understanding, Lovecraft still saw himself as spurned by the literary elite. Just as Lovecraft’s anxieties about his relationship with accepted society were expressed in his stories, so was his terror of the lower class—a class he refused to imagine he himself had become part of, despite the dire financial straits that necessitated his ghostwriting for other authors to earn his meager living. After he married Sonia Haft Greene, an immigrant of Ukrainian and Jewish descent, 46 he moved to New York City, where his finances forced him to take residence in Brooklyn. There, he lived elbow to elbow with uneducated, often foreign-born people. For Lovecraft, the idea that he, a “sensitive” member of the weird class, could belong among such people was a source of terrible loathing. His class disgust is strongly tinged with xenophobia, and in his letters he attributes the decay of that part of the city to the influence of immigrants: “My guess is that its decay had just set in, owing to the Syrian fringe beyond Atlantic Avenue.” 47 After he finally leaves New York, he writes, “It is nearly a full year ago that I left it without a pang to come home to my own—to the clean, white, and ancient New England that bred me.” 48 By returning to New England, he believed he came closer to the proper balance owed to one of his ancient family and artistic abilities, though he would never achieve the affluence and success he felt was his birthright. Lovecraft’s deep feelings of outsiderness driven home by his stay in Brooklyn appear in a story he wrote based on this experience, “The Horror at Red Hook.” The story, which Lovecraft’s wife later suggested was born from a rude encounter with a group of workers at a restaurant, connects the tendency toward laziness, criminality, and vice that Lovecraft saw in his neighbors with another fear—that of ancient, pagan, blasphemous rites threatening the city. In the story, the slum Red Hook, once a respectable neighborhood, is now multiracial, occupied by “Syrian, Spanish, Italian, and negro ele- 40 Dániel Nyikos ments.” 49 By constructing the menace of the neighborhood thus, Lovecraft exerted artistic domination over his class environment by recasting his anxiety in terms of the cosmic horrors of his own imagination. Thus, he imagined a bizarre and unknown “truth” literally lurking beneath the thing he despised. This fictional Red Hook is “a babel of sound and filth, and sends out strange cries to answer the lapping of oily waves at its grimy piers.” 50 “From this tangle of material and spiritual putrescence the blasphemies of an hundred dialects assail the sky. Hordes of prowlers reel shouting and singing along the lanes . . . and swarthy, sin-pitted faces disappear from windows when visitors pick their way through.” 51 This depraved, destitute population worships evil pre-Christian gods and kidnaps innocents for sacrifice to their gods. “Here cosmic sin had entered, and festered by unhallowed rites had commenced the grinning march of death that was to rot us all to fungous abnormalities too hideous for the grave’s holding.” 52 We see in this a bizarre conjunction: the illiterate immigrant masses worshipping beings of secret power. It must be noted, however, that the immigrants make sacrifices to something they do not understand, which is corrupting New York and America from the inside. This “rotting,” literal in the story, reflects the metaphorical social rot Lovecraft feared coming from the multiracial lower class. At the climax of the story, the detective Malone discovers “solitary prisoners in a state of complete idiocy . . . including four mothers with infants of disturbingly strange appearance. These infants died soon after exposure to light; a circumstance the doctors thought rather merciful.” 53 This discovery illuminates the horror that the lower classes will literally bring forth abomination. In this case, the forced mating of humans with monsters closely mirrors Lovecraft’s phobia of the intermingling of classes and races. This goes beyond xenophobia, however: the terrors of the secret world here threaten to spill over into the familiar, sun-drenched New York its dwellers thought they understood. Malone, as a white man, glimpses a reality that remains a mystery to the others, who are unable to grasp its portents: “Malone thinks these detectives shew a sadly limited perspective in their lack of wonder at the myriad unexplainable details.” In an interesting turn, Malone wishes the things he experienced in real life could again be confined to mere fantasy such as that the readers of Weird Tales might enjoy: “But he is content to rest silent in Chepachet [a small town in Rhode Island], calming his nervous system and praying that time may gradually transfer his terrible experience from the realm of present reality to that of picturesque and semimythical remoteness.” 54 Though the fundamental disordering of the universe extends to the upper class in “The Horror at Red Hook,” the story betrays Lovecraft’s fondness for the privileged old world. One character, Robert Suydam, is characteristic of Lovecraft’s representations of the upper class, a decadent scion who The Lovecraft Circle and the “Weird Class” 41 serves as a reminder of a better age. In the mold of Roderick Usher, whose “time-honored” family “had put forth, at no period, any enduring branch,” 55 Suydam is “a lettered recluse of an ancient Dutch family . . . inhabiting the spacious but ill-preserved mansion which his grandfather had built.” 56 Though he, too, is destroyed, Suydam does strike back in death at the unholy force that slew him. After Suydam falls under the corrupting influence of Red Hook’s witchcraft and dies, his “naked, tittering, phosphorescent” corpse pushes the cursed idol from its a pedestal in its underground lair, freeing the community—although temporarily—from the power of that inhuman god. In Suydam’s character, the reader finds a combination of the decayed and fallen aristocracy of Poe with this final moment of posthumous redemption. Though he himself is as dead as the era in which his family was still ascendant, Suydam strikes back at the chaotic disorder of the universe. The fondness for the old aristocracy lingers in Lovecraft’s story, even with the passing of the last of that ancient family. Lovecraft’s writing shows a deep fear that social imbalances would lead to the complete destruction of civilization, which he saw as already fallen from its height at the Victorian ideal. Paul Buhle argues, “In asociality and in history, Horror is the natural concomitant to the Socialist critiques of Capitalism. Horror foreshadows and fulfils the Marxian prediction of Socialism or Barbarism by placing in true perspective the breakdown of the West.” 57 At the base of Lovecraft’s fiction is the fundamental challenge of modern science on the established order. If the evolution of humans is a natural process without inherent meaning, there arises what Buhle calls “a modern sense of indeterminacy.” 58 This creates a sense of meaninglessness and hopelessness that ever threatens to crush the sanity of Lovecraft’s characters; the cosmic horrors of his stories signify the vast ambivalence of the flawed universe. In this, Lovecraft owes some debt to Poe, as described by Donald R. Burleson: “Poe’s protagonists are often mentally tormented individuals facing insupportably bleak facts of their existence and circumstances.” 59 For Lovecraft, his own loss of familial prestige, coupled with the humiliation of his reduced circumstances and of his being forced to rely on his writing to survive, created a terrible sense of helplessness and inconsequentiality. He saw himself ostracized from both academia and the greater literary world, and he imagined himself separate from both, creating his own artistic circle with the other writers and the readers of the magazines for which he wrote. In his stories, this disordered balance almost always leads to ruin for the characters who realize it. 42 Dániel Nyikos ROBERT E. HOWARD The lone outsider who comes into possession of secret knowledge about the fundamentally flawed universe also appears in the work of Robert E. Howard. For Howard, this corruption did not come from a fall from grace with the close of the Victorian era, but rather from a fundamental flaw in civilization itself. Like Lovecraft’s, Howard’s characters frequently discover, to their horror, that the illusion of normalcy in the world is a thin skin stretched over a maddeningly vast truth. There is far more to the world than most imagine, and that which we call civilization is guided by sinister forces incomprehensible to most. Unlike Lovecraft’s characters, Howard’s heroes frequently rise to fight back against the terrors of the cosmic night, though their victory is a fleeting one: the corruption, ultimately, is insurmountable. Born in a small Texas town in 1906, Howard witnessed as a young man the transition from frontier life to a modern small town. Howard saw the effects the wealth of an oil boom has on a region. He wrote, “Oil came into the country when I was still a young boy, and remained. I’ll say one thing about an oil boom; it will teach a kid that Life’s a pretty rotten thing about as quick as anything I can think of.” 60 As Mark Finn writes in his biography, Blood and Thunder, “Robert’s reaction formed a moral stance that he would strike over and over again in the wood pulp pages of Weird Tales magazine and its many competitors. A sensitive man, who felt deeply, he couldn’t help but be affected by the constant chaos, violence, and corruption that came with the oil booms.” 61 Howard was something of a contradiction, an amateur boxer as well as a voracious reader and writer. The people of his small town did not understand him, and Howard chafed at their perception of him, though he did have a circle of close friends and correspondents. He, like Lovecraft and other members of their circle, lived on the fringe of normal society. Howard’s stories echo Lovecraft’s in that the outsider protagonists’ ability to access forbidden knowledge sets them apart from their society and gives them power. Like Lovecraft’s heroes, Howardian characters are often placed in peril by their exposure to dangers on the borders of the rational world. Just as Lovecraft’s horrors crept into the minds of those sensitive enough to glimpse them, the danger of the peek into forbidden truth frequently challenges Howard’s characters. Howard’s protagonists, in contrast to Lovecraft’s academics, are true working-class heroes. They exemplify virtues of rough masculinity, physical strength, combat prowess, hard work, toughness, and courage. Often, the protagonist can be identified as soon as a broad-chested, thick-armed, battle-ready character appears. They have other things in common with Lovecraft’s characters: they are social outsiders, they struggle with forces partially beyond their comprehension, and they are The Lovecraft Circle and the “Weird Class” 43 prone to brooding reflections on the mysteries of the universe. Most of all, they stand alone. That Howard hated the idea of working for others is well documented. In a 1931 letter to Farnsworth Wright, Howard wrote, “Life’s not worth living if somebody thinks he’s in authority over you.” 62 Writing was an opportunity to be his own master, and Howard chafed at social conventions. Even Howard’s barbarian heroes appear apart from their tribes and places of origin, traveling alone and out of place in a wider world. While their harsh upbringings have hardened them to survive in the violent worlds Howard describes, these heroes are separated from membership in any larger group. They wander, often alone and at odds with the powers that control their world. Their success or failure depends on their ability to assert their individualism and control their own fate. Wealth translates to the power to exert one’s will, often as a corollary to masculine assertion of violence. This is not a gesture of domination of others, but rather of securing one’s individual freedom. As it did with Lovecraft, writing gave Howard a chance to control his own destiny in a fundamentally flawed world. A recurring theme in Howard’s works is the decadent civilization on the verge of collapse, particularly characterized by senseless warfare and sexual excess. In his letters, he is ever against capitalistic greed and exploitation: he writes against the “gang that are now ham-stringing the administration and yelling ‘Communism!’ every time Roosevelt tries to free the country a little from their monopolistic clutches.” 63 In his correspondence, he writes with great passion about barbarian cultures and the muscular freedom of the cowboys heroes whose last light was fading even then. He, like Lovecraft, believed the best age of the world had passed, though he placed this mantle on the broad shoulders of barbarians rather than the Romans and the eighteenthcentury English, as Lovecraft did. The power and danger of forbidden knowledge about the universe reveal themselves with remarkable clarity in the stories of King Kull. Their treatment is particularly nuanced in “The Shadow Kingdom.” Kull is himself a barbarian from the island of Atlantis, ruling in a time even before the rise of the advanced civilization now associated with that island. In Kull’s age, the mighty state of Valusia rules the world, and he is its king. This position forces him to glimpse secrets not meant for humans: that power as he knows it is a lie and that humans, far from being lords of the planet, are merely pawns in a cosmic game they can little comprehend. Kull receives his first warning about this from the Pictish ambassador Kanu, who is himself an outsider: as a Pict, he will never be entirely welcomed by the Valusians, but his long years as an ambassador have made him fat, too fond—by his own admission—of wine and women. His position outside both cultures gives him unique insight: he combines half-forgotten Pictish legends with what he knows of the secrets of Valusia’s politics to glimpse the truth 44 Dániel Nyikos about the ancient history of Valusia’s leadership, and so he warns Kull, “The night can hear. There are worlds within worlds.” 64 His words begin to part the veil that hides the truth from Kull. This warning weighs heavily on Kull, for whom the place of the city itself becomes suddenly strange and sinister. He perceives that order is only an illusion for something fundamentally alien to him, which both makes him an outsider and threatens him: “You and your tribe shall pass, but we are invincible, indestructible. We towered above a strange world, ere Atlantis and Lemuria rose from the sea.” 65 This is the threat of a past in which the current divisions between reality and imagination were not so sharp, and humans fought to survive against things known only in legends. 66 Just as the city, with its rigid class hierarchies and its masses of unimaginative people who little know the truth about the place they live, was a source of anxiety in Lovecraft’s work, it is alienating in Howard’s stories as well. Thus, as in the works of Lovecraft, the separation of the mundane world and illusion is disturbed by a terrifying truth: that those things sensitive people fear are real, waiting in constant menace just beyond the perception of most. Kull learns that the course of human history has been controlled by a race of evil serpent-people, who disguise themselves as human priests and kings. They conspire to kill and replace Kull with one of their own. As Kull creeps through his own palace, the familiar halls made strange by the new realization of the secrets within, he feels his perception of reality changing. He feels “like a naked child before the inscrutable wisdom of the mystic past. Again the sense of unreality swept upon him. At the back of his soul stole dim, gigantic phantoms, whispering monstrous things.” 67 The reader sees just how disordered the world has become for Kull as he perceives the hidden truth and grapples with the significance of this hidden knowledge: “[H]is flesh crawled with a horrid thought; ‘are the people of Valusia men or are they all serpents?’” 68 (emphasis in original). As what he previously believed to exist only in myth proves to be real, Kull fights to reorient himself as to what is real and what is not. He suddenly questions everything he had previously taken for granted. Though this hesitation would leave the psyche of one of Lovecraft’s characters crippled, Kull is made of stronger stuff, and he steels himself for a fight. Tall and muscular, Kull little resembles a Lovecraftian protagonist, but his ability to sense—and even be terrified by—the reality of his world demonstrates that he, too, is a fictional representative of the weird class. As a king and a barbarian, he is doubly on the margins of society, ruling over a strange and ancient people he has no kinship with. In an interesting turn, Kull’s outsider imagination is able to glimpse what the common people of Valusia have themselves forgotten: the supernatural forces that peer from the recesses of the past and still lurk in the dark corners of the city. The Lovecraft Circle and the “Weird Class” 45 The secret to his survival comes out of the dim past, together with the inhuman menace that threatens to overwhelm Kull. 69 Brule, a Pictish warrior sent by Ka-nu, reveals to Kull the ancient phrase “Ka nama kaa lajerama,” which humans can pronounce but serpent-men cannot, thus serving as a shibboleth. Kull, served both by the secret knowledge imparted to him by the Picts and by his own overwhelming physical prowess, defeats the serpentmen with the help of Brule. This, like many Howard stories, features the victory of an outsider character who walks beyond the borders of normal society and possesses knowledge that average humans do not have access to. Much has been written about Howard’s complex worldview regarding the struggle between civilization and barbarism, and it would be a disservice to suggest that he completely preferred the latter over the former. It is, however, clear that in civilization itself Howard found an element of the fundamental corruption of the world. In the battle between the evil snake-cult and those with knowledge of their presence, he stages the opposition between those forces that control humans who go through life little guessing the deeper truths hidden beyond their understanding: He stopped short, staring, for suddenly, like the silent swinging wide of a mystic door, misty, unfathomed reaches opened in the recesses of his consciousness and for an instant he seemed to gaze back through the vastnesses that spanned life and life; seeing through the vague and ghostly fogs dim shapes reliving dead centuries—men in combat with hideous monsters, vanquishing a planet of frightful terrors. . . . And man, the jest of the gods, the blind, wisdomless striver from dust to dust, following the long bloody trail of his destiny, knowing not why, bestial, blundering, like a great murderous child, yet feeling somewhere a spark of divine fire. 70 In the next sentence, the reader sees a vital clue to Kull’s own perception of the universe: “Kull drew a hand across his brow, shaken; these sudden glimpses into the abysses of memory always startled him.” The phrasing “these sudden glimpses . . . always startled him” demonstrates that he is prone to these imaginings and has had them before; Kull, too, is sensitive 71 to the same cosmic secrets that Lovecraft’s characters are. Rather than buckling to the pressures of what he knows, he rages against it, despite shuddering at the realization of his own insignificant place in the cosmos. CONCLUSION The aesthetic of the weird class took shape through their writings. Rather than through face-to-face interaction, the Lovecraft Circle expressed their ideas about their role as writers of weird stories on the fringes of literature through their stories, poems, and letters. Just as the character of the outsider 46 Dániel Nyikos who gains knowledge of the secret corruption of the universe that exists beyond the understanding of most appears in Lovecraft’s and Howard’s work, this same pattern can be found in the writings of other Lovecraft Circle authors. It can be traced through the bizarre imaginary worlds of Clark Ashton Smith, where individuals wander lost and amazed, acted upon by forces they little understand. It is found in C. L. Moore’s stories about Jirel of Joiry and Northwest Smith, eternal wanderers on the edge of civilization whose every story is an encounter with the strange forces beyond the pale, one in the past and the other in the future. In the stories of what S. T. Joshi has termed the Lovecraft Mythos, written by such authors as Robert Bloch, Fritz Leiber, Frank Belknap Long, and Henry Kuttner, we see the use of elements of Lovecraft’s cosmology: the sensitive protagonist who glimpses behind the veil that hides universal truths from the minds of most, the vast and sinister chaos of the world. This is not to say that these stories are cast from the same mold; every writer adds a unique turn to these themes, and there is space for richer exploration of the interplay of their themes with the influences of the weird class. Each member of the Lovecraft Circle expressed ideas of alienation, of the triumph of the weird imagination, and of the fundamental wrongness of the universe that, when detected by those sensitive enough to perceive it, brings both understanding and madness. It is little wonder that, in the stories these writers tell, characters who express this weird imagination suffer for it more often than not, and ultimate destruction at the hands—or tentacles—of irresistible universal forces proves to be the fate of humanity regardless of the small victories the heroes might achieve. Pushed to the literary fringe by the pulp format of the magazine and the weird content of their work, these writers forged with one another and, to a lesser extent, with their readers an alternative class whose hierarchy was based not on wealth and social power, but on creativity, imagination, and the ability to craft unique stories. It is, perhaps, a testament to these writers that they were wrong in one way: their work continues to make inroads into the literary canon and is finally receiving long-overdue critical attention. NOTES 1. Considering the myriad writers who contributed to Weird Tales, it is best not to make sweeping claims about all of them, though certain patterns do emerge. Therefore, I will try to focus on the writers of the Lovecraft Circle, though I will also draw general cultural lines from the ongoing conversation in “The Eyrie,” which formed the crux of communication among weird fiction enthusiasts. Certainly, the Lovecraft Circle was a key part of that conversation. 2. Lovecraft kept a voluminous correspondence. S. T. Joshi estimates that he wrote between forty-two thousand and eighty-four thousand letters. “By the 1930s HPL had become a fixture in the worlds of pulp fiction and fantasy fandom, and he accordingly began corresponding with a great many fellow writers.” He wrote around 250,000 words in total to Robert E. The Lovecraft Circle and the “Weird Class” 47 Howard alone; Howard wrote 300,000 to Lovecraft. S. T. Joshi and David E. Schultz, An H. P. Lovecraft Encyclopedia (Westport, CT: Greenwood Press, 2001), 146. 3. It would be remiss of me not to mention that it has been argued by others that Weird Tales and pulp literature in general were influenced by and reflected modernist aesthetics. In this way, it also served to “Make it new!” in a way that destabilized the perception of stabile realism. David Earle and Jason Carney, discussed in this chapter, develop this point very well. Carney shows that the marginalization of the Weird Tales writers allowed them to create this oppositionality, which was a shadow version of what the modernists were doing: “It was the Weird Tales writers’ exile from the garden of authentic aesthetic production on a literary plane into the shadows that conditioned and intensified their project.” Jason Carney, “The Shadow Modernism of Weird Tales: Experimental Pulp Fiction in the Age of Modernist Reflection” (PhD diss., Case Western Reserve University, 2014), 149–50. 4. The inimitable Gertrude Hemken writes in the December 1937 issue: “The more I read of Lovecraft’s work, the more I see in them the modern Poe—by his minute detail of every angle—the history of the family which built the house—the exact description of the plot of ground in which this ancient dwelling stood . . .—on such things I find HPL so very like Poe.” See Gertrude Hemken, “Here It Is,” Weird Tales, December 1937, 760. 5. In countless instances, one finds sentiments such as those of Harold S. Farnese in the July 1937 issue, which bore memorials to Lovecraft after his death: “But has it ever occurred to you that in Lovecraft you had the greatest genius that ever lived in the realm of weird fiction?” Harold S. Farnese, “The Greatest Genius,” Weird Tales, July 1937, 125. 6. As an example, Robert Bloch writes of his fellow authors in “The Eyrie” of September 1934: “No one can claim a more interesting career than [E. Hoffmann] Price, soldier of fortune, etc.; Howard, a typical barbarian like his own Conan; Lovecraft, the recluse; [August] Derleth, the descendant of a count who fled the French revolution; [Seabury] Quinn and his interesting job.” Bloch does not give an indication which of Quinn’s jobs he has in mind, but he is perhaps referring to the fact that Quinn edited an undertakers’ journal. See Robert Bloch, “About Our Authors,” Weird Tales, September 1934, 396. 7. H. P. Lovecraft, Selected Letters 1929-–1931, ed. August Derleth and Donald Wandrei (Sauk City, WI: Arkham House, 1971), 371. 8. Carney writes about this cosmology of horror thus: “To the extent that it simulates a world deconstructing, a reality principle violated, it is an acutely ‘agnostic’ project with a thesis to impart, captured succinctly in an entry of Clark Ashton Smith’s Black Book: ‘All human thought, all science, all religion, is the holding of a candle to the night of the universe.’” Carney, “Shadow Modernism,” 19. 9. It should be noted, of course, that not all stories in Weird Tales match this formula, nor do even all stories written by the Lovecraft Circle; however, the pattern is pervasive and critical, and provides a fascinating insight into the mind-sets of these authors. 10. As the rich correspondence through letters, “The Eyrie,” and fan publications such as the Fantasy Fan show, the readers of Weird Tales were deeply involved with the creation of the magazine and invested in the genre. The line between writer and reader was often crossed, with many writers expressing admiration for others’ work and longtime readers trying their hand at producing their own weird stories and poems. 11. Robert Weinberg, The “Weird Tales” Story (Rockville, MD: Borgo Press, 1999), 3. 12. Carney, “Shadow Modernism,” 35. 13. Ibid., 35–36. 14. Carney rejects the idea that Weird Tales preferred commercial interests over quality. He describes the magazine as “a non-commercial and aesthetically experimental enterprise informed by a desire to be a carnivalesque playground for otherwise uncategorizable and unsaleable manuscripts” that “challenges the notion that these magazines . . . were not concerned with issues of ‘art’ or entertain ideas of aesthetic ambition.” Ibid., 41. 15. David M. Earle, Re-covering Modernism: Pulps, Paperbacks, and the Prejudice of Form (Farnham, UK: Ashgate, 1998), 36. 16. Ibid., 87. 17. Marshal Lemer, “Is This Sarcasm?,” Weird Tales, August–September 1936, 252–53. 48 Dániel Nyikos 18. Gertrude Hemken, “Trudy Answers Our Critics,” Weird Tales, August–September 1936, 252. 19. Weinberg, “Weird Tales” Story, 31. 20. B. M. Reynolds, “A New High Mark,” Weird Tales, September 1934, 394. 21. G. M. Wilson, “Does Virtue Always Win?,” Weird Tales, October 1937, 503. 22. Ibid., 504. 23. Ibid. Though it indicates that Wilson separated Weird Tales from pulp literature in his mind, it is ironic that he encourages Wright to do exactly the opposite of what more successful pulp magazines were doing: he tells Wright to make his stories less formulaic and predictable in order to sell more copies. In doing so, he imagines an audience that wants the opposite of what pulp audiences were commonly thought to want: generic stories repeated issue after issue in which the end is never in doubt. 24. In the December 1937 issue, Clifton Hall writes in to address Wilson’s letter. Hall writes that he “checked back over the stories—exactly 90 of them, including reprints—that have appeared in the ten issues dated 1937, and found out a surprising fact. There was an exact split—45–45—between the happy and unhappy endings!” He admits that “it was difficult to definitely place many yarns in either classification,” but insists that this ratio shows “an amazing balance of endings.” Clifton Hall, “Happy vs. Unhappy Endings,” Weird Tales, December 1937, 765. 25. Farnsworth Wright, untitled introduction to “The Eyrie,” Weird Tales, October 1937, 503. 26. Weinberg, “Weird Tales” Story, 33–34. 27. Here I rely on Shlovsky’s definition of defamiliarization: “Art exists that one may recover the sensation of life; it exists to make one feel things, to make the stone stony. The purpose of art is to impart the sensation of things as they are perceived and not as they are known. The technique of art is to make objects “unfamiliar,” to make forms difficult, to increase the difficulty and length of perception because the process of perception is an aesthetic end in itself and must be prolonged.” See Viktor Shlovsky, “Art as Technique,” in Literary Theory: An Anthology, ed. Julie Rivkin and Michael Ryan, 2nd ed. (Maiden, MA: Blackwell Publishing, 2004), 16. 28. Istvan Csicsery-Ronay Jr., The Seven Beauties of Science Fiction (Middletown, CT: Wesleyan University Press, 2008), 146. 29. Ibid., 147. 30. Ibid., 148. 31. Lovecraft defines “the true weird tale” thus: “The true weird tale has something more than secret murder, bloody bones, or a sheeted form clanking chains according to rule. A certain atmosphere of breathless and unexplainable dread of outer, unknown forces must be present; and there must be a hint, expressed with a seriousness and portentousness becoming its subject, of that most terrible conception of the human brain—a malign and particular suspension or defeat of those fixed laws of Nature which are our only safeguard against the assaults of chaos and the daemons of unplumbed space.” H. P. Lovecraft, “Supernatural Horror in Literature,” in At the Mountains of Madness: The Definitive Edition (New York: Modern Library, 2005), 105. 32. Ibid. 33. Ibid. 34. Ibid. 35. H. P. Lovecraft, Lord of a Visible World: An Autobiography in Letters, ed. S. T. Joshi and David E. Schultz (Athens: Ohio University Press, 2000), 8. 36. Ibid., 9. 37. Ibid., 30. 38. Ibid., 270. 39. James Kneale, “From Beyond: H. P. Lovecraft and the Place of Horror,” Cultural Geographies 13, no. 1 (2006): 120. 40. H. P. Lovecraft, “The Unnamable,” in The Dreams in the Witch House and Other Weird Stories, ed. S. T. Joshi (New York: Penguin Classics, 2004), 83. 41. Ibid., 85. The Lovecraft Circle and the “Weird Class” 49 42. Ibid., 83. 43. Ibid., 89. 44. It may be worth mentioning what probably goes without saying: that this proof is hardly ever comforting to the characters who come to it, but is rather deeply disturbing, as it reveals a universe fundamentally corrupt and out of balance. In this case, vindication and relief are polar opposites: those who live in ignorance are the happy ones. Thus, those who may be imagined to be in the comfortable bosom of the literary elite are positioned as happy, while those outsiders whose comfort is their art and their peers in the “weird class” must contend with the burden of fundamental anxieties about the disturbed order of things—an order that leaves them on the margins of the literary world. 45. In one of Lovecraft’s few weird stories that may be said to have a triumphant ending, “The Dunwich Horror,” the abomination from beyond the realm of human understanding is destroyed by the faculty of the fictional Miskatonic University. This university is worth special mention, as it is both a respected academic institution and a place of weird knowledge. It has, for example, in its collection a copy of the famous Necronomicon. While the faculty members who study occult phenomena are shunned by their peers even at Miskatonic, their theories prove to be founded in bitter reality. Thus, Lovecraft imagines other “aged academics” whose interest in strange sciences mirrors his own and who have achieved at least marginal acceptance in academia. 46. Lovecraft, Lord of a Visible World, xiii. 47. Ibid., 164. 48. Ibid., 167. 49. H. P. Lovecraft, “The Horror at Red Hook,” in Dreams in the Witch House, 119. 50. Ibid. 51. Ibid., 120. 52. Ibid., 132. 53. Ibid., 135. 54. Ibid., 137. 55. Edgar Allan Poe, Poetry, Tales, and Selected Essays (New York: Library of America, 1996), 318. 56. Lovecraft, “The Horror at Red Hook,” 121. 57. Paul Buhle, “Dystopia as Utopia: Howard Phillips Lovecraft and the Unknown Content of American Horror Literature,” in H. P. Lovecraft: Four Decades of Criticism, ed. S. T. Joshi (Athens: Ohio University Press, 1980), 219. 58. Ibid., 203. 59. Donald R. Burleson, H. P. Lovecraft: A Critical Study (Westport, CT: Greenwood Press, 1983), 216. 60. Leon Nielson, Robert E. Howard: A Collector’s Descriptive Bibliography of American and British Hardcover, Paperback, Magazine, Special and Amateur Editions, with a Biography (London: McFarland, 2007). 61. Mark Finn, Blood and Thunder: The Life and Art of Robert E. Howard (Austin, TX: Monkeybrain, 2006), 17. 62. Nielsen, Robert E. Howard, 17. 63. H. P. Lovecraft and Robert E. Howard, A Means to Freedom: The Letters of H. P. Lovecraft and Robert E. Howard, ed. S. T. Joshi, David E. Schultz, and Rusty Burke (New York: Hippocampus Press, 2009), 89. 64. Robert E. Howard, Kull: Exile of Atlantis, ed. Patrice Louinet (New York: Ballantine, 2006), 22. 65. Ibid., 24. 66. These are named to Kull later: “the bird-women, the harpies, the bat-men, the flying fiends, the wolf-people, the demons, the goblins.” Ibid., 36. 67. Ibid., 35. 68. Ibid., 35. 69. In many Howard stories, just as in many Lovecraft stories, modernity itself is portrayed as a thin and illusive mask stretched over reality. When this mask is pierced, one perceives a reality that was better known in the shadowy past, when humanity was steeped in occult 50 Dániel Nyikos wisdom and closer to the fundamental forces that move the cosmos. This opposition to and undermining of modernity is a key element in the work of both authors. 70. Howard, Kull, 36. 71. It may seem at first glance that Howard’s more famous creation, Conan, does not share this sensitivity, but this would be a mistake. Conan’s philosophy does not deny that he understands that the world is controlled by secret and sinister forces beyond what most humans know; instead, he declares only that he does not wish to understand them. As he expresses in “Queen of the Black Coast”: “I seek not beyond death. It may be the blackness averred by the Nemedian skeptics, or Crom’s realm of ice and cloud, or the snowy plains and vaulted halls of the Nordheimer’s Valhalla. I know not, nor do I care. Let me live deep while I live.” In that story, he pays dearly for this lack of courage to allow himself to open his imagination to the possibilities suggested by an ancient ruin, and in the end it is only by such a supernatural occurrence—one that, in addition, gives a suggestion to this earlier question of his—that Conan survives. See Robert E. Howard, “Queen of the Black Coast,” in The Coming of Conan the Cimmerian, ed. Patrice Louinet (New York: Ballantine, 2003), 134. Chapter Four Strange Collaborations Weird Tales’s Discourse Community as a Site of Collaborative Writing Nicole Emmelhainz A common misconception of writers is that their entire creative prowess comes about solely through their own isolated, individualized talent. Such a perspective alters the public and scholarly perception of both the figure of the writer and the act of writing. This myth of the solitary writing genius is especially problematic in the study of pulp magazines, writing spaces where high levels of collaboration thrived. Weird Tales, in particular, was known for cross-pollinations among its writers. As Jason Carney notes regarding the scholarly perception of H. P. Lovecraft, “Lovecraft has been studied in other contexts, under various rubrics such as ‘popular culture,’ or ‘Gothic studies,’ ‘science fiction studies,’ and so on, but these approaches to a solitary Lovecraft disembodied from his artistic ecology, Weird Tales, implicitly perpetuates the idea that Lovecraft was a solitary genius among pulp hacks—an insidious idea” 1 (emphasis mine). When readers view Lovecraft as separate both from the magazine, as well as his many writer colleagues who helped to shape him as a writer, they understand merely the surface level of a far more vast creative collaborative process that fueled not just the widely recognized writers, such as Lovecraft, but a myriad of other writers, readers, and writerreaders, such as Robert E. Howard, Clark Ashton Smith, and Farnsworth Wright. Taken together, these literary agents, creating together within the greater context of the pulps, established and developed many popular literary genres that make up much of the cultural landscape today. A strength of Weird Tales and, more broadly, all pulpwood magazines was the fecund atmosphere it created that allowed for various types of collab51 52 Nicole Emmelhainz oration and collaborative writing practices to emerge. Such practices flourished due to the types of discourse communities established by the very nature of the pulps: their editors, their writers, their readers, and the writing aesthetics they all helped to create. However, this naturally collaborative environment found in the community surrounding Weird Tales is an understanding that has not been fully acknowledged by scholars. The focus here will be to contextualize the collaborative writing practices of the discourse community cohering within and around the magazine Weird Tales. By viewing Weird Tales and its coterie of writers and editors through the lens of both discourse community and collaborative writing scholarship, I argue for the importance of this pulpwood writing community as a vital site for understanding and validating underacknowledged collaborative writing practices in strictly literary contexts. COLLABORATIVE WRITING AS PART OF A DISCOURSE COMMUNITY In order to understand the significant contribution that pulps like Weird Tales provide for scholars interested in studying writers and their writing practices, two areas within writing studies need to be briefly introduced: discourse communities and collaborative writing. James E. Porter defines a discourse community as “group of individuals bound by a common interest who communicate through approved channels and whose discourse is regulated.” 2 Discourse communities enact rules for being a member of the community and by which members are expected to abide. Texts composed for a specific discourse community must also adhere to established conventions—some superficial, like formatting, others more significant, like the story’s plot— that demonstrate knowledge of what the community wants and expects from its members’ writing. These deeper significant conventions also include showing a familiarity with the works of others within the discourse community. Members of the discourse community find channels or “forums” 3 to distribute their texts, which also further establishes the community and its rules, and demonstrates for other would-be members what the expectations are. All writers can be thought to belong to one or more discourse community, with membership being explicit or implicit. Acknowledging the writer’s membership within various discourse communities is one way to challenge prevailing notions of the author as a solitary genius. The myth of the solitary writing genius—the lone figure who creates writing, perfectly, on his own— incessantly pervades wider cultural understandings of writers and their acts of writing. While it is true that some aspects of writing production happen alone, writing is never truly a solitary act. To return to the opening reference Strange Collaborations 53 regarding Lovecraft, if he is viewed as a solitary writer, the reader not only loses the close ties Lovecraft formed with other members of the Weird Tales discourse community, including editors such as Farnsworth Wright and other writers such as Robert E. Howard and Clark Ashton Smith, but also the various forms of collaboration—of ideas and writing—that occurred by the very nature of the discourse community existing. An important consideration to acknowledge regarding the discourse community that formed because of and around Weird Tales is that it created circumstances that made the socialness of writing more transparent. While much traditional literary scholarship has clung to the notions of the solitary writing genius and solitary writing practices, critical work done in writing studies has analyzed and applied concepts of collaborative writing to writing practices. Indeed, for more than four decades writing studies has held writing to be a highly collaborative, social act done through a series of steps that make up the writer’s process in textual creation. All steps in this process, most likely, include some form of collaboration. Examples of various collaborations, such as ones between editors and writers and between writers and writers of Weird Tales, will be examined shortly. It is useful, however, to understand how writing studies understands collaboration as a part of the writing process. One of the leading scholarly voices on collaborative writing practices, Kenneth Bruffee, argues that collaboration in writing facilitates shared knowledge creation. He identifies this shared knowledge creation as “communities of knowledgeable peers construct[ing] knowledge.” 4 Within the Weird Tales discourse community, then, if an editor asked a writer to revise and resubmit a story, the editor would give advice and direction to help the writer complete this task so that the revised story would better fit the expectations for publication within the magazine. The writer would first demonstrate his knowledge of the discourse community by submitting a story that was generally appropriate for the magazine; the editor, who would act as a “knowledgeable peer,” would offer feedback to the writer to improve the story. Together, their exchange of written text and ideas—an act of collaboration in the writing process—shows the creation of knowledge and reinforcement of the discourse community’s rules. What Bruffee’s work on collaboration also does is to allow for further understandings of writing as a process, one that necessitates and incorporates a variety of voices in order to come to a more complete understanding of the writing task at hand. The often-cited “writing as conversation” metaphor becomes real through the experiences had between writers and editors, as in the previous example, as they worked together, developing and challenging ideas with one another. Within the scope of collaborative writing, the next step would be for the writer to take these lessons learned from the work with the editor into her own writing process as she crafts new stories for the 54 Nicole Emmelhainz magazine. These kinds of writing moves are meant to teach and reaffirm the discourse community’s standards and practices. One of the ways in which this most frequently happened with Weird Tales was through various kinds of collaborations with both editors and fellow writers, examples that the next two sections will explore. “NOTHING SICKENING OR DISGUSTING”: FARNSWORTH WRIGHT AS DISCOURSE COMMUNITY GATEKEEPER Collaboration among a variety of groups—editors, writers, readers—was an accepted, although perhaps not an explicitly understood or acknowledged, practice in the pulps, and Weird Tales was no exception. It is clear when reading Harold Hersey’s memoir The New Pulpwood Editor, for example, that this longtime pulp editor was well aware of the notions of rules and practices within the pulp discourse community, as he discusses the roles of editors, writers, and readers. In Hersey’s description, the editor is a “paleontologist” reconstructing “the entire characteristic of his reader” through the letters he receives from his readership and by noting which authors and stories are the most popular with these readers. 5 The editor essentially works closely with the readers in order to establish and reaffirm the discourse community’s knowledge concerning acceptable texts. This is one means of knowledge creation for the discourse community, one means of collaboration that happens between the editor and the readership. Hersey goes on to describe the roles the writers play within the knowledge formation: [T]he pulpwood editor, having a greater freedom of action, has also a greater responsibility. He works alone and in Stygian darkness. His magazine is not printed on expensive, shiny paper. Its sales are not boosted by elaborate promotion schemes. He has only one sure thing to depend upon: his professional writers—those who have already been tested in the fire of fiction popularity and have not been found wanting. They know what the public wants even better than he does. If he’s wise, he guides them with a loose rein, concentrating more on keeping them in harness than in worrying about where they are taking him. 6 Here, Hersey suggests what was certainly clear to writers in the Weird Tales circle: that the editor of the magazine was dependent on them, the writers, in order not simply to adhere to the writing specifications of the publication, but to “know even better” what the reading public wants. The knowledge creation in this case appears to come from the writers to the editor, who in turn makes the most informed, appropriate selection for publication in the magazine that would best meet the needs of the readers. Strange Collaborations 55 Regarding the writers more specifically, Hersey designates them into two categories: professional and amateur. His interpretation of each type of writer focuses on their level of immersion within the larger pulpwood publishing discourse community. The professional writer, Hersey says, “can turn out a yarn on any subject of any length and at any given time, either woven around his own theme or one suggested by the editor.” 7 Additionally, this professional writer “has attained an objective state of mind about his work.” 8 The amateur writer, in contrast, “is incapable of adapting his talents to a practical purpose. . . . The amateur still talks about that inspiration and individuality in self-expression which are so precious to the serious artist and utterly worthless to the quantity writer.” 9 The professional writer, in Hersey’s understanding, has been able to internalize the practices and expectations for the discourse communities to which he belongs. He can take suggestions or write off of his own ideas, knowing what kind of stories to produce. The professional writer can focus on the needs of the community. The amateur writer, though, has not yet come to understand the expectations of him within the community; he is focused on himself instead of on the various other members of the community. The members of the discourse community, then, are expected to know and understand the types of texts acceptable within the community. They also participate in various forms of collaboration, some explicit, some implicit, with the editors, other writers, and even the readers, in order to produce these acceptable texts. Though there is, in Hersey’s description, an interplay between the readers, writers, and editors within the pulpwood publishing discourse communities, the editors hold a certain authority as the bearers and ultimate enforcers of the agreed-upon rules and practices for the community. With Weird Tales, Farnsworth Wright’s long tenure as editor shows that he managed to balance the demands of the readership within the community with the abilities of his writers. In an October 1931 interview with Author & Journalist, Wright described the type of story that Weird Tales would publish as “dramatic and striking” and having a well-developed plot. 10 He goes on to explain that the “ideal is the presentation of a story having literary value. Very often we accept a tale which though not emphasizing the weird, the supernatural, or the pseudoscientific, merits approval on account of its rich color, exquisite workmanship, bizarre philosophy, and strong plot.” 11 His description of what he, and the larger discourse community of Weird Tales, wants shows a surprising amount of flexibility. Wright emphasizes quality and completeness of writing over merely including some “weird” elements. This speaks to the broader shared interests of the community, one that Wright feels responsible to uphold and promote. As the interview concludes, its author, Weird Tales writer E. Hoffmann Price, notes that Wright’s “[p]ersonal rejections, accompanied by bits of constructive criticism, have made of a good many beginners prime 56 Nicole Emmelhainz members of Wright’s circle of chronic contributors. Wright, the editor, is first and last the friend of the author.” 12 Given what Hersey says of the role of the writer being a lifeblood to the success of the magazine by knowing, sometimes before the editor knows, what the public wants, it is not surprising to learn of Wright’s involvement with his writers. As example, what follows are two letters written from Wright to Clark Ashton Smith, one earlier in Smith’s career as a Weird Tales writer, and one a few years later, when Smith is more established and versed in the expectations of its discourse community. These letters show Wright calling attention to the editor-writer and writer-writer collaborations common with the Weird Tales community: Mr. Lovecraft, in sending me The Abominations of Yondo, asked me to return it to you if I could not use it. It is a fascinating bit, but a prose poem rather than a weird narrative, so I am returning it. 13 I will be glad to take your story, The Monster of the Prophecy, provided you speed up the first part of the story. The story seems rather too leisurely up to the point where the Antarean and the human depart for Antares. I am reluctantly returning the other story, The Tale of Satampra Zeiros. I am afraid our readers (the great majority of them at least) would find the story extremely unreal and unconvincing. Personally, I fell under the spell of its splendid wording, which reminded me of Lord Dunsany’s stories in The Book of Wonder. 14 Both letters demonstrate Wright’s knowledge of and position within the Weird Tales discourse community. The first accomplishes two important elements of work for the community: First, it reinforces the relationships the community sought to establish between editor-writer and writer-writer. The reference to Lovecraft in the first sentence shows both relationships: the close working friendship between Wright and Lovecraft (the former clearly appreciated and respected the latter’s ideas of good writing), and the growing relationship between Lovecraft and Smith. The second work this letter does is help to initiate Smith more into the discourse community surrounding Weird Tales by explaining, albeit briefly, why his prose poem could not be published in the magazine. The second letter, written over four years later, shows both a continued and even closer relationship having formed between Smith and Wright. In Wright’s acceptance of Smith’s story “The Monster of the Prophecy,” Wright gives the author a clear revision needed in order for the story to be a stronger fit for Weird Tales. The second paragraph, in which Wright rejects Smith’s story “The Tale of Satampra Zeiros,” clearly grounds the rejection not on the level of the writing (Wright says he “fell under the spell of its splendid wording”), but instead on audience considerations. Wright rein- Strange Collaborations 57 forces the important role the readership plays in establishing the expectations for the stories printed in the magazine, though he also shows that he, as editor, has some power to try to influence what this readership expects, as he mentions his desire to reprint a Dunsany story: “However, I fear that Lord Dunsany’s stories would prove unpalatable to most of our readers; though I intend to test this out by using one of them as a reprint, if I can obtain the right to do so.” 15 In fact, the implicit suggestion to Smith is that if he can get the rights to reprint a Dunsany, this may in fact open up Weird Tales to even more of his stories. The relations between Wright, as editor; his writers, such as Smith and Lovecraft; and the readership of Weird Tales show the interconnections between these three membership groups in this discourse community. Each group’s role is determined and shaped by the needs of the other groups, and each group also has the power to influence and change the expectations for texts written for the magazine. Wright’s role as editor permitted him a space to make those expectations clear for both the writers and readers, who often would seek to move into the writer category as well. Consider the following text excerpted from a rejection card detailing the submission guidelines for Weird Tales, found among Smith’s personal papers: Weird Tales wants stories of invention, science and surgery, particularly those that forecast the marvelous science of the future; tales of the bizarre and unusual; occult and mystic tales, and tales of the supernatural, preferably with a logical explanation; tales of the monstrosities of superstitious legend: werewolves, vampires, ghosts, familiars, witches, and devil-worship; tales of spirit return; good humorous and romantic tales with a weird slant; tales of thrills and mystery; and a few tales of horror, but nothing sickening or disgusting. Lengths up to 30,000 words. Weird Tales uses no sex stories and no detective stories. 16 While intended as a form rejection slip—on Smith’s copy, the first two lines, which thank the writer but reject his work, have been crossed through in pencil—this paragraph concretely describes the kind of work the editors want for the magazine. It also directly sets Weird Tales, and by association its writers, apart from other popular pulpwood magazines of the time, like spicy and detective pulps. Finally, the card is yet another example of the kind of relationship Wright fostered with his writers. The materiality of the card has been altered, the rejection quality of the form crossed off, a sign Wright personalized the card for Smith. The gesture can be read as not simply again reinforcing the discourse community’s expectations, but as a sign to Smith that he was already a member of that community. 58 Nicole Emmelhainz CIVILIZATION VERSUS BARBARISM: LETTERS AS A FORM OF COLLABORATION BETWEEN HOWARD AND LOVECRAFT Wright’s role in establishing and promoting the expectations for the Weird Tales discourse community cannot be overstated. His rejection letters, as evidenced through Smith’s correspondence with Wright, show a level of involvement with the authors of the magazine that permitted collaboration between both groups. Collaboration can also be found between the writers themselves, and not just collaboration on existing texts, but on the creation of ideas that became essential to the new genres the magazine allowed to flourish. When looking at the correspondence between Robert E. Howard and H. P. Lovecraft, for example, one can also find the kind of collaborative knowledge building discussed in the overview of collaborative writing as a practice. Howard and Lovecraft discussed topics and ideas that became the building blocks for the stories and eventually the genres they would establish. Their written correspondence becomes an important source text for analyzing how these peer-writers challenged and affirmed each other’s ideas. The six-year letter exchange between Howard and Lovecraft perhaps offers one of the richest archives for tracing two writers’ implicit and not-soimplicit collaborative practices. As S. T. Joshi notes, this four-hundred-thousand-word “treasure-trove” 17 offers much for the study of both writers—in particular, I believe, for providing a map for the scholar to follow how each challenged, often repeatedly, the progression of the other’s thoughts and ideas, and how these challenged thoughts and ideas then carried over to the creative writing. Joshi, as well as Patrice Louinet in his introduction to the Howard collection of Conan fiction, The Coming of Conan, draws attention to one of the most prominently repeated lines of conversation between the two writers: that of barbarism and civilization. 18 Joshi describes the whole of Howard and Lovecraft’s correspondence as “unusual in being very largely philosophical, as each writer emphasizes . . . his understanding of the nature of the universe and, more particularly, his preferences in regard to social and political matters.” 19 Howard and Lovecraft’s long descriptions of their personal social and political beliefs, in Joshi’s understanding, lay the groundwork for what he calls “the fundamental divergence of views” between these writers. 20 Howard’s preference for barbarism and, by connection, the frontier, and Lovecraft’s preference for civilization created a conversation between the two writers that developed “masses of complexity and fine shades of meaning and emphasis that in some senses render these views not quite antipodal as they may appear.” 21 In other words, though some readers of the letters may cite a tension between Howard and Lovecraft through their heated conversations on barbarism versus civilization, both authors were ultimately able to take away better understandings of their beliefs that they then could translate and incorporate into Strange Collaborations 59 their own writings. Because of the importance of both Howard and Lovecraft as two of the founding fathers of weird fiction genres—fantasy and horror— their epistolary collaboration helps us to understand the creation of new genres. Though the depth of conversation between Howard and Lovecraft has been preserved through publication, there exists, to my research, no critical discussions on the importance of these conversations on each writer’s creation and development of these genres. While Joshi includes a detailed overview of Lovecraft’s influence over Howard in his article “Cthulhu’s Empire: H. P. Lovecraft’s Influence on His Contemporaries and Successors,” what we can add is how it shaped Howard’s work in other genres, particularly his creation of sword-and-sorcery. 22 Conversely, there appears to be less discussion on how, and to what extent, Howard may have influenced and shaped Lovecraft’s own writing. There is, though, scholarship on Howard’s process in creating and developing sword-and-sorcery, as overviewed by Jeffrey Shanks in “History, Horror, and Heroic Fantasy: Robert E. Howard and the Creation of the Swordand-Sorcery Subgenre.” 23 In this review, Shanks shows Howard’s process of creating both the character of Conan of Cimmeria and the larger sword-andsorcery genre, through a series of more experimental attempts. These experiments, including fiction exploring the characters of Solomon Kane, Kull, and Bran Mak Morn, gave Howard a space to later formulate what would become sword-and-sorcery. We see important elements of the genre in stories with all three of these characters: a barbaric hero, who later becomes a king, who wields a sword to fight supernatural terrors in exotic, yet at times historically familiar places. The larger context of the pulp magazine culture, too, is also important to note in the establishment of sword-and-sorcery, in providing a creative space in which Howard could play with genre, to experiment so freely and perhaps wildly, and in what would become culturally significant ways. Howard mentions the early beginnings of Conan to Lovecraft in a letter sent to him in 1931: “I’ve been working on a new character, providing him with a new epoch—the Hyborian Age, which men have forgotten, but which remains in classical names, and distorted myths. [Farnsworth] Wright rejected most of the series, but I did sell him one—‘The Phoenix on the Sword’ which deals with the adventures of King Conan the Cimmerian, in the kingdom of Aquilona.” 24 The timing of this seems significant, given what follows are years of back and forth about the nature of barbarism, its place (or not) within civilization, and the repeated opportunities for both Howard and Lovecraft to refine their positions and ideas regarding each. In light of the conversations between Howard and Lovecraft, it is telling to see how the character of Conan appears to embody elements of both barbarism and civilization. In a sense, given the creative banter between these two peer writers, Howard 60 Nicole Emmelhainz imbued his creation with a flexibility to move between both areas of human life. Howard even appears to suggest as much with the invocation at the beginning of “The Phoenix on the Sword”: “Hither came Conan, the Cimmerian, black haired, sullen-eyed, sword in hand, a thief, a reaver, a slayer, with gigantic melancholies and gigantic mirth, to tread the jeweled thrones of the Earth under his sandalled feet.” 25 There seems to be both a happiness and a sadness in the character of Conan, a man meant to traverse both wilderness and civilized society, an ability to do so perhaps reluctantly, as Howard himself seems to acknowledge over the course of years of letters both the benefits of civilization at the same time lamenting the loss of frontier, hard work, and being alive through physical activity. Additionally, though Howard does not mention it in this letter, there is an implied collaboration here between himself and Wright as the editorial preferences of Wright and his magazine helped to direct Howard’s creation of the character. More broadly, as Shanks via Mark Finn notes, Howard knew how to use the culture of pulp publishing—each magazine with its specific publication guidelines and criteria—to “splash the field,” or in other words, “deliberately mixing two or more genre tropes in a particular story [in order to] increase his potential market for that story.” 26 This practice demonstrates Howard’s great knowledge of this particular community, as well as his adept understanding of his role as a writer, composing texts for a particular audience. But also, as Shanks explains it, Howard’s ability to “juxtapose themes and tropes from different genres,” his ability to play with “genre hybridization,” paved the way for sword-and-sorcery to come about as a genre. 27 But, had the particular preferences of editors such as Wright not been there, and had Howard not been aware enough of them and taken the opportunity to use them as a creative leverage in his writing, then sword-and-sorcery may never have developed, or developed as it did. I want to reiterate the important collaborative practices demonstrated between these two founding genre writers in their letters. Using the critical framework of collaboration borrowed from writing studies, we can understand this prolific correspondence, to adopt Bruffee’s terms, as an example of a “community” of two “knowledgeable peers,” each with their own beliefs, their own strengths and weaknesses, coming together to “construct” new knowledge, or in this case, new genres. While it is important to note that genre hybridity was made possible from the particular circumstances within the pulp publishing culture, it is also necessary to draw attention to the challenging intellectual discussions Howard had with a peer writer, Lovecraft, who was also helping to define the larger notion of popular writing. Together, these two founding fathers of weird fiction through their genre creation helped to influence and establish the larger stylistic and content expectations for members of the Weird Tales discourse community. Strange Collaborations 61 “THE CHALLENGE FROM BEYOND” AS VEXED COLLABORATION I conclude by briefly focusing on a pulp fiction text that emerged from the Weird Tales discourse community that is explicitly collaboratively authored, “The Challenge from Beyond.” As noted in An H. P. Lovecraft Encyclopedia, “Challenge” was the idea of editor Julius Schwartz, “who wanted two round-robin stories of the same title, one weird and one science fiction, for the third anniversary issues of Fantasy Magazine.” 28 The story, which details the journey of its protagonist George Campbell through a mind swap with an alien wormlike creature triggered by Campbell’s finding a crystal cube, admittedly “did not go quite according to plan.” 29 The collaboration appears to have been temporarily sidetracked when A. Merritt, who was originally set to write the third installment, claimed that Frank Belknap Long’s original second installment “deviated from the subject matter suggested by the title” and refused to participate until Long and his installment was removed from the story. 30 While Merritt’s new contribution “fail[ed] to move the story along in any meaningful way,” the issue of moving the plot fell to Lovecraft, who borrowed from his then-unpublished “The Shadow out of Time.” 31 As Joshi notes in his biography of Lovecraft, I Am Providence, while the story is a “good fun of a sort,” the story as a whole, and each contributor’s installments, “cannot claim much aesthetic value.” 32 This collaboratively written weird story, coauthored by some of the founding writers of the genre, fails because the collaboration was not mutual, the situation too artificial. Merritt appears not to have been a willing participant, acting much as Hersey describes the amateur writer, focused on his own individual ideas. In this case, the forced collaboration prevented actual collaboration, the sort of subtle, plastic, and adaptive unconscious processes, rarely acknowledged by literary critics, but so important for understanding pulp literature. In “The Challenge from Beyond,” the most explicitly collaborative work I might marshal, there is something wrong: we have five connected though distinct sections, their sutures showing, Lovecraft’s and Howard’s installments in particular demonstrating the kind of writing style and content they were each known for. But what we do not realize, however, is that these distinctive “Lovecraftian” and “Howardian” aesthetic textures, these “flavors” that emerge clearly in those sections, imprecate not a single author’s aesthetic decisions, but an entire network of discourse members working, writing, and thinking together. By design of their membership to the Weird Tales discourse community, these writers knew how the community worked, knew how to write for its members, with the collaboration happening in a myriad of subtle ways, behind the scenes. When the mode of collaboration was given a center stage, given a spotlight, the seams became a strange spectacle of their own. 62 Nicole Emmelhainz NOTES 1. Jason Ray Carney, “‘Something That Swayed as If in Unison’: The Artistic Authenticity of Weird Tales in the Interwar Periodical Culture of Modernism,” chapter 1 in this volume. 2. James E. Porter, “Intertextuality and the Discourse Community,” Rhetoric Review 5, no. 1 (Autumn 1986): 38–39. 3. Ibid., 39. 4. Kenneth Bruffee, Collaborative Learning: Higher Education, Interdependence, and the Authority of Knowledge (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1998), 53. 5. Harold Hersey, The New Pulpwood Editor (Silver Spring, MD: Adventure House, 2002), 38. 6. Ibid., 61. 7. Ibid., 70. 8. Ibid. 9. Ibid. 10. Windy City Pulp Stories: Celebrating 75 Years of Robert E. Howard’s Conan the Barbarian and Recognizing Weird Tales (Normal, IL: Black Dog Books, 2007), 50–51. 11. Ibid., 51. 12. Ibid. 13. Brown University, John Hay Library Special Collections. Letter dated October 21, 1925. 14. Ibid. Letter dated January 18, 1930. 15. Ibid. 16. John Hay Library Special Collections. Undated. 17. S. T. Joshi, “Barbarism vs. Civilization: Robert E. Howard and H. P. Lovecraft in Their Correspondence,” Studies in the Fantastic, no. 1 (Summer 2008): 95. 18. Patrice Louinet, “Introduction,” in The Coming of Conan the Cimmerian, by Robert E. Howard (New York: Del Rey, 2003), xxiii. See also Justin Everett’s discussion of the subject in “Eugenic Thought in the Work of Robert E. Howard,” chapter 9 in this volume. 19. Joshi, “Barbarism vs. Civilization,” 96. 20. Ibid. 21. Ibid., 97. 22. S. T. Joshi, “Cthulhu’s Empire: H. P. Lovecraft’s Influence on His Contemporaries and Successors,” in Critical Insights: Pulp Fiction of the ’20s and ’30s, ed. Gary Hoppenstand (Ipswich, MA: Salem Press, 2013), 19–35. See also Robert Waugh, ed., Lovecraft and Influence: His Predecessors and Successors (Lanham, MD: Scarecrow Press, 2013). 23. Jeffrey Shanks, “History, Horror, and Heroic Fantasy: Robert E. Howard and the Creation of the Sword-and-Sorcery Subgenre,” in Hoppenstand, Critical Insights, 3–18. 24. Quoted in Joshi, “Barbarism vs. Civilization,” 98. 25. Robert E. Howard, “The Phoenix on the Sword,” in The Coming of Conan the Cimmerian, 7. 26. Shanks, “History, Horror, and Heroic Fantasy,” 9. See also Mark Finn, Blood and Thunder: The Life and Art of Robert E Howard, rev. ed. (Plano, TX: Robert E. Howard Foundation, 2011). 27. Shanks, “History, Horror, and Heroic Fantasy,” 5. 28. S. T. Joshi and David E. Schultz, An H. P. Lovecraft Encyclopedia (Westport, CT: Greenwood Press, 2001), 37. 29. Ibid. 30. S. T. Joshi, I Am Providence: The Life and Times of H. P. Lovecraft (New York: Hippocampus Press, 2013), 953. 31. Joshi and Schultz, Lovecraft Encyclopedia, 37; Joshi, I Am Providence, 953. 32. Joshi, I Am Providence, 953. Chapter Five Gothic to Cosmic Sword-and-Sorcery Fiction in Weird Tales Morgan T. Holmes THE ORIGINS OF SWORD-AND-SORCERY J. C. Henneberger founded Weird Tales in 1923 as an outlet for “a story of the unconventional type delving into the realms of fantasy, the bizarre, and the outré” based on suggestions from popular writers such as Ben Hecht, Emerson Hough, and Hamlin Garland regarding the need for an outlet for the unconventional story. 1 Most of the contents of the early issues were poorly written supernatural stories with a scattering of torture tales, insect stories, and weird crime yarns. More adventure-laden fare intermittently materialized, including lost race tales, caveman stories, early space opera, and yellow peril stories. 2 This wide array of fiction is what allowed for the genesis of what is known today as sword-and-sorcery fiction. Sword-and-sorcery can be broadly defined as an action-adventure/hero story with supernatural elements in a setting that is generally preindustrial. Fritz Leiber created the term in 1961 in response to a Michael Moorcock query as to what to name the genre. 3 Moorcock had used “supernatural adventure fiction” 4 as a description. Don Herron describes the subgenre as follows: “Howard, setting his tales in remote historical milieus, updated mythology and folklore with a distinctly modern sensibility, matching redoubtable swords-men against sorcerous adversaries.” 5 The ancestry of sword-and-sorcery goes back to the fiction of H. Rider Haggard, whose lost race novels King Solomon’s Mines, Allan Quatermain, and She were popular and influential. He also wrote medieval adventure novels such as Eric Bright-Eyes and The Wanderer’s Necklace, which had hints of supernatural elements in them. Edgar Rice Burroughs took the Hag63 64 Morgan T. Holmes gard adventure motif into more fantastic directions; he wrote lost race stories, but also introduced the element of the feral and near-superhuman protagonist in Tarzan. Burroughs’s planetary romances took the explorer-adventurer archetype to another planet with John Carter in A Princess of Mars (first published as “Under the Moons of Mars,” All-Story Magazine, February–July 1912) and subsequent novels in the cycle. John Carter was in the tradition of Allan Quatermain and many other lost race story heroes, going to a new land or in this case a new world. This new type of story proved to be popular enough to spawn imitations by J. U. Giesy, Charles B. Stilson, and Ray Cummings. 6 Weird Tales would run planetary romance by Edmond Hamilton (“The Great Brain of Kaldar” and “World of the Dark Dwellers”) and Otis Adelbert Kline (“Buccaneers of Venus”), as well as lost race stories and novels such as Jack Williamson’s “Golden Blood.” Sword-and-sorcery fiction made its way into Weird Tales through an indirect route: prehistoric fiction. Two heroic caveman tales by Clifford M. Eddy, “With Weapons of Stone” (December 1924) and “Arhl-a of the Caves” (January 1925), followed by Robert E. Howard’s “Spear and Fang” (July 1925) stood out from the ghost stories that filled Weird Tales at the time. All three appear to be imitations of Paul L. Anderson’s tales of the Ta-an cavemen that ran in the Argosy and Argosy All-Story Weekly in the early 1920s. Another step in the direction of sword-and-sorcery fiction was that of the neo-Gothic tale. H. Warner Munn’s “The Werewolf of Ponkert” appeared alongside Robert E. Howard’s first story “Spear and Fang” in the July 1925 issue of Weird Tales. The trappings of Gothic fiction were present with the late medieval setting, supernatural menace, dungeons, curses, and so on. H. P. Lovecraft inspired Munn by asking why someone couldn’t write a story from the point of view of the werewolf. 7 Munn, like Howard, was an avid reader of the historical fiction in the general pulp magazines, including Adventure. In addition to the supernatural doom, Munn added pike and harquebus combat against a pack of werewolves. Munn followed up with a threepart sequel, “The Werewolf’s Daughter,” in October, November, and December 1928. The character of Hugo Gunnar wields his rapier as expertly as any sword-and-sorcery hero. 8 The next issue of Weird Tales contained Robert E. Howard’s entrance into Gothic sword-and-sorcery with “In the Forest of Villefere.” This tale has a haunted forest, the traveling swordsman DeMontour of Normandy, and a werewolf. The story continues in “Wolfshead” (Weird Tales, April 1926), where the spirit of the werewolf DeMontour killed in the previous story possesses him. “Wolfshead” has an exotic setting—the coast of West Africa—though it still has more traditional Gothic elements such as a castle. These Gothic adventure tales may owe much to Alexandre Dumas in addition to Edgar Allan Poe, though the popularity of Rafael Sabatini’s period swashbucklers cannot be discounted as a possible influence. Gothic to Cosmic 65 In time, the subgenre featured the melding of action of the historical tale, the atmosphere of the Gothic story, and the exotic setting of planetary romance in almost equal amounts. ROBERT E. HOWARD’S EARLY SWORD-AND-SORCERY Robert E. Howard strained at the pulp fiction conventions, using hitherto unutilized times and places. In “The Lost Race” (Weird Tales, January 1927), set in pre-Roman Britain, there is no supernatural element, but it is his first use of the pre-Celtic Picts in a published story. Howard got closer to swordand-sorcery with “Red Shadows” in the August 1928 issue of Weird Tales, with his first sustained serial character, Solomon Kane, who travels around fighting supernatural menaces. An English Puritan swordsman of the late sixteenth century who often quests for justice against crimes and heinous acts, Kane hunts down Le Loup, a criminal gang leader who murdered a young girl. The story proceeds from France to Africa, and Kane has a battle with a gorilla as one fantastic element. The supernatural ingredient is supplied with a scene of an African sorcerer reanimating a corpse. The series is superficially Gothic with a splash of Burroughs- and Haggard-style African adventure. The follow-up Solomon Kane stories “Skulls in the Stars” (January 1929) and “Rattle of Bones” (June 1929) are more solidly Gothic in locale and atmosphere—they have a suggestion of sword-and-sorcery, but are just Gothic stories with action scenes. Robert E. Howard catapulted to the top tier of Weird Tales writers with the publication of “The Shadow Kingdom” in the August 1929 issue, though Howard had started the story almost three years earlier. 9 Set in the antediluvian age of Atlantis and Lemuria, the story features Kull, a barbarian from Atlantis who becomes king of Valusia—lost continents were a popular topic at this time. 10 “The Shadow Kingdom” has been regarded by many as the first true sword-and-sorcery tale because of the main character, setting, and atmosphere. The story has Gothic components with its dark corridors and conspiracy of prehuman serpent-men who appear as humans. It is also a variation on the sword-and-planet story pioneered by Burroughs more than a decade earlier. 11 Gone is any connection to history; the setting is purely fantastic. The background has more in common with planetary romance in that it is more exotic and fantastic than any classical or medieval setting. In “The Shadow Kingdom” Howard subverted Atlantis from being a civilized island nation to a mini-continent inhabited by barbarians, while the mainland to the east of Atlantis held the civilized world. 12 Robert E. Howard also injected a heavy supernatural element lacking in previous fictional treatments of Atlantis. The story revolves around a plot of reptilian “snake men” who assume the likeness of humans and infiltrate the highest seats of power. 66 Morgan T. Holmes The story has a dark, paranoid feel to it, unlike anything seen in pulp magazines to this point. The follow-up story, “The Mirrors of Tuzun Thune” (September 1929), had less action but was no less popular: several readers wrote to “The Eyrie” section of Weird Tales asking when the next Kull story would appear. Kull is rather passive in these stories as he is figuratively led by the hand by his friend Brule the Spear Slayer and is often saved by him. Both stories examine the concept of reality, as illusion plays a major role. The stories may have a setting that goes back to Plato (i.e., Atlantis), but Howard’s depiction of Kull’s world is more High Middle Ages than classical. 13 Howard returned to Solomon Kane in “The Moon of Skulls,” as Kane travels to a lost colony of Atlantis in Africa that has been taken over by a native tribe. “The Hills of the Dead” (August 1930) has a lost city in Africa inhabited by vampires. Howard’s description of the vampires is more like the zombies of modern film and fiction than Bram Stoker’s famous creation. Howard was blending the exotic with the late medieval in this series of stories with Kane in Africa. King Kull returned in November 1930 as a secondary character in “Kings of the Night.” The main protagonist was Bran Mak Morn, king of the Picts in late antiquity, circa 250 C.E. 14 In the story, a Pictish wizard magically transports Kull through time to help Bran fight against a Roman incursion. Farnsworth Wright originally bought the story for a projected companion magazine to Weird Tales entitled Strange Stories. Judging by the stories procured for the forthcoming publication, it would have more of an adventure or action orientation than Weird Tales. 15 This was a new phase for Robert E. Howard, as “Kings of the Night” was the first story to have a large-scale battle scene. 16 At this point the elements of sword-and-sorcery were in place with the more epic backdrops. Robert E. Howard had also struck up a correspondence with fellow Weird Tales writer H. P. Lovecraft (1890–1937) around this time. Howard would incorporate Lovecraftian ideas of horror into his own fiction, albeit clumsily at first. “The Children of the Night” (April–May 1931) has a mix of Lovecraftian exposition and Howardian blood-and-thunder. This was the first of his “racial memory” stories wherein a modern narrator would remember his previous life in the distant past—in this case, as a pre-Celtic Aryan tribesman who clashes with a race of Mongoloid dwarves in Bronze Age Britain. Howard would revisit the Mongoloid dwarf in ancient times to better effect in “People of the Dark” in the June 1932 issue of Strange Tales of Mystery and Terror. Sword-and-sorcery was now moving out of Weird Tales into other magazines that featured supernatural fiction and becoming a force in its own right. Howard also created a recurring character, Turlogh O’Brien, an Irish adventurer of the early eleventh century. “The Gods of Bal-Sagoth” (October Gothic to Cosmic 67 1931) is a story portraying Turlogh and Athelstane the Saxon shipwrecked on an island with menacing giant flightless birds, a lost Norse girl worshipped as a goddess by the natives, and a Lovecraftian monster. The story was an effective mix of action and the supernatural of the Lovecraftian cosmic sort. The following issue of Weird Tales oddly ran a story earlier in Turlogh O’Brien’s life, “The Dark Man.” This story is often held in high regard, though the supernatural element is slight. It is a fairly straightforward adventure tale with Turlogh traveling to the Hebrides Islands to rescue an abducted Irish girl from Vikings. An idol of long-dead Bran Mak Morn, King of the Picts, plays a part in the story. The influence of Lovecraft entered into the Solomon Kane stories with “The Footfalls Within” (September 1931) when Kane faces a demon imprisoned by King Solomon. The last Solomon Kane story went out on a high note with “Wings in the Night” (July 1932), in which winged men attack and destroy an African village and Kane sets out to exterminate them, almost losing his sanity in the process. Bran Mak Morn returned for the last time in “Worms of the Earth” (November 1932). In this celebrated story, Bran seeks revenge against a Roman officer using the Mongoloid dwarves as his weapon to achieve it, though he finds that some weapons are too terrible to use. This middle period of Howard’s career in the pages of Weird Tales saw him as a writer who had hit his stride. The synthesis of historical adventure with Lovecraftian weird elements would, in the coming months, result in his most famous creation, Conan the Cimmerian. CONAN THE CIMMERIAN In early 1932, while visiting the Rio Grande valley, Robert E. Howard evolved the idea of a hero from a forgotten age, and Conan of Cimmeria came striding forth from his imagination. This was the series that really took off for Howard and is the primary reason sword-and-sorcery became a viable genre. For weeks, Howard worked at a furious pace on tales of Conan. First, he reworked a King Kull story, “By This Axe, I Rule!,” about an attempted coup d’état that contained no supernatural elements. The rewritten story (“The Phoenix on the Sword”) weaved a sorcerer, magical ring, and a demon into the plot. A crucial element was the imaginary milieu. His imagination was free of any constraints of history—the Hyborian Age of Conan is set after the sinking of Atlantis and before recorded history. He was able to subcreate using a high medieval foundation with analogues of other cultures on the fringe, such as Assyria, ancient Egypt, pre-folk wandering Germanics, and the ahistorical 68 Morgan T. Holmes Picts. There is a colorful splendor with his Hyborian Age that surpassed his historical tales. Robert E. Howard had served his apprenticeship and fellowship and was now entering his master phase. It was fortuitous that Conan came along when Howard had achieved proficiency with plotting, characterization, and writing. The Conan series was also unique in having a character in which each story told a different portion of his life. In the first two stories he is a king, and in the third a teenage thief new to civilization. Pirate, mercenary, scout— Conan had a different role in each tale. With Conan, the twenty-six-year-old Howard was pushing hard on the boundaries of acceptable characterization within the pulp magazine context. He had experimented with roguish characters before, but Conan took the idea into new territory. Nothing like this had been seen before, though Dashiell Hammett hinted at this direction with his popular 1920s Continental Op stories in the pulp magazine Black Mask. 17 In the western pulps, for example, you did not find characters that were Civil War veterans, buffalo hunters, gunfighters, cowboys, Indian fighters, and prospectors from story to story. Conan was a new type of fictional character—one that was decades ahead of his time. Howard described Conan to his girlfriend, Novalyne Price: “That Conan is the damnedest bastard I ever saw. He gets himself into all kinds of scrapes. I sure don’t try to give him advice when he tells me all that junk. I just sit back and listen.” 18 The second Conan story, “The Scarlet Citadel,” was the most popular story in that issue of Weird Tales (January 1933). Howard painted on a wide canvas with large battles, a dungeon sequence, and evil sorcerers. “The Tower of the Elephant” (March 1933) took Conan back to his youth and early contact with civilization with an encounter with the alien Yag-Kosha. Howard may have used Frank Belknap Long’s alien entity Chaugnar Faugn (“The Horror from the Hills,” January and February–March 1931) as the basis of Yag Kosha, though the latter lacked the cosmic evil of Long’s creation. “Black Colossus” featured a dormant sorcerer who awakens after centuries and attempts the Hyborian Age version of world conquest. A backlash against Conan began in the October 1933 issue, when Sylvia Bennett of Detroit wrote in to say, “Will Robert E. Howard ever cease writing his infernal stories of ‘red battles’ and ‘fierce warfare’? I am becoming weary of his continuous butchery and slaughter. After I finish reading one of his gory stories I feel as if I am soaked with blood.” Weird Tales contributor Jack Williamson, who would survive as one of the most long-lived writers from the pulp era, wrote to “The Eyrie” for the December 1933 issue defending “Black Colossus”: “I was rather surprised at the brickbat aimed by Miss Sylvia Bennett at Howard’s Black Colossus, which struck me as a splendid thing, darkly vivid, with a living primitive power.” Gothic to Cosmic 69 “The Slithering Shadow” (September 1933) began a period of weaker stories that could be considered potboilers—albeit competent potboilers, as the stories suffer only in comparison to other Conan tales. “Queen of the Black Coast” (May 1934) is generally held in high regard, with Conan becoming the partner and lover of Bêlit the Pirate. The story ends on a down note with Bêlit’s death, contradicting the notion that all Conan stories are formulaic. Howard took a brief break from Conan when he introduced James Allison in “The Valley of the Worm” (February 1934). James Allison is a disabled man who remembers past lives, in or just after the Hyborian Age—in this case, as Niord the blond Aryan barbarian. There are no Gothic elements here outside of ruins of some former civilization containing a huge Lovecraftian creature. More middling Conan stories followed, though mention should be made of “The Devil in Iron” (August 1934). This story’s plot revolves around Conan’s quest to possess a slave girl whom he lusts after. Howard’s Conan is a sexual character—his desires are more than hinted at, and this is in stark contrast to the Victorian morals of Tarzan and John Carter, who remain chaste and committed to their loves. Farnsworth Wright had rejected one of the earliest Conan stories, “The Frost Giant’s Daughter,” stating that he “didn’t care for it.” In the story, Conan is overcome by lust for a supernatural siren attempting to lead him to his death as a sacrifice for the god Ymir, and the sexual overtones may have scared Wright. “The People of the Black Circle” (September, October, and November 1934) was a well-constructed novella serialized in three parts with an adventure set in the Hyborian Age version of Afghanistan. “Beyond the Black River” (May and June 1935) is famous for the line “Barbarism is the natural state of mankind.” The story was set on the Aquilonian frontier with settlers pushing into Pictish territory and had none of the usual Hyborian Age glitter. Hour of the Dragon (December 1935–April 1936) was a novel serialized in five parts. 19 Plot items from “The Scarlet Citadel” and “Black Colossus” were used in an epic tale of a revived long-dead sorcerer of Acheron and a plot against King Conan of Aquilonia. This was probably the finest novel ever to run in Weird Tales; the magazine had a poor record with serials with unforgettable fare such as Arlton Eadie’s The Trail of the Cloven Hoof (July 1934–January 1935) and Paul Ernst’s Rulers of the Future (January–March 1935). “Red Nails” (July, August–September, and October 1936) was the last Conan story to appear. Howard said in a letter to Clark Ashton Smith that perhaps it was too much “red meat,” but it was what he thought was a realistic depiction of an all-consuming feud. Howard died on June 11, 1936, ending a streak of genre-defining fiction that marked the magazine’s high point. Howard had financial issues with 70 Morgan T. Holmes Wright, complaining of late payment or nonpayment for stories. He had written “Red Nails” in spring 1935 and wrote no weird fiction after that with the exception of an unfinished story of a sixteenth-century Spanish conquistador set in the Southwest just before his death. This was the triumph of the Conan series: Robert E. Howard had successfully fused the pulse-pounding adventure of the Crusader stories that he wrote for Oriental Stories with the Lovecraftian elements with which he had been experimenting for the past two years. With a total of seventeen Conan stories in Weird Tales, Howard had created the critical mass for the character, ensuring that sword-and-sorcery would survive. This wasn’t a matter of two or three stories with the same character but a sustained series. The classic components were canonized: the competent swordsman, evil sorcerers, exotic fantastic backdrop, otherworldly and other-dimensional menace, treachery, and skullduggery. In addition to the critical mass of stories, Howard also wrote one novel and two three-part serial novellas. Having the longer works added significance to the whole and would prove critical years later for book publication. The stories were a mix of tropes, with some being straight swashbuckling adventures, others with tragic endings (“Queen of the Black Coast”), philosophical endnotes (“Beyond the Black River”), and meditations on hate (“Red Nails”). They were not usually consistently formula stories along the lines of Seabury Quinn’s Jules de Grandin series that were popular in Weird Tales. And the template was then in place so that even without Howard the subgenre would continue. THE SWORD-AND-SORCERY OF CLARK ASHTON SMITH After Howard, the second most important author in the history of Weird Tales sword-and-sorcery was Clark Ashton Smith. Smith (1893–1961) had started as a poet influenced by the decadent movement, particularly Baudelaire and George Sterling. The Star-Treader and Other Poems (1912) was published when Smith was a youth of nineteen years. His writing style and subject matter were already in place. Smith had two stories in the tradition of Rudyard Kipling in the Black Cat in 1911–1912, and then left fiction writing for a decade, returning by way of the prose poem in Ebony and Crystal (1922). The language and images in the prose poems “The Caravan” and “The Princess Almeena” were dress rehearsals for the later fantastic stories Smith would write. If Robert E. Howard was the Jack London of Weird Tales, Clark Ashton Smith was the Gustave Flaubert. Smith began corresponding with H. P. Lovecraft in 1922, and the intellectual stimulation proved to be just as important as Lovecraft’s interaction with Robert E. Howard. Edwin Baird, editor during the first year of Weird Tales’s existence, bought a couple of Smith’s poems and ran them in the July 1923 Gothic to Cosmic 71 issue. Farnsworth Wright, however, rejected the prose poem “The Abominations of Yondo” in 1925, delaying Smith’s debut as a prose writer. Financial difficulties drove Smith to write more pulp stories at the end of the 1920s. 20 Out of his six series with distinct settings, four could be considered swordand-sorcery due to their settings. “The End of the Story” (May 1930) was the first of the stories set in Averoigne, an imaginary and decidedly fantastic region of France. Smith indulged in a heavy Gothic atmosphere in this story set in 1789 with a young law student, Christophe Morand, finding a centuries-old lamia amid the ruins of an abandoned château. Morand’s tryst with the lamia is interrupted by a Benedictine abbot, Father Hilaire, and he is left with a sense of unfulfilled longing. Rather than a sense of horror, “The End of the Story” strives for the fantastic with sexual undertones. “A Rendezvous in Averoigne” (April–May 1931) has a medieval time frame in which a troubadour meets his lover in a haunted forest. They find a phantom castle with a pair of vampires who have evil designs. Smith proceeded into classic sword-and-sorcery territory in “The Beast of Averoigne” (May 1933), where a demon of extraterrestrial origin arrives from a comet and terrorizes the medieval locale. A sorcerer and two stout men at arms are needed to battle the creature. “The Last Incantation” (June 1930) was the first of his stories set in Poseidonis, the last remnant of Atlantis. Malygris, a magician in his last days, summons the apparition of a long-lost love, finding that it is not as he remembered. Smith may have been inspired by Howard to use primordial settings for some of his stories. The use of mythical continents like Atlantis by both Howard and Smith created an intersection of results, though both were coming from different directions. Howard used sword-and-sorcery as a means for telling adventure tales, while Smith created stories of irony, nostalgia, and doom within a fantasy context. The end result in both cases was still sword-and-sorcery, though created by different motivations. “The Death of Malygris” (April 1934) is very typical Smith as rivals to Malygris decide to investigate whether or not the arch-sorcerer is really dead—much to their dismay. In “The Double Shadow” (February 1939), originally published as part of a chapbook of stories in 1933, doom befalls a sorcerer and his henchmen when they invoke an incantation of the serpent-men from Howard’s Kull stories. This story is an interesting case of using another author’s creation, a frequent occurrence within the Lovecraft Circle. “The Tale of Satampra Zeiros” (November 1931) is a landmark story as the first tale set in Hyperborea and the real beginning of Smith’s sword-andsorcery. Hyperborea is a prehistoric continent, situated roughly where Greenland is today, with a warm climate at first but eventually overwhelmed by glaciers. Smith had originally written “Satampra Zeiros” in 1929, but Amazing Stories rejected it, as did Farnsworth Wright. Lovecraft convinced Wright to take a second look, and it was finally accepted. The thief Satampra 72 Morgan T. Holmes Zeiros plans to rob the tombs of the kings of the deserted capital city of Commoriom with his partner, Tirouv Ompallios. When the two thieves awaken a monster in the temple of Tsathoggua, Tirouv Ompallios meets his doom and Satampra Zeiros barely escapes to tell the tale. Five more tales of Hyperborea would follow in Weird Tales, one in Strange Tales, another in a small-press chapbook, and a final story in Stirring Science Stories. Smith engaged in dark humor in the Hyperborean cycle of stories, and characters often came to bad ends through their greed or stupidity. “The Testament of Athammaus” (Weird Tales, October 1932) engages in a sort of slapstick when a criminal repeatedly resurrects himself after being beheaded. Smith’s most important imaginary setting was Zothique, set on the last continent of Earth eons in the future when the sun has faded to a dull red color. Smith turned off the humor and engaged in a darker sort of story for Zothique. The far future where sorcery has returned has since become a classic setting for science fantasy, and Smith’s Zothique has been the template for many subsequent authors. “The Empire of the Necromancers” (September 1932), the first of fifteen stories in the series, has two brother sorcerers who reanimate a population of corpses, skeletons, and mummies to serve them. The plan lasts until an undead sorcerer prince takes revenge on those who would wake the dead. “The Isle of the Torturers” (March 1933) continues in the same vein, as King Fulbra of Yoros founders on the Isle of Uccastrog, better known as the Isle of the Torturers. Fulbra is imprisoned and tortured but has his revenge as he carries the plague of the Silver Death: “And oblivion claimed the Isle of Uccastrog; and the Torturers were one with the tortured.” Smith would return to Zothique in the January 1934 issue with “The Weaver in the Vault,” in which three warriors are sent to retrieve a mummy from an abandoned city. An earthquake kills two and traps the remaining survivor, who witnesses an unearthly entity that consumes the bodies of the dead while spinning a web of brilliant light. Smith followed up with “The Charnel God” (March 1934), about an entity that takes all flesh that is dead. The protagonist Phariom must rescue his bride, who is taken for dead while in an episode of narcolepsy. Smith ventured into Robert E. Howard territory in “The Black Abbot of Puthuum” (March 1936), in which two warriors save the girl and get away alive. Around this time Smith’s fictional output dwindled to one story in 1937, three in 1938, three in 1939, and a handful after that over the next fourteen years. C. L. MOORE AND JIREL OF JOIRY Catherine Lucille Moore (1911–1987), along with Howard and Smith, helped create the “golden age” of Weird Tales of the 1930s. She started by writing Gothic to Cosmic 73 weird science fiction stories featuring interplanetary rogue Northwest Smith. Her fifth story in Weird Tales, “The Black God’s Kiss” (October 1934), introduced a new character, Jirel of Joiry. Jirel is a red-haired mistress of mythical Joiry in France somewhere during the eleventh to thirteenth centuries. Moore, like Howard, Munn, and Smith, used a Gothic setting—there is little central authority, civil strife is rampant, and sorcery is lurking around the corner at all times. The villain Guillaume takes Castle Joiry and Jirel as prisoner. She escapes from the dungeon with the aid of a priest and travels through a tunnel to a hell-like underground world. There she kisses the statue of the Black God and returns to kiss Guillaume, who dies a horrible death. Jirel returns in “Black God’s Shadow” in which, finding no satisfaction in the destruction of Guillaume, she returns to the hellish underworld to release him. “Jirel Meets Magic” (July 1935) has Jirel hunting down a sorcerer and following him through a magical portal to a fantastic land. In “The Dark Land” (January 1936) Jirel is snatched away by a supernatural being to be his queen, though Jirel does not submit so easily. “Hellsgarde” (April 1939) has Jirel attempting to recover a treasure from a haunted castle inhabited by an evil phantom. Moore cowrote a story with Henry Kuttner, bringing Jirel and Northwest Smith together in “Quest of the Starstone” (November 1937). A. Merritt, Robert E. Howard, and, in particular, Clark Ashton Smith’s Averoigne stories are probable influences on Moore’s Jirel of Joiry stories. They are lushly written, sometimes to the point of purple prose, but with a deliberate pace. Many of Moore’s stories have a suggestion of sexuality to them, and they could be considered feminine sword-and-sorcery. Moore’s production waned after 1936, possibly due to a lack of ideas—she reused tropes repeatedly, such as the portal to another world, in both the Northwest Smith and the Jirel stories. She would have a second phase in science fiction and science fantasy in her career after marrying Henry Kuttner in 1940, and many female fantasy and science fiction writers cite Moore as an inspiration. 21 SWORD-AND-SORCERY ODDITIES Nictzin Dyalhis (1880–1942) is something of a mystery man of Weird Tales. He had only eight stories in the magazine, starting with “When the Green Star Waned” (April 1925). This story and its sequel, “The Oath of Hul Jok” (September 1928), can be described as early space opera. “The Red Witch” (April 1932), however, is a story of reincarnation, as the protagonist Randall Crone is in conflict with the phantom of a Stone Age tyrant, Athak. Athak haunts Rhoda Day, who was Red Dawn in a previous life. Dyalhis’s bestknown story is “The Sapphire Goddess” (February 1934), in which a man from our world travels via meditation to a sword-and-sorcery world and 74 Morgan T. Holmes learns he is actually King Karan, who has been in exile. He agrees to retrieve a sapphire statue in return for restoration of his kingdom. The story is a fun romp. “The Sea Witch” is another reincarnation story of Vikings, though there is no real action. A séance starts off “The Heart of Atlantan” (September 1940), in which contact is made with Tekala, daughter of the evil king of Atlantis. Put adrift in a boat to die as an infant, she is found and raised by the priest Ixtlil of the Temple of the Lord of the Sun. A rival sect attacks the temple, but Tekala escapes. By astral projection, he is instructed by Ixtlil to destroy a gem known as the Heart of Atlantan and bring doom to Atlantis. Unlike Howard, Smith, and Moore, Dyalhis was a writer outside of the Lovecraft Circle. There is no Gothic atmosphere present in his stories, but he had a style that was unique. Dyalhis’s stories have a recurrent theme of good versus evil as a manifestation of the theosophical duality of the universe. Seabury Quinn (1889–1969) may have been the most popular writer in Weird Tales. He was certainly Farnsworth Wright’s favorite author, and the occult detective Jules de Grandin was Wright’s favorite character; from 1925 on, Quinn often had ten stories per year featuring Jules de Grandin in Weird Tales. But he also began experimenting with historical stories that were borderline sword-and-sorcery, including “The Globe of Memories” (February 1937), “Roads” (January 1938), and a story of future barbarism, “Gotterdaemmerung” (May 1938). THE TWILIGHT OF SWORD-AND-SORCERY IN WEIRD TALES The death of Robert E. Howard in 1936 coincided with Clark Ashton Smith’s dwindling production. A further blow to the magazine occurred in March 1937 when H. P. Lovecraft died. Lovecraft had been a central figure, encouraging correspondents to write weird fiction. With hindsight, Farnsworth Wright realized that Lovecraft was something special the moment he found out about his death, and he began running fiction from earlier in Lovecraft’s career that had appeared in amateur press publications. The golden age of Weird Tales didn’t end abruptly, however; the magazine actually kept up an autumnal glow in the late 1930s, mainly due to two protégés of Lovecraft, Robert Bloch (1917–1994) and Henry Kuttner (1915–1958). Sword-and-sorcery had proved popular with readers, who regularly gave approval in the pages of “The Eyrie,” and they wanted more. 22 The two writers who carried Weird Tales from 1937 to 1939 were undoubtedly Bloch and Kuttner. Lovecraft had mentored Bloch, and the latter’s early stories were very much imitations of Lovecraft. Interestingly, Wright in the 1930s seemed more interested in buying imitations of Lovecraft rather than buying Lovecraft himself. After Lovecraft’s death, Bloch began to write other kinds of stories, including psychological examinations that would Gothic to Cosmic 75 eventually make him famous with Psycho. Bloch wrote one bona fide swordand-sorcery tale for Weird Tales: “The Dark Isle” (May 1939). This is an effective tale of Vincius the Reaper, Roman legionary sent to battle the dark druids of the Isle of Mona during the reign of the Emperor Nero. Bloch showed he was competent handling both action and the supernatural. Kuttner also started out imitating H. P. Lovecraft in the pages of Weird Tales, and his first story, “The Graveyard Rats” (March 1936), proved to be popular. But like Bloch, he also began experimenting with stories outside of Lovecraftian horror. In a letter to Clark Ashton Smith he said this to say: No, I regret that my two King Alfred stories flopped badly, though Wright said they were “delectably weird,” whatever that means. They didn’t have any buttock-slapping or cesspool-dunking, which seems to be necessary in all historical yarns. So I wrote a satirical barbarian-adventure tale, which he bought with great haste and very bad judgment. The story will probably appeal both to readers who don’t see the satirical implications, and those who do. Anyway, I had become annoyed at the heroic adventurers who weren’t appalled by the most Gargantuan baroques out of Abaddon, but instead simply chopped them to bits, whistling gaily. 23 The character was Elak, nom de guerre for the former Prince Zeulas of Cyrene in the continent of Atlantis, and the story was “Thunder in the Dawn” (May and June 1938). The Elak stories are the most Lovecraftian of all sword-and-sorcery fiction published in Weird Tales. Elak is given little description outside of being lean and wolfish, and artist Virgil Finlay illustrated Elak as looking rather like the actor Errol Flynn. 24 In the story, Elak returns to Cyrene to aid his brother, King Orander, repeal an invasion of Vikings. “Spawn of Dagon” (July 1938) has Elak hired to kill the wizard Zend by the mysterious Gesti, a Lovecraftian Deep One. Unknown to Elak, Gesti wants to sink Atlantis while Zend stands in the way. Elak and his companion Lycon are bodyguards for King Phrygior of Sarhaddon in “Beyond the Phoenix” (October 1938). Xandar the priest murders Phrygior, Elak rescues Phrygior’s daughter Esarra, and they escape. They travel down the River Syra to the land of the dead looking for aid from the god Assurah. The last Elak story, “Dragon Moon,” was not published until January 1941. Elak returns once again to Cyrene, where his brother has been slain by the sorcerer Karkora the Pallid One. Karkora controls King Sepher of Kiriath in order to precipitate a war, but Elak leads the army of Cyrene against Kiriath, killing Sepher and destroying Karkora with a talisman. The anachronisms such as Vikings and “Pikhts” might have been Kuttner’s idea of satire, along with a rapier-wielding rogue. Characterization is minimal, while the horror from “outside” is very prominent. The Elak stories show the change from Gothic to mostly cosmic horror by this time. The 76 Morgan T. Holmes subgenre was not especially moved or changed by these stories. The main contribution to it is that they kept the form continuing for a few more years after Howard’s death. H. Warner Munn returned in 1939 with a novel, King of the World’s Edge (September–December 1939), which begins in the aftermath of King Arthur’s last battle. Ventidius Varro gathers the remnants of the Sixth Legion with the wizard Myrdhinn to leave for better pastures, crossing the Atlantic Ocean in the ship Prydwen. The Romano-Britons become embroiled with the cruel Tlapallan, ruler of the Mound Builders. Varro aids the American Indian leader Hayonwontha against the Tlapallan Empire. The novel was well received by the readership of Weird Tales and later reprinted in paperback. It is noteworthy for a being a rare if not the only fantastic Arthurian novel to appear in the pulp magazines. One writer of sword-and-sorcery who wanted to be in Weird Tales, but never made it, was Fritz Leiber. He sent in an early version of the story “Adept’s Gambit,” but Wright rejected it. Leiber also said the Fafhrd and Gray Mouser stories first went to Weird Tales, where they were sent back before going to John W. Campbell’s magazine Unknown. Farnsworth Wright was out as editor by the end of 1939 and died a few months later after having surgery. 25 Dorothy McIlwraith took over as editor while at the same time the magazine went bimonthly with a reduced page count. The publisher of the pulp magazine Short Stories had purchased Weird Tales and moved operations from Chicago to New York City. Munn said in an interview in 1978, “Dorothy McIlwraith had her own stable of writers. A lot of old writers were eliminated.” 26 Clark Ashton Smiths’s “The Coming of the White Worm” was sent back, for example. The ghost of sword-andsorcery was present with Edmond Hamilton’s mythology-based stories of the mid-1940s, but true sword-and-sorcery fiction was a casualty of the new regime. Sword-and-sorcery was, however, published in Strange Stories, Unknown, and Fantastic Adventures. In the mid-1940s, Edmond Hamilton wrote a cycle of stories using the mythology of various cultures. The stories are distinct in having elements of fantasy, lost race, and sword-and-sorcery but not specifically belonging to one subgenre. “The Shining Land” (May 1945) and its sequel, “Lost Elysium” (November 1945), have a downed pilot finding the Tuatha de Danann of Irish mythology on an island. “Twilight of the Gods” (July 1948) repeats the theme with the doom of the Norse Gods and features Eric Wolverson, who is actually the god Tyr. This sort of story was a variant of sword-andsorcery fiction and the closest the magazine got to it in the 1940s. Gothic to Cosmic 77 CONCLUSION The presence of H. P. Lovecraft played a major though often unheralded role in the sword-and-sorcery fiction of Weird Tales. Just as his own fiction evolved from Gothic to cosmic, so did that of his Weird Tales companions. His influence on Robert E. Howard and Clark Ashton Smith played a large part in their literary evolution. Robert Bloch and Henry Kuttner had been immersed in Lovecraft from the beginning, and they jumped straight into fiction using his idea of forces from the outside and alien gods. C. L. Moore, who also corresponded with Lovecraft, fused the Gothic and the cosmic in her Jirel stories. The concept of the indifferent or hostile universe made for a darker form of fantasy fiction. Only Nictzin Dyalhis was writing from a different origin, most likely occult or theosophical. Lovecraft, Howard, and Smith were not part of the science fiction world of that time: Smith had stories in Wonder Stories, but with howls of outrage from science fiction fans; and while Lovecraft did have one story (“The Colour out of Space”) in Amazing Stories and two (“At the Mountains of Madness” and “The Shadow out of Time”) in Astounding Stories, the latter two were also generally unpopular with readers. These writers did not look toward a futuristic technological utopia, but backward to an idealized place in history that they used for fantastic fiction. What they created did not fit well with the norms of popular genre fiction of the time, and it would take three decades for greater acceptance. Clifford Ball had written to “The Eyrie” January 1937 issue of Weird Tales with this to say: I have been a constant reader of your magazine since 1925, when some author’s conception of weirdness was a gigantic ape dragging a half-naked female about a jungle, and I have watched it progress steadily upward to the zenith. I do not write criticisms; the main purpose of this letter is that I feel moved to offer my condolences upon the death of Mr. Howard. A hundred international Tarzans could never erase the memory of Conan the Cimmerian. Neither Northwest Smith nor Jirel of Joiry—and in Moore you have an excellent author—can quite supplant his glory. When I read that Red Nails would be the last of Conan’s exploits I felt as though some sort of income, or expected resource, had been suddenly severed. Historical adventure, Gothic fiction, and planetary romance all came together as tributaries to form the subgenre. Robert E. Howard almost single-handedly created sword-and-sorcery fiction, but H. P. Lovecraft’s influence helped shape it. Clark Ashton Smith and C. L. Moore added to the critical mass of sword-and-sorcery fiction needed to create a unique genre identity. Clifford Ball, Henry Kuttner, and Robert Bloch preserved this sort of story a few more years when it could have easily disappeared. While the subgenre did 78 Morgan T. Holmes eventually disappear from Weird Tales, it remained a significant influence on speculative fiction. A form of sword-and-planet story appeared in Planet Stories by writers such as Gardner Fox, Leigh Brackett, Bryce Walton, and Poul Anderson; while set on other planets, it still had the feel and execution of sword-and-sorcery. It would eventually rise from dormancy in the 1960s and 1970s and has since become a major subgenre of fantasy—but its origins lie firmly in the unique literary environment of Weird Tales. NOTES 1. Robert Weinberg, The “Weird Tales” Story (West Linn, OR: Fax Collector’s Editions, 1977), 3. 2. Farnsworth Wright, editor of Weird Tales from 1924 to 1939, was atypical in the wide variety of type and quality of story he would accept. He was also very unpredictable; an author might have one story accepted and the next sent back, rejected for no discernible reason. 3. Fritz Leiber, “On What Should We Call the Kind of Story This Magazine Is About,” Amra, no. 16 (July 1961): 21. 4. Michael Moorcock, “Putting a Tag on It,” Amra, no. 15 (May 1961): 15. Heroic fantasy is another term somewhat interchangeable with sword-and-sorcery, though with broader connotations. 5. Don Herron, “Sword-and-Sorcery,” Cimmerian, December 2008, 29. 6. J. U. Giesy, “The Mouthpiece of Zitu,” All-Story Weekly, July 5–August 2, 1919; Charles B. Stilson, “Polaris—of the Snows,” All-Story Weekly, December 18, 1915–January 1, 1916; Ray Cummings, “The Girl in the Golden Atom,” All-Story Weekly, March 15, 1919. 7. H. P. Lovecraft, letter, Weird Tales, March 1924, 90. 8. Bolstering the mix of historical with the macabre, Munn returned to the werewolf theme with “Tales of the Werewolf Clan” in November/December 1930 and January 1931. The cycle continues with lycanthropy, sorcery, and action the story of the Master tormenting descendants of Wladislaw Brenryk through successive generations during historical events as the Spanish Armada, the St. Bartholomew’s Day Massacre, the Thirty Years’ War, and the Salem Witch Trials. 9. “The Shadow Kingdom” was started in late 1926 and finished in mid-1927. “Red Shadows” was written in the fall of 1927 under the name of “Solomon Kane” and first submitted to Argosy All-Story Weekly. See Rusty Burke, “The Robert E. Howard Fiction and Verse Timeline,” REHupa, http://www.rehupa.com/robert-e-howard-fiction-and-verse-timeline/. 10. Lewis Spence, The Problem of Atlantis (1924), Atlantis in America (1925); James Churchward, The Lost Continent of Mu (1926). 11. Robert E. Howard owned twelve Edgar Rice Burroughs books, more than any other writer, including six Tarzan books and four of the John Carter/Barsoom series. That does not include what he might have read in the pages of the All-Story Magazine, Argosy, and Argosy All-Story Weekly. 12. Atlantis had been used as a setting a few times before with C. Cutliffe Hyne’s The Lost Continent (Pearson’s Magazine, July–December 1899) and Fred MacIsaac’s “The Last Atlantide” (Popular Stories, December 17–31, 1927, and Popular Magazine, January 7–21, 1928), but it is doubtful that Howard had read either of them. 13. Farnsworth Wright rejected three other stories with Kull and one in which he is mentioned but doesn’t appear. 14. The Picts recur again and again in Howard’s fiction, always as barbarians; one critic describes them as “Howard’s most reliable standard-bearers of hate.” See Leo Grin, “The Reign of Blood,” in The Barbaric Triumph, ed. Don Herron (Rockville, MD: Wildside Press, 2004), 158. 15. “Kings of the Night” was submitted for Strange Stories; “The Gods of Bal-Sagoth” was accepted for Strange Stories. Gothic to Cosmic 79 16. This is no coincidence, as Howard had recently begun writing for Weird Tales’s companion adventure magazine, Oriental Stories, in which he was given free rein to write tales of the Crusades full of hard men and big battles. 17. For example, the tale “Corkscrew,” which sent the short and slightly overweight detective into the West, and “This King Business,” which embroiled him in intrigue in a European court. 18. Novalyne Price Ellis, One Who Walked Alone (West Kingston, RI: Donald M. Grant, 1986), 20. 19. Robert E. Howard originally wrote the novel in 1934 for submission to an English publisher, Denis Archer. The publisher went under, so Howard submitted it to Weird Tales. 20. L. Sprague de Camp, Literary Swordsmen and Sorcerers (Sauk City, WI: Arkham House, 1976), 205. 21. Marion Zimmer Bradley, Sword and Sorceress I (New York: DAW Books, 1984), 9. 22. But first a fan jumped in to fill the void left by the absence of Howard. Clifford Ball wrote three sword-and-sorcery stories as an homage to Howard: “Duar the Accursed” (May 1937), “The Thief of Forthe” (July 1937), and “The Goddess Awakes” (February 1938). The stories are fannish imitations of Howard with barbarian heroes and fantastic imaginary settings. Unfortunately Ball’s action scenes lack the skill of Howard, and he gave up on sword-andsorcery. He had three more non-sword-and-sorcery stories in Weird Tales before disappearing forever after 1940. 23. Henry Kuttner to Clark Ashton Smith, Dagon Moor, Robert E. Howard United Press Association Magazine, no. 212 (September 5, 1937): 2. 24. In fact, Flynn might have been the model for Elak, as he uses a rapier in the stories. 25. Kuttner’s “Dragon Moon” was probably purchased while he was still editor. 26. “A Dialogue between Weird Tales author H. Warner Munn & Jessica Amanda Salmonson,” Internet Archive Wayback Machine, https://web.archive.org/web/20130628075234/, http://www.violetbooks.com/Munn.html. Part II Eich-Pi-El and Two-Gun Bob: Lovecraft and Howard in Weird Tales Chapter Six A Nameless Horror Madness and Metamorphosis in H. P. Lovecraft and Postmodernism Clancy Smith THE UNNAMABLE HORROR H. P. Lovecraft’s universe is populated by entities beyond physical description—“unnameable” 1 horrors beyond our “objective world of limited causation and tri-dimensional logic” that can “scarcely . . . be described in words,” 2 realms of “paradoxes, contradictions and anomalies” 3 where unspeakable “devils danced on the roofs” and “unnatural madness howled on the wind.” 4 So, too, do we find realms so far beyond anything the human senses were ever meant to grasp that Lovecraft, through his wayward protagonists, can only describe through faint analogy and metaphor where unity and multiplicity exist at once, where language comes in the form of indescribable waves, 5 “which no earthly logic could explain.” 6 His protagonists are at a loss: they experience impossible fusions of animal and vegetable that defy all taxonomy, impossible geometric forms of intelligent design that defy all historical record, as the limited tools of sensation and understanding within the structured confines of language and reason fall woefully short of even processing, let alone reporting about, the horrors these men must face. This central term coursing throughout Lovecraft’s vast corpus—unnamable horror—is a fundamental truth of Lovecraft’s cosmology and a central feature of the horrors his wayward protagonists must face time and again. So, too, is it a challenge for writer, character, and reader alike: Lovecraft creates a universe populated by the unthinkable, the unnamable, the unspeakable, 83 84 Clancy Smith and challenges everything we know (or thought we knew) about the limits of human cognition. I suggest that Lovecraft’s penchant for creating unnamable horrors that defy categorization by human thought, logic, and language stems from his wider cosmology and humanity’s “frightful position therein.” 7 Key here is Lovecraft’s departure from any form of anthropocentric conception of the universe: the universe is not made in our human image, and humanity holds no privileged position within that cosmos. It would thus follow that what populates that universe has no mandate to conform to human experience, and what is experienced through human faculties is but a piece, a sliver, of a much wider universe, consequently throwing the very knowability of reality into question. S. T. Joshi, one of the foremost experts on Lovecraftian tales, notes, “Lovecraft, in a major departure from the previous horror tradition—and, in many ways, from the entire Western literary tradition, which habitually if unconsciously stressed the centrality of human beings in the cosmos—would emphasize the insignificance of humanity” 8 (emphasis mine). This “insignificance” 9 is most profoundly felt through the protagonists’ inability to reconcile their experiences with Lovecraft’s unnamable horrors within the narrow confines of “tri-dimensional” 10 human logic, reason, and sensory experience. They realize, often when it is far too late, not only the limits of their own cognition, but also the insignificance of humanity itself in a vast and uncaring universe. In a letter to the editor of Weird Tales, Farnsworth Wright, Lovecraft says, Now all my tales are based on the fundamental premise that common human laws and interests and emotions have no validity or significance in the vast cosmos-at-large . . . to achieve the essence of real externality, whether of time or space or dimension, one must forget that such things as organic life, good and evil, love and hate, and all such local attributes of a negligible and temporary race called mankind, have any existence at all. 11 Such a position resonates on every page of Lovecraft’s stories, perhaps most famously reflected in the iconic opening lines of his classic tale “The Call of Cthulhu,” where he proclaims, “The most merciful thing in the world . . . is the inability of the human mind to correlate all its contents.” On this “placid island of ignorance in the midst of black seas of infinity . . . it was not meant that we should voyage far,” for although “the sciences . . . have hitherto harmed us little . . . some day the piecing together of our dissociated knowledge will open up such terrifying vistas of reality, and our frightful position therein, that we shall either go mad from the revelation or flee from the deadly light into the peace and safety of a new dark age.” 12 Lovecraft’s universe refuses to reconcile itself with our human perspective: it is bigger than that, beyond that, so hyperbolically so that all mortal A Nameless Horror 85 endeavors, categories of love, hate, fear, madness, sanity, dreams, and reality (as we conceive them) are equally futile and transient. In part, the horror that Lovecraft’s characters face is the very realization of their diminutive place in the cosmos. But so, too, are there horrors they must face in the form of transgressors from that wider cosmology into our own mortal phenomenological sphere. If humanity is but the tiniest speck in a massive, uncaring cosmos, why should the creatures that populate it adhere to anthropomorphic qualities? Why should we expect them to adhere to our meager understanding of logic, of science, of categories of sense and understanding? These human protagonists, with their limited human cognitive capacities, experience only the tip of the proverbial iceberg, a sliver of the totality of the entities that populate Lovecraft’s universe as they intervene upon a human world. Consider, for example, Edwin Abbott’s 1884 novella Flatland, the tale of a two-dimensional universe populated by two-dimensional protagonists who suddenly encounter the imposition of a sphere (a three-dimensional object) supervening upon their world, a thing so alien that it is only partially experienced as a widening circle while it is being reconciled by the limited two-dimensional faculties of the denizens of this fictional world. If we take that concept and shift it up one dimension, we begin to get a glimpse of what Lovecraft’s protagonists experience: the supervening of entities beyond our meager tri-dimensional logic experienced only partially, as fragmented slivers of the totality of these horrors. These protagonists reconcile them as best they can, given the limited resources they have available; but there is always a remainder, something beyond total capture, and these limitations of human perception often create a wild delirium, occasionally even madness, as Lovecraft’s protagonists fail in their attempt to reconcile the irreconcilable in a manner not overly distinct from the experience of what Freud called “the uncanny.” 13 So, too, does this explain, in no small part, Lovecraft’s iconic literary technique 14 of always undercutting his protagonist’s own phenomenological descriptions of these entities. Consider, for example, the description of the corpse of Wilbur Whateley in “The Dunwich Horror”: “It would be trite and not wholly accurate to say that no human pen could describe it, but one may properly say that it could not be vividly visualized by anyone whose ideas of aspect and contour are too closely bound up with the common life-forms of this planet and the three known dimensions.” 15 Lovecraft does not dismiss the possibility of description a priori, for some description of the thing is, indeed, possible; but a complete picture cannot be painted by anyone who is “too closely bound up with the common life-forms of this planet and the known three dimensions,” that is, it cannot be described by anyone overly dependent upon traditionally human ways of thinking and being. As Graham Harman notes, Lovecraft found a perfect middle path between underdescription and overdescription: 86 Clancy Smith The sentence just quoted would have been ruined if Lovecraft had adopted either of two extreme alternatives. If he had said simply that “no human pen can describe it,” we would have one of the cheapest tricks of bad pulp writing and shallow thinking. If he had tried instead to shock us with monstrous detailed descriptions alone, we would also have veered toward pulp. Instead, we find a disclaimer that neutralizes the initial cliché by calling it “trite and not wholly accurate,” but which then delves into a descriptive effort that is nearly impossible to visualize in literal terms anyway. 16 Yet even this pales in comparison to the phenomena encountered by Randolph Carter in what is, perhaps, Lovecraft’s most esoteric tale, “Through the Gates of the Silver Key”: Then he drew forth the Silver Key, and made motions and intonations whose source he could only dimly remember. . . . What happened then is scarcely to be described in words. It is full of those paradoxes, contradictions, and anomalies which have no place in waking life, but which fill our more fantastic dreams, and are taken as matters of course till we return to our narrow, rigid, objective world of limited causation and tri-dimensional logic. 17 This tale, a favorite of postmodern philosopher Gilles Deleuze, is riddled with increasingly esoteric passages that bear more of a resemblance to metaphysical ruminations than phenomenological descriptions. Central to this particular passage, however, is the distancing of such descriptors from what Lovecraft often refers to as “tri-dimensional logic,” that is, the traditional “narrow, rigid,” in a word, structured, ways of knowing the world and being in the world. The millennia-old intellectual traditions that provide the sum total of human cognitive tools (language, logic, mathematics, philosophy, theology, and so forth) are still so rigidly structured (human, all too human) that they have no hope of capturing that which is entirely alien to human experience except filtered through that human experience, in which case Lovecraft’s protagonists may endure only a sliver of the totality of the event itself. Lovecraft is a poststructural artist in a very sincere and literal sense, so much so that it ought to come as no surprise that leading poststructural theorists like Gilles Deleuze incorporated Lovecraft’s language into their own work. Thus, I contend that the truly novel horrors of Lovecraft’s tales do not take traditionally anthropocentric forms of “werewolf” or “vampire” 18 (for what are those but “wolf-man” or “undead-man”?) but transcend such clearly structured confines entirely, departing from the comfortable associations of two arms, two legs, a head of some description, that is, something vaguely humanoid and something accessible, though perhaps unsettling, to human cognition. Just as Lovecraft distances himself from an anthropocentric cosmology, so too do his creations defy traditional tri-dimensional taxonomy, that is, they defy any simple human ontology. By breaking from these tradi- A Nameless Horror 87 tional horror tropes and by embracing a host of abominations that so wildly defy easy taxonomy, Lovecraft’s tales of terror revolutionized the genre and anticipated some of the central themes of poststructuralism that would manifest themselves in philosophy decades later. 19 This chapter will investigate this revolutionary trend in Lovecraft’s stories in Weird Tales, analyzing the unique phenomenological experience of encountering the “nameless horror” and looking into the challenge this presents for author, reader, and character alike, concluding with an overview of the impact Lovecraft’s tales have had in the philosophical movement of poststructuralism, looking specifically at the work of Gilles Deleuze and Félix Guattari, whose seminal text, A Thousand Plateaus, is riddled with Lovecraftian references that aid them in illustrating their own radical position. EXPRESSING THE INEXPRESSIBLE It is easy to say that a reliance on the trope “unnamable horror” demonstrates little more than a deficiency of imagination on the part of the artist, that is, that the horror in question is unnamable only because the author lacks the creativity to describe it. Or else the author can describe it but chooses not to by way of replacing such descriptors with vague allusions for the mere sake of heightening the narrative tension without any profound philosophical stake in the matter. Undoubtedly such criticisms have been leveled at Lovecraft over the years due to his penchant for relying so heavily upon incomplete descriptions, allusions to nameless horrors, and esoteric metaphysical speculations in place of straightforward phenomenological descriptions. But Lovecraft does not lack imagination and, as we have seen, there are myriad reasons why he relied so heavily on this particular trope. First, Lovecraft’s cosmology was hyperbolically anti-anthropocentric, leaving room for massive gaps between human experience and the objective existence of those entities (or events) that are experienced. This aided Lovecraft in his attempt to emphasize humanity’s paltry place in a vast and uncaring universe and marked a decided break between his work in the genre and his predecessors that relied on easily recognizable and heavily structured entities acting as antagonists in their own tales of horror. Second, Lovecraft wished to present his protagonists realistically, that is, to depict (as best as he could) the phenomenological experience of encountering that which is beyond the meager bounds of human cognition, human language, and human logic. His characters often “short-circuit,” as it were, failing to reconcile what they experience with their human categories of experience. There is a method to Lovecraft’s literary madness, one entirely in keeping with his wider cosmological theories of humanity’s inconsequential role in the universe and his literary drive 88 Clancy Smith toward a certain form of realism in his descriptions of that which cannot be described. One of Lovecraft’s more autobiographical tales, “The Unnamable” (with his frequently used protagonist Randolph Carter, perhaps doubling for Lovecraft himself), offers a unique insight into his self-reflective ruminations on this precise literary technique as he sets up the character Joel Manton as a classic detractor. Manton chides Carter on his “constant talk about the ‘unnamable’ and ‘unmentionable’” in Carter’s tales, calling such a contrivance “a very puerile device, quite in keeping” with Carter’s “lowly standing as an author.” 20 He remarks that Carter was too fond of ending his stories “with sights or sounds which paralysed” his protagonist’s “faculties and left them without courage, words, or associations to tell what they had experienced.” 21 In contrast, Manton insists, “we know things . . . only through our five senses or our religious intuitions; wherefore it is quite impossible to refer to any object or spectacle which cannot be clearly depicted by the solid definitions of fact or the correct doctrines of theology.” 22 The senses, Manton claims, we must trust, and the senses will take in data that will ever and always be reconciled with our accepted categories of understanding a rational whole with no remainder: the very notion of something experienced by the senses yet unnamable is, for Manton, a chimera. Carter scarcely knows what to do with such “complacency of an orthodox sun-dweller,” 23 unable to convince Manton that “phenomena beyond all normal notions” may exist—that is, phenomena beyond the categories of understanding, beyond what the senses can reconcile—and unable to convince Manton that “spirit, in order to cause all the manifestations attributed to it, cannot be limited by any of the laws of matter.” 24 If one were to hold the latter position, it is far from “extravagant to imagine psychically living dead things in shapes—or absences of shapes—which must for human spectators be utterly and appallingly ‘unnamable.’” 25 For Manton, the senses convey data to the mind, the mind correlates these data with its structured categories, and these correlated data may be expressed in language adequately enough to represent the source of the original sense data and convey that information to another interlocutor of sufficiently similar comportment to mentally visualize what is being conveyed through language. There is nothing, thereby, that can be unnamable. Yet Carter insists that such an experience is possible. Philosopher Mélanie Walton asks, “What is an expression that can express that which cannot be expressed? Logicians and grammarians may say that an expression cannot say what cannot be said: it is an impossibility—or, at the very least, a sloppy use of language” 26 (emphasis mine). Certainly this represents Manton’s position succinctly, as he says, “even the most morbid perversion of Nature need not be unnamable or scientifically indescribable.” But, as Lovecraft warns us time and again throughout his “weird fiction,” the cold confines of “logic” A Nameless Horror 89 are no defense against the horrors his protagonists must face but, quite the contrary, are a hindrance: human language and logic are nothing but an antiquated crutch, a limited perspective that is believed so faithfully that when faced with the truth of humanity’s miniscule position in the universe, and the horrors that exist beyond that finite understanding, the mind of the logician is broken in the attempt to reconcile what is experienced with the limited categories of sense and understanding within the protagonist’s disposal. As Harman notes, speaking of Lovecraft, “[N]o other writer is so perplexed by the gap between objects and the power of language to describe them, or between objects and the qualities they possess.” 27 Language itself is bound by rules and structure and is a dimension apart from what that language attempts to describe: there are the words and then there is the thing itself. As Harman notes, “[N]o literal statement is congruent with reality itself, just as no handling of a tool is the same thing as that tool in the plenitude of its reality.” 28 There is a “gap,” as Harman likes to say, between language and reality, particularly in the work of Lovecraft. “Language (and everything else) is obliged to become an art of allusion or indirect speech, a metaphorical bond with a reality that cannot possibly be made present.” 29 Thus, for Lovecraft, “reality is too real to be translated without remainder into any sentence, perception, practical action, or anything else.” 30 This sort of disjunction led philosophers like Immanual Kant to create such a “gap” between our phenomenological experiences and the “things-in-themselves.” But, as Harman points out, the mistake made by Kant, and even more so by his German Idealist successors, is to hold that the relation of appearance to the in-itself is an all-ornothing affair—that since the things-in-themselves can never be made present, we are either limited to discussions of the conditions of human experience (Kant) or obliged to annihilate the very notion of things-in-themselves by noting that this very notion is an accessible appearance in the mind (German Idealism). 31 But, as Harman points out, there is another option: “[T]he inability to make the things-in-themselves directly present does not forbid us from indirect access to them,” that is, it does not mean “the inherent impossibility of all knowledge, since knowledge need not be discursive and direct.” 32 This “absent thing-in-itself can have gravitational effects on the internal content of knowledge, just as Lovecraft can allude to the physical form of Cthulhu even while canceling the literal terms of the description.” 33 Indeed, this is precisely what distances Lovecraft from other writers of the genre. Lovecraft’s protagonists encounter these abominations in the most real way possible, that is, nothing is taken in stride and everything is experi- 90 Clancy Smith enced as testing the limits of what it means to have an experience at all. In Lovecraft’s own ruminations on the pulp-horror genre, he said, The characters should react to it as real people would react to such a thing if it were suddenly to confront them in daily life; displaying the almost soul-shattering amazement which anyone would naturally display instead of the mild, tame, quickly-passed-over emotions prescribed by cheap popular convention. Even when the wonder is one to which the characters are assumed to be used, the sense of awe, marvel, and strangeness which the reader would feel in the presence of such a thing must somehow be suggested by the author. 34 Lovecraft’s technique, often played off (as Manton suggests) as cheap tricks to obfuscate the author’s lack of talent—that is, the inability to express these horrors represents an imaginative deficiency on the author’s part—is in fact central to his philosophical mission. As Harman suggests, if the protagonists of Lovecraft’s tales encountered these sorts of alien horrors in a quasirealistic fashion, “if all this stated as a matter-of-fact event, then what we have is nothing but a cheap novelty of ‘unprecedented content.’” 35 Thus, Manton’s initial condemnations of Carter’s prose are nearly identical to the accolades Harman bestows upon Lovecraft’s prose. Harman notes, “[T]o innovate in science fiction” we cannot merely trade “a familiar content for a bizarre but comparable one. . . . Instead, we must show the everyday banality . . . undercut from within, by subverting the background conditions.” There must instead “be some deeper and more malevolent principle at work . . . that escapes all such definition.” 36 The effort that Lovecraft puts into undercutting his own descriptions is no mere literary contrivance but one of the most honest attempts to convey the phenomenological experience of a nameless, indescribable horror as realistically as possible: the characters do not simply snap to, pick up arms, and engage these monsters in some banal sort of action pulp inanity, but are often frozen and speechless before the abominations of Lovecraft’s universe. Their minds misfire, scrambling desperately to find some way (inadequate as it always is) to express the inexpressible, to reconcile that which is beyond human experience with the limited tools of human experience that they have at their disposal. In this way, Lovecraft masterfully creates clarity of meaning while concurrently undercutting that clarity of meaning. 37 As Harman notes, Lovecraft is not simply a pulp writer who tries to force credence with mere declarations concerning the amazing properties of alternate otherworldly creatures. Instead, he is almost disturbingly alert to the background that eludes the determinacy of every utterance, to the point that he invests a great deal of energy in undercutting his own statements. 38 A Nameless Horror 91 It is a unique form of “realism” that Lovecraft captures—not the “realism” of a “realistic” universe, no, but the “realism” of a protagonist’s agonizing attempt to reconcile what cannot be reconciled, whether that is a fusion of a plant and animal that simply “cannot be” according to traditional taxonomy or the location of geometric shapes too old to exist and too alien in contour to be of earthly origin. I contend it is the scope of Lovecraft’s cosmology (and humanity’s frightful place therein) that creates the “gap” between his protagonists’ human experiences and the abominations that are experienced; this, in turn, cultivates Lovecraft’s literary technique, which is anything but a banal sort of unimaginative hedging away from full descriptions of ancient horrors but is, rather, a perfectly realistic way of describing the phenomenological experience of the truly unnamable. THE PHILOSOPHER, THE SCIENTIST, THE OCCULTIST, AND THE MYSTIC Despite the seeming impossibility of describing, in full, these alien encounters, it would seem that some of Lovecraft’s protagonists are better suited to the task than others. I have already hinted at the reason why: when characters are too bound by traditional structures of language and their feeble, human tri-dimensional logic, these structures, which would otherwise enable successful navigation of a human world, are altogether out of place in an entirely anti-anthropocentric universe. Rather than an aid in life-navigation, these structures of language and logic are little more than an antiquated crutch that enfeebles the more imaginative components of human cognition that might come closer to approximating the otherwise impossible encounters of entirely nonhuman experience. Although it would seem that there is always a remainder, some aspects of these alien encounters that are beyond total capture, there are nevertheless degrees of approximation that seem to correlate with the degrees of separation between Lovecraft’s protagonists and their reliance on traditional forms of human thinking. In other words, the more abstract and less rigidly structured the thinker (i.e., the more creative, the more imaginative), the closer that individual will come to total experiential capture of that which defies those structures of language and logic and, subsequently, the better the chance that that individual will keep his or her sanity intact on the other end of the experience. Lovecraft creates a dizzying array of protagonists from various social and intellectual backgrounds to experiment with how they might engage this nameless Other, none more recognizable than Randolph Carter. Lovecraft creates Carter as a quasi-Quixote figure, where imagination and joy are continuously threatened into collapse by the pressures of the mundane “prosiness of life.” 39 In “The Silver Key,” Lovecraft’s iconic protago- 92 Clancy Smith nist finds himself in the midst of a type of an existential crisis wherein, not long past, he had lost the “key of the gate of dreams,” 40 a mystical item that Carter would use to escape the doldrums of waking reality into the realm of dreams, making “nightly excursions to strange and ancient cities beyond space . . . across ethereal seas.” 41 But like Cervantes’s protagonist, “as middle age hardened upon him he felt these liberties slipping away little by little, until at last he was cut off altogether.” 42 Having both lost the key to the gateway of dreams and allowed the tedium of terrestrial existence to whittle down the joy and wonder in his heart, 43 Carter sought counsel elsewhere: “well-meaning philosophers” who “had taught him to look into the logical relations of things, and analyse the processes which shaped his thoughts and fancies.” 44 In the latter decades of the nineteenth century, stretching into the first half of the twentieth, philosophy (as a scholarly discipline) was under the sway of what were known at the time as logical positivists, 45 a movement that eschewed metaphysical questions as ultimately meaningless and focused far more on communal, empirical verification and the rigid structures of logic than personal, phenomenological experiences. Whether a statement was meaningful was predicated upon whether it could be verifiably demonstrated to be either true or false (operating in a clearly logical, binary system), hence their aversion to metaphysical queries that were often dismissed as linguistic confusions or nonsensical fancies. 46 As such, Lovecraft was critiquing a kind of scientific materialism, perhaps a scientism, that reduces all possible knowledge to the language and system of measurement of the hard sciences, thus limiting that which can be known to sensory experience alone. Yet, as Carter notes (in keeping with Lovecraft’s stated cosmology), there is no reason to value waking existence over dreams, and the deeds of reality, so prized among purported scholars, “are just as inane and childish” as any dream-walking Carter has been accused of believing in. Indeed, the philosophers are even “more absurd” than he, “fancying” waking existence as “full of meaning and purpose as the blind cosmos grinds aimlessly on from nothing to something and from something back to nothing again, neither needing nor knowing the wishes of existence of the minds that flicker for a second now and then in the darkness.” 47 The scientists failed to console Carter, as well, unable to replace the “breathless expectancy and unquenchable delight” of the “magic moulded” dreamscape with their own “newfound prodigies of science, bidding him find wonder in the atom’s vortex and mystery in the sky’s dimensions.” 48 They claimed it was he, not they, who “lack[s] imagination, and was immature because he preferred dream-illusions to the illusions of our physical creation.” 49 Carter saw Nature shrieking of its “unconsciousness and impersonal unmorality in the light of their scientific discoveries.” 50 Neither the wisdom of philosophy nor the far-reaching knowledge of science could alleviate the gnawing suspicion that this world was “shallow, fickle, and meaningless,” 51 A Nameless Horror 93 as all human aspirations are, and “that the daily life of our world is every inch as extravagant and artificial, and far less worthy of respect because of its poverty in beauty and its silly reluctance to admit its own lack of reason and purpose” as anything his dreams conjured. Carter’s “reason rebelled at the flimsy logic with which their champions tried to gild brute impulse.” 52 Nor did the occultists help, for Carter found their doctrines “as dry and inflexible as those of science, yet without even the slender palliative of truth to redeem them. Gross stupidity, falsehood, and muddled thinking are not dream; and form no escape from life to a mind trained above that level.” 53 So Carter had to dig deeper still, delving into even “stranger books” and seeking out even “deeper and more terrible men of fantastic erudition; delving into arcane of consciousness that few have trod, and learning things about the secret pits of life, legend, and immemorial antiquity which disturbed him ever afterward. He decided to live on a rarer plane.” 54 It is here that Carter moves past the cheap ruminations of purported occultists and enters the realm of the true mystic, seeking the tomes that reflect the horrifying truth of mankind’s paltry position in the cosmos, studying with scholars of the dreaded Necronomicon, until at last “horror overtook” him and he set aside these studies for the peace of mind of the banality of existence once more. The end of the tale sees Carter finding a magical key of his ancestors, mystics, the lot of them, and able to vanish from time-space and enter once again the dreamscape of his childhood. Carter’s path was a curious one: passing through the halls of philosophy, the laboratories of science, the rituals of occultists, the tomes of the true mystics, until at last he found the answer inside himself (via his ancestors) all along. But this path provides both Carter and reader alike a glimpse into these different comportments in terms of who (if anyone) is prepared for the horrors that Lovecraft creates. So, too, can it be seen as a parallel passage to the one Carter takes in the follow-up story, “Through the Gates of the Silver Key” (cowritten with E. Hoffmann Price), where Carter experiences entities and events increasingly distanced from the traditional structures of human logic and language as he passes through literal “gates” ascending away from the prosiness of life toward more rarefied and abstract realms wholly alien to anything human. To this iconic tale I will return in a moment. DELEUZE, LOVECRAFT, AND POSTSTRUCTURAL HORROR Gilles Deleuze and Félix Guattari are two of the most notable members of postmodernist/poststructuralist philosophy that arose in France in the latter half of the twentieth century. Often working in collaboration, they draw upon their rich knowledge of the entire history of philosophy and their profound insights into psychoanalysis to break from traditional philosophical discourse 94 Clancy Smith by delving deeply into a rich and vibrant language all their own to challenge and critique the traditional conceptions of mind, self, world, and other. Blurring the lines between “human” and “animal,” “animal” and “plant,” they conjure the macabre imagery of Lovecraft’s literary world of ancient horrors, nameless terror, and the slow, steady decent into madness and metamorphosis in their seminal text, A Thousand Plateaus. In one key chapter, Deleuze and Guattari bring to life as their stand-in Lovecraft’s central protagonist, Randolph Carter, to weave many of their most challenging and intricate philosophical concepts. When Professor Challenger, standing in for Deleuze and Guattari (and doubling for Carter), delivered his presentation to a rapt and somewhat hostile audience, his articulation of the relationship between the “plane of consistency” and the “plane of organization,” “reterretorialization” and “deterritorialization,” took on heightened poignancy when he himself began to “deterritorialize,” literally melting, transforming, breaking down into the plane of consistency, merging with the mechanosphere. 55 Though Deleuze and Guattari emphasize the constant check and balance between deterretorialization and reterretorialization, the emphasis is clearly on the former, an emphasis on the so-called rhizomatic interconnectedness of the cosmos, and a clear animosity toward the socalled arborescent (up-down, hierarchical) structure. 56 Not only is every event interrelated in this rhizomatic fashion, but it can break down and reform into something other. Although there are nuanced differences that would certainly be manifested in a more in-depth excavation of these terms, the “plane of consistency” does not seem wholly dissimilar from the “body without organs,” which Deleuze and Guattari associate with the earth itself. 57 Upon the earth there occur strata, defined as “layers” or “belts,” which “give form to matters,” 58 namely, from the molecular, rhizomatic earth, from this “plane of consistency,” order in some fashion “coagulates,” if I may use the term, into organizations, systems, territorialization. These organizations are often referred to as examples of the “arborescent,” which Deleuze contrasts with the “rhizomatic,” which has no singular point of origin but a multiplicity of tendrils and connections metastasizing throughout the earth. Quick to avoid any of the time-honored epistemological and ontological dualisms of philosophy, Deleuze notes that there is no absolute, strict dichotomy here, for (in a fashion similar to our earlier analogy of the plane of organization and the plane of consistency) the arborescent structures arise out of rhizomatic undercurrents, linking the two in something far more dynamic than any mere coordination or symbiosis. 59 The scene of Professor Challenger’s metamorphosis was not, however, Deleuze’s alone, but was a seamless interweaving of Deleuze’s infamous imagery with direct quotations from Lovecraft’s “Through the Gates of the Silver Key.” In their chapter, “Becoming-Intense, Becoming-Animal,” De- A Nameless Horror 95 leuze and Guattari cite and reference Lovecraft not just once, but on five separate occasions, all from the same tale, and all to illustrate a poignant comparison between the arborescent structures of a plane of organization and the virtual powers, intensities, and lines of flight that exist in a far more rhizomatic conception of reality laying “beneath,” if you will, on the plane of consistency. In After Life, which contains an extensive exploration of Deleuze’s conceptions of reality, Eugene Thacker notes that, beyond any other novelist of horror and fantasy, Lovecraft’s work remains the most innovative and extreme, pushing the boundaries of what we could ever possibly conceive to be the limits of life and reality. Lovecraft’s is, as Thacker says, [a] world in which we find characters weighted down by deeply in-grained ways of thinking about the world—rural vs. urban, regional vs. global, civilized vs. primitive, race vs. species, ancient vs. modern, and so on. In the midst of this all-too-human world, Lovecraft’s characters discover remnants—often at a distant, furtive archaeological dig—of an advanced form of life that confounds all human knowledge about life as we know it. 60 It is a call to look past or beneath strictly and traditionally branching hierarchies and modes of thought and society, to challenge the assumed distinctions born of a three-dimensional, structured reality. The eldritch creatures from At the Mountains of Madness, for example, those things that the best scientists could not yet “assign positively to animal or vegetable kingdom . . . [whose] symmetry is curiously vegetable-like, suggesting vegetable’s essential up-and-down structure,” 61 would be well at home in Deleuze’s rejection of rigid distinctions and the “up-and-down” hierarchical and overly structured modes of thinking. This sort of “fusion” of otherwise insolubly distinct entities is central to Deleuze and Guattari’s philosophy. The undiluted and complete difference between, say, animal and vegetable is a consequence of purely hierarchical or, perhaps, overly structured thinking: as distinct “organisms,” taking no heed of the bodies without organs therein, two stratified structures are conceived of as pure “beings” with no hazy area of indiscernability between them, eschewing the notion of “becoming” altogether. As Deleuze and Guattari say, “multiplicities are rhizomatic, and expose the arborescent pseudomultiplicities for what they are. There is no unity to serve as a pivot in the object or to divide in the subject.” 62 However, should we shift our view to a complementary investigation of the plane of consistency as well as this plane of organization, we see a realm of becoming, indiscernability, and blurred lines of flight penetrating between otherwise strictly distinct structures forging something new: a rhizome, a multiplicity, a becoming, an assemblage. “As assemblage,” as Deleuze and Guattari define it, “is precisely this increase in the line of dimensions of a multiplicity that necessarily changes in nature as it expands its connections. There 96 Clancy Smith are no points or positions in a rhizome, such as those found in a structure, tree, or root. There are only lines.” 63 As Bonta and Protevi note, a rhizome is “a decentered multiplicity or network, roughly synonymous with ‘consistency’ . . . the rhizome is not a model like a tree, but an ‘immanent process.’” 64 The creatures of Lovecraft’s macabre cosmology exemplify the protean aspects of the assemblage, presenting themselves as far more indiscernible and rhizomatic than mainstream science could permit in its far more rigid taxonomy. The shoggoths, for example, might even be described better as sentient “becomings” rather than static beings, having no single head or hierarchy, but a multiplicity of organs, absolutely none of which are anything other than completely protean. These “multicellular protoplasmic masses” are “capable of molding their tissues into all sorts of temporary organs,” 65 “throwing out temporary developments and forming apparent organs.” 66 These shoggoth creatures represent, in a relative sense, the relationship between the two Deleuzian planes and, perhaps more clearly, the juxtaposition between the “organism” and the “body without organs” in A Thousand Plateaus. Capable of forming temporary limbs and organs, quite literally, from the limbless, formless, and unorganized organs, that is, from a body without organs, the shoggoth, in this peculiar sense, represents a lovely illustration of the relationship between the organism and the body without organs, and it is thus no surprise that Lovecraft held great import for Deleuze’s own vivid imagery. Similarly, the eldritch creatures are quite overt representatives of the blurred realm of indiscernability between animal and vegetable, an assemblage mixing aspects of both to create something greater than either. Indeed, in the chapter in which Deleuze cites Lovecraft, he gives us the example of “Little Hans” and defines becoming as the creation of a new assemblage in asking, “[S]o just what is the becoming-horse of Little Hans? Hans is . . . taken up in an assemblage. . . . The question is whether Little Hans can endow his own elements with the relations of movement and rest, the affects, that would make it become horse . . . an as yet unknown assemblage that would be neither Hans’s nor the horses’s, but that of the becoming-horse of Hans.” 67 Indeed, the plant-animal creatures of Lovecraft may well have been found quite fascinating for Deleuze in light of his similar example of “becomings” and “assemblages,” the “wasp-orchid,” an assemblage fused of insect and plant, distinct only in the singular (and less complex) realm of arborscent, structured, stratified “being” on the plane of organization (that is, in a common understanding of scientific taxonomy). 68 But what most intrigued Deleuze and Guattari in Lovecraft’s tales were not the abominations themselves but the possibilities that allowed for Lovecraft’s human protagonists to undergo their own form of transmutation, especially the one endured by Randolph Carter in “Through the Gates of the Silver Key.” As Carter passes through those sequential gates, time, space, A Nameless Horror 97 and clear-cut distinctions between oneself and the Other (indeed, between oneself and anything else at all) become blurred into complete indiscernability and finally vanish altogether. The process is slow for Carter, as Deleuze notes in his chapter “How Do You Make Yourself a Body without Organs?” The process must be slow, or else one runs the risk of death and destruction through the process of deterritotialization. As Deleuze and Guattari say, “[Y]ou don’t reach the BwO, and its plane of consistency, by wildly destratifying. . . . Staying stratified—organized, signified, subjected—is not the worst that can happen; the worst that can happen is if you throw the strata into demented or suicidal collapse.” 69 Thus, the presentation of sequential gates, opening one and then the next, presents a fine example to Deleuze’s observations here: Carter slowly descends into the plane of consistency, one integral component of the stratified world dissolved at a time. As Deleuze notes, Lovecraft’s hero encounters strange animals, but he finally reaches the ultimate regions of a Continuum inhabited by unnamable waves and unfindable particles. Science fiction has gone through a whole evolution taking it from animal, vegetable, and mineral becomings to becomings of bacteria, viruses, molecules and things imperceptible. 70 As the organism breaks down (for, as Deleuze and Guattari note, “the BwO is not at all the opposite of the organs. The organs are not its enemies . . . the BwO is opposed not to the organs but to that organization of the organs called the organism” 71), the organization of the organs is replaced with the intensities that populate the plane of consistency. As they say, “[T]he BwO is made in such a way that it can be occupied, populated only by intensities”; 72 thus, the absence of the stratified structure of organisms proper allows for the creation of assemblages and multiplicities that interpenetrate otherwise static and irrevocably distinct entities (the wasp-orchid as the chief example). In one of Deleuze’s favorite passages from Lovecraft, the horror novelist describes a scene in which his protagonist passes through the final gate and merges with what Deleuze directly associates with his “mechanosphere.” Carter passes beyond the realm of distinct differences between organisms, bending both time and space and bilocating, trilocating, seeing himself in a multiverse of manifestations in which forms of his occurrence are anything but human: Carters of forms both human and non-human, vertebrate and invertebrate, conscious and mindless, animal and vegetable. And more, there were Carters having nothing in common with earthly life, but moving outrageously amidst backgrounds of other planets and systems and galaxies and cosmic continua . . . merging with nothingness in peaceful oblivion; but to be aware of existence and yet to know that one is no longer a definite being distinguished 98 Clancy Smith from other beings [nor from all of the becomings running through us—DG], that is the nameless summit of agony and dread. 73 Deleuze and Guattari insert the segment “nor from all of the becoming running through us” here to highlight the deterritoralization that Carter is experiencing. That Carter is no longer a “definite being” is akin to the notion of shedding the organization of the organs and entering into that realm of indiscernability that allows assemblages to be formed. Perhaps the most poignant section in which Deleuze and Guattari cite Lovecraft comes at the end of their chapter “10,000 BC: The Geology of Morals,” in which their imagery of Professor Challenger is seamlessly merged with the conclusion of the Lovecraft’s tale: No one had heard the summary, and no one tried to keep Challenger from leaving. Challenger, or what remained of him, slowly hurried toward the plane of consistency, following a bizarre trajectory with nothing relative left about it. He tried to slip into an assemblage serving as a drum-gate, the particle Clock with its intensive clicking and conjugated rhythms hammering out the absolute: “the figure slumped oddly into a posture scarcely human, and began a curious, fascinated sort of shuffle toward the coffin-shaped clock . . . the figure had now reached the abnormal clock, and the watchers saw through the dense fumes a blurred black claw fumbling with the tall, hieroglyphed door. . . . Then the figure entered the coffin-shaped case and pulled the door shut after it . . . the abnormal clicking went on, beating out the dark, cosmic rhythm which underlies all mystical gate-openings”—the Mechanosphere, or rhizosphere. 74 Thus, Professor Challenger merges with Lovecraft’s protagonist and akin to Carter’s own deterritorialization, leaves behind the stultifying confines of the organization of his organs and merges with the Mechanosphere, achieving a sort of absolute deterretorialization. CONCLUSION As Thacker notes of Lovecraft, “There is more here than the menacing monster of classic creature-feature films. In these passages, what is horrific is not just that such nameless things are still alive, but, more importantly, that in their living they evoke in Lovecraft’s characters the limits of thought—the limits of thought to think ‘life’ at all. The very terms of human thought fail to encompass the nameless thing.” 75 Although the descent into madness seems a common theme throughout Lovecraft’s corpus as his protagonists face off time and again against the most unspeakable horrors, it is not precisely “madness” that grips them but, rather, an inability to express in the signs, symbols, and language of tri-dimensional logic the horrors they experience. As Thacker notes, “Lovecraft’s character are not insane—in fact, the source A Nameless Horror 99 of their horror is the realization that they are not hallucinating” 76 (emphasis mine). Had they been hallucinating or dreaming, Thacker notes, they could then “dismiss what they encounter as pure subjectivism, and the self-world dichotomy would remain intact.” 77 But the horrors they experience, “incommensurate to any form of rational verification,” cause the traditional categories of thought to “flounder before a form of life that is at once oozing and mathematical, formless and geometric.” 78 What Lovecraft’s protagonists experience are rhizomatic monsters, formless and nameless, and a terror that they themselves face becoming-animal and becoming-molecular incapable of being fully captured with the language and logic of the structured and hierarchical. Even madness and hallucination are within the confines of a structured system of “normal” and “deviant,” which are both left far behind in the odysseys of Lovecraft’s tragic heroes. It is not madness that claims them but the hopeless attempt to describe the rhizomatic in the language of the arborescent. Thus, in the twilight world of Lovecraft’s literature, realities twist and bend as intensities transform his protagonists, depicting, in literary form, the movement of the organization of organs to the body without organs that Deleuze and Guattari portray. So, too, do we catch a glimpse, ever and only out of the periphery of Lovecraft’s chilling vision, of a plane of consistency so alien and Other, so powerful and intense that it leaves the perceiver irrevocably transformed, just as, I argue, the radical philosophy of Deleuze and Guattari was precisely meant to do. NOTES 1. H. P. Lovecraft, “The Unnamable,” in Necronomicon: The Best Weird Tales of H. P. Lovecraft, ed. Stephen Jones (London: Gollancz, 2008), 133. 2. Lovecraft, “Through the Gates of the Silver Key,” in Jones, Necronomicon, 399. 3. Ibid. 4. Lovecraft, “Herbert West—Reanimator,” in Jones, Necronomicon, 41. 5. “And now the Being was addressing the Carter-facet in prodigious waves that smoke and burned and thundered.” Lovecraft, “Through the Gates of the Silver Key,” 407. 6. Ibid., 406. 7. Lovecraft, “The Call of Cthulhu,” in Jones, Necronomicon, 201. As Joshi notes, Lovecraft’s “imagination populated the world with a legion of cosmic horrors that bleakly underscore the insignificance of humanity and all its works in a blind, godless universe.” S. T. Joshi, “Introduction” in H. P. Lovecraft: The Fiction (New York: Barnes & Noble, 2008), ix. 8. Joshi, “Introduction,” xi. 9. Lovecraft was not the only novelist of the time engaging this theme of humanity’s finitude in a universe of indifference. Olaf Stapledon, for example, the renowned philosopher and science fiction novelist, depicted this same theme in his seminal works Last and First Men and Star Maker. As Eric Rabkin notes, Stapledon used the “breathtaking magnitudes offered by astronomy to gain a new view of earth-boundman” as something so finite that compared to the eons of time that elapse and the vastness of the cosmos, individual lives are but the most fleeting sparks in an uncaring and vast cosmos. Eric Rabkin, “The Composite Fiction of Olaf Stapledon,” Science-Fiction Studies 9, no. 3 (November 1982): 241. In Stapledon’s Star Maker, for example, we see this sort of imagery and philosophical exploration of humanity’s finitude 100 Clancy Smith in a vast and indifferent cosmos: “I sat down on the heather. Overhead obscurity was now in full retreat. In its rear the freed population of the sky sprang out of hiding, star by star. On every side the shadowy hills or the guessed, featureless sea extended beyond sight. But the hawkflight of imagination followed them as they curved downward below the horizon. I perceived that I was on a little round grain of rock and metal, filmed with water and with air, whirling in sunlight and darkness. And on the skin of that little grain all the swarms of men, generation by generation, had lived in labour and blindness, with intermittent joy and intermittent lucidity of spirit. And all their history, with its folk-wanderings its empires, its philosophies, its proud sciences, its social revolutions, its increasing hunger for community, was but a flicker in one day of the lives of stars.” Olaf Stapledon, Star Maker (New York: Berkley Medallion, 1953), 13. 10. Lovecraft, “Through the Gates of the Silver Key,” 399. 11. Joshi, “Introduction,” ix. 12. Lovecraft, “The Call of Cthulhu,” 201. 13. Freud’s paper on the uncanny (unheimlich) was first published in 1919. There he notes that the uncanny “belongs to all that is terrible—to all that arouses dread and creeping horror” (1), which certainly resonates with Lovecraft’s own description of the experience of encountering these nameless horrors. Freud, drawing upon Jentsch’s previous work on the topic, defines the uncanny (unheimlich) as that which is unfamiliar (the opposite, that is, of heimlich, the “familiar” [3]). But Freud notes it is more than just some rudimentary fear of the unknown but a deeper and subtler unsettledness. “Unheimlich,” Freud concludes, “is in some way or other a sub-species of heimlich” (4), that is, the unfamiliar within the familiar, resulting in a cognitive dissonance that forces the observer to reject, rather than rationalize, this sudden incongruity. Sigmund Freud, “The Uncanny,” trans. Alix Strachey, Imago 5 (1919). In Lovecraft’s iconic tale At the Mountains of Madness, for example, the expedition encounters geometric formations that simply cannot be purposeful constructs of intelligent life in a place and from a time that all their accumulated knowledge heretofore would suggest is older than any civilization that could have possibly existed, and thus these visual experiences are rejected, time and again, as mere mirage, mere trick of the light, yet nevertheless arousing, in Freud’s own idiom, “dread and creeping horror.” Note Lovecraft’s own language here: “[I]t was as if these stark, nightmare spires marked the pylons of a frightful gateway into forbidden spheres of dream. . . . I could not help feeling that they were evil things.” H. P. Lovecraft, At the Mountains of Madness and Other Tales of Horror (New York: Del Rey, 2007), 29. And again, here, as reference to the “uncanny” is made explicit: “[B]ut it was the mountainside tangle of regular cubes, ramparts, and cave mouths which fascinated and disturbed us most . . . their regularity was extreme and uncanny to an extent which poor Lake had scarcely hinted” (42). 14. Lovecraft, like many of the horrors he depicts, manages to escape total capture within the structured confines of the horror literary genre. Playing off of Farah Mendelsohn’s taxonomy of fantasy fiction (see Farah Mendelsohn’s Rhetorics of Fantasy [Middletown, CT: Wesleyan University Press, 2008]), Lovecraft skirts between (or, perhaps, merges both) “intrusive fantasy,” where entities from another world or dimension intrude upon our own, resulting in awe or horror not unlike the experience of, perhaps, the Kantian sublime (see Immanual Kant’s Critique of Judgment, Book II: The Analytic of the Sublime [Indianapolis, IN: Hackett, 1987]), and “liminal fantasy,” wherein we watch, only out of the periphery of our gaze, a kind of Freudian “uncanny” in fleeting patches that instill us with a sense of unease or, on occasion, outright dread, like the conclusion of At the Mountains of Madness, where the briefest “half glimpse” back at the horror that pursued our protagonists, a “flash of semi-vision” was enough to haunt them for the rest of their lives, a glimpse, however fleeting, of this “thing that should not be.” Lovecraft, At the Mountains of Madness and Other Tales of Terror, 103–4. 15. Lovecraft, “The Dunwich Horror,” in Jones, Necronomicon, 279. 16. Graham Harman, Weird Realism: Lovecraft and Philosophy (Washington, DC: Zero Books, 2012), 25. 17. Lovecraft, “Through the Gates of the Silver Key,” 399. 18. “As Lovecraft’s work progressed, he himself began eschewing traditional supernaturalism more and more. He had, in fact, never used such conventional tropes as the vampire, the ghost, or the werewolf,” Joshi, “Introduction,” xii. A Nameless Horror 101 19. Poststructuralism, speaking in general terms, rose to prominence in the 1960s and 1970s, spearheaded by philosophers such as Jean-Francois Lyotard, Julia Kristeva, Michel Foucault, Jacques Derrida, and Gilles Deleuze; I will be discussing Deleuze in some detail throughout this chapter. It is important to keep in mind, however, that unlike other philosophical schools such as existentialism or phenomenology (and even here there are challenges pinning down a core pantheon of thinkers or universally accepted themes within the traditions), poststructuralism has a far more amorphous contingent of thinkers, many of whom reject the label entirely. 20. Lovecraft, “The Unnamable,” in Jones, Necronomicon, 128. 21. Ibid. 22. Ibid. 23. Ibid., 129. 24. Ibid. 25. Ibid. 26. Mélanie Walton, Expressing the Inexpressible in Lyotard and Pseudo-Dionysius: Bearing Witness as Spiritual Exercise (New York: Lexington, 2013), 1. 27. Harman, Weird Realism, 3. 28. Ibid., 16. 29. Ibid. 30. Ibid. 31. Ibid., 17. 32. Ibid. 33. Ibid. 34. Lovecraft, Collected Essays, Vol. 2, Literary Criticism (New York: Hippocampus Press, 2004), 179, cited in Harmon, Weird Realism, 21–22. 35. Harman, Weird Realism, 22. 36. Ibid. 37. The way Harman describes this phenomenon is not altogether dissimilar from a kind of Heideggerian phenomenology of “unconcealment” that might provide an interesting way of reading Lovecraft’s technique of simultaneously creating clarity of meaning while undermining it. For Heidegger, phenomological experience takes place within a “clearing” (Lichtung), a space that allows for the “unconcealment” (Aletheia) of that which is experienced. As Heidegger notes, “[I]n that clearing rests possible radiance, that is, the possible presencing of presence itself.” Martin Heidegger, selections from Being and Time, trans. Joan Stambaugh, in Basic Writings, ed. David Krell (San Francisco: HarperCollins, 1993), 445. Yet, Heidegger notes, “only what aletheai as clearing grants is experienced and thought, not what it is as such” (448). There is a remainder to that which is unconcealed, the “what it is” in itself is concealed just as it is revealed, “the clearing of presence concealing itself, the clearing of a self-concealing sheltering” (448). As Large notes, for Heidegger, “things are present to me because they are meaningful, but they are only meaningful because they have their place within the overall context of my world.” William Large, Heidegger’s “Being and Time” (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2008), 65. For Lovecraft, that which is unconcealed in his protagonists’ phenomenological experience of some nameless horror or another is that which can be reconciled by the protagonists as meaningful within the context of their world (clarity of meaning is given) while, concurrently, that which cannot be reconciled within the context of their world remains concealed (clarity of meaning is undercut). In part this helps address Lovecraft’s literary technique, as seen in the description of Wilbur Whateley (see earlier), where the language used to describe the phenomenon is within the context of the protagonists world and the remainder must only ever be a gesture, allusion, or hint as to what more remains concealed of that particular experience, immediately drawing our attention to the inadequacy of any description the protagonists may give. 38. Harman, Weird Realism, 28. 39. Lovecraft, “The Silver Key,” in Jones, Necronomicon, 294. 40. Ibid. 41. Ibid. 42. Ibid. 102 Clancy Smith 43. “Wonder had gone away . . . they had chained him down to things that are, and had then explained the workings of those things till mystery had gone out of the world.” Ibid. 44. Ibid. 45. This movement took on form and momentum in the early 1920s through a group known as the Vienna Circle, spearheaded by figures such as Rudolf Carnap and Moritz Schlick, with similar movements expanding swiftly across Europe including figures such as Carl Hempel and A. J. Ayer. 46. Carter (and Lovecraft), occupying a New England setting, may have been exposed to a modicum of American pragmatism as well, the founding fathers of that tradition having formed the so-called Metaphysical Club in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Although the early scholars of that movement operated along relatively similar lines as their positivist counterparts, they were always quick to critique positivism as being far too reductionistic, and Carter might have enjoyed influences of the great German mystic Emanuel Swedenborg that irrevocably infiltrated the thought of both Charles S. Peirce and, to a far greater degree, his friend William James, two of the founding members of this Metaphysical Club. Or, as Graham Harman convincingly argues, exposure to the phenomenology of Husserl and Heidegger may have also served Carter well. 47. Lovecraft, “The Silver Key,” 254. 48. Ibid., 254–55. 49. Ibid., 255. 50. Ibid., 256. 51. Ibid. 52. Ibid. 53. Ibid., 257. 54. Ibid. 55. The main thrust of “Geology of Morals,” the third “sequential” chapter of A Thousand Plateaus. 56. Paul Patton’s Deleuze and the Political clearly articulates Deleuze’s anti-Platonism. 57. “In effect, the body without organs is itself the plane of consistency.” Gilles Deleuze and Félix Guattari, A Thousand Plateaus, trans. Brian Massumi (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2007), 40. 58. Ibid. 59. For the sake of contrast, “[Deleuze and Guattari] oppose trees to rhizomes, but also point out that any actual system is always subject to intensive forces moving it in the opposite direction. In other words, the roots of trees (hierarchies) are always beset by rhizomatic growths, while rhizomes (consistencies) are always prone to take root and develop centralizing hierarchies. (Technically speaking, however, there is no exact contrast, as the root-tree is a model for tracing development on a plane of organization or transcendence, while a rhizome is ‘an immanent process’ constantly constructing a plane of consistency.” Mark Bonta and John Protevi, Deleuze and Geophilosophy (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2006), 52–53. 60. Eugene Thacker, After Life (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2010), 2. 61. Lovecraft, At the Mountains of Madness, 22. 62. Deleuze and Guattari, A Thousand Plateaus, 8. 63. Ibid. 64. Bonta and Protevi, Deleuze and Geophilosophy, 136. 65. Lovecraft, At the Mountains of Madness, 64. 66. Ibid., 69. 67. Deleuze and Guattari, A Thousand Plateaus, 257–58. 68. As Bonta and Protevi note, “[A] prime example of a becoming is the wasp-orchid. The orchid becomes necessary to the life of the wasp and vice versa: what is primary is the new assemblage, the wasp-orchid machine. The becoming of wasp-orchid does not have a subject separate from itself: it’s not that the wasp, say, stays the same and merely adds a new property to the set of properties that defines it. Nor is there a goal . . . distinct from the block of becoming, for the other in the pair is also changed by its entry into the new assemblage. . . . It is also important to remember that a becoming is a combination of heterogeneous parts; it is an alliance rather than a filiation, an ‘unnatural participation,’ a ‘marriage against nature,’ a A Nameless Horror 103 ‘transversal communication’” (Deleuze and Geophilosophy, 59). “Unnatural participation” and “a marriage against nature” are terms used by Deleuze and Guattari in the chapter “BecomingIntense, Becoming Animal,” and echo precisely the same language Lovecraft’s scientifically minded protagonists use in their description of the eldritch, unnatural, and impossible fusions of both animal and plant. Of course, the analogy is a loose one, as the wasp-orchid is a singular assemblage or “block of becoming,” but two distinct entities on the plane of organization (that is to say, two “organisms”), whereas only a singular organism exists in Lovecraft. Nevertheless, the animal components, Lovecraft notes, influence the development of the plant organs, and vice versa, forming an internal symbiosis of two otherwise entirely distinct and divergent taxonomical strains. 69. Deleuze and Guattari, A Thousand Plateaus, 160–61. 70. Ibid., 248. 71. Ibid., 158. 72. Ibid., 153. 73. Ibid., 240. 74. Ibid., 73–74. 75. Thacker, After Life, 3. 76. Ibid. 77. Ibid. 78. Ibid. Chapter Seven Great Phallic Monoliths Lovecraft and Sexuality Bobby Derie Lovecraft is not the sort of writer, or person, to look at his own stories and say: “Aha! My male creatures are always horribly deformed below the waist, they worship great phallic monoliths dripping with green liquid, and there is never a whisper of sex in my stories! I wonder if there is a connection?” Lovecraft’s awareness of the displacement of sexuality in his fictions—like Poe’s of his obsessive sex–death nexus—seems nonexistent and consequently untransformed. 1 So wrote Victoria Nelson in her estimation of Lovecraft. The details are inaccurate, but the idea is common: there is no sex in H. P. Lovecraft’s fiction, and this absence is the result of Lovecraft’s prudishness or neuroses regarding sexuality and the female gender. The truth is more complicated; Lovecraft was a sexual being, who expanded his knowledge and experience of sexuality in at least some small degree during his lifetime, and his understanding of sexuality found expression in his fiction—in his use of female characters, in his depiction of romantic relationships, and in his use of weird sex as a mechanism for the intrusion of the strange in his stories. Our understanding of H. P. Lovecraft’s fiction is in part colored by our understanding of the man himself; by examining the different interpretations of Lovecraft’s sexuality, we can gain more insight into his fiction. In part because of the common misconceptions regarding Lovecraft and sex, a number of different views of Lovecraft’s sexuality have emerged in the critical literature. While biographical details would tend to support a view of Lovecraft as essentially heterosexual, other interpretations of Lovecraft’s sexuality can be valuable for understanding particular critical interpretations 105 106 Bobby Derie of Lovecraft’s fiction, and in some cases for specific fictional characterizations of Lovecraft that are based on these views of his sexuality. This chapter will look at the four most common interpretations of Lovecraft’s sexuality, positing four “faces” of his life and personality. 2 THE ASEXUAL LOVECRAFT In Lovecraft’s fictional universe . . . life is a festering disease that, given its contagious sexual properties, must be contained and endured. This may account for the often-noted fact of Lovecraft’s seeming asexuality and the asexual nature of his works in general. The individual solution remains chastity and continence, but the force of attraction is often too great even for the stoic—as Lovecraft himself discovered when he suddenly married Sonia Haft Greene. . . . The gods themselves are not immune to desire, since HPL’s works (in particular, “The Dunwich Horror”) deal repeatedly with cosmic monsters spawning and breeding uncontrollably, using human females only as convenient vessels for their cosmic lust, ostensibly as a means of reclaiming a lost domain. Zeus descends not as a shower of gold but as a color out of space. 3 There is considerable justification for scholars and biographers to describe Lovecraft as asexual. By Lovecraft’s own admission, his sexual drive was low, 4 and outside of his brief marriage he seems to have led an essentially chaste existence, without any other sexual relationship, nor any real stated desire for one. Lovecraft recognized this aspect of himself and may have combined self-observation with his racial views in describing “our savage blond forefathers as erotically sluggish & extremely chaste.” 5 An apt description of Lovecraft himself, as he wrote in a letter to J. Vernon Shea in 1931: “In these transitional days the luckiest persons are those of sluggish eroticism who can cast aside the whole muddled business & watch the squirming of the primitive majority with ironic detachment.” 6 For all that he was personally somewhat prudish about sex and disliked talking about it for its own sake, Lovecraft did talk about sex from a scientific or artistic perspective—as evidenced in his letters, he corresponded with many fans, amateur and professional writers, and editors over the years as the subject came up, and he proved willing and able to discuss it, particularly where it concerned literary interests, such as certain of his letters to J. Vernon Shea, 7 Clark Ashton Smith, 8 R. H. Barlow, 9 and August Derleth, to whom Lovecraft wrote, “[F]or although I detest all sexual irregularities in life itself, as violations of a certain harmony which seems to me inseparable from highgrade living, I have a scientific approval of perfect realism in the artistic delineation of life.” 10 With this image of the asexual Lovecraft in mind, critics may reflect on the instances of asexual reproduction that Lovecraft wrote into the mythos, through alien races like the plant-like Old Ones from At the Mountains of Great Phallic Monoliths 107 Madness and the body-hopping Great Race of Yith from “The Shadow out of Time”; more obscurely through the contamination of “The Colour out of Space,” the sorcerous displacement by Joseph Curwen in The Case of Charles Dexter Ward, and Ephraim Waite in “The Thing on the Doorstep”; and somewhat more ambiguously through entities of indeterminate sexuality such as the shoggoths and Cthulhu, whose octopoid spawn are mentioned in At the Mountains of Madness. Likewise should be considered the ghoul Richard Upton Pickman of “Pickman’s Model” and The Dream-Quest of Unknown Kadath, who is hinted to be a changeling entity who spent part of his life as a human and part of his life as a ghoul. Lovecraft’s deliberate use of asexual reproduction in his fiction stands in contrast to the often-present but implicit sexual reproduction discussed earlier; in these stories Lovecraft does not simply hide the sexual act but removes it entirely, while retaining the reproductive impulse—the ability and desire to continue the species or the self in new form—in a number of different methods derived from his readings in science (the Elder Things’ spores) and scientification (mind-transfer). Bruce Lord posits Lovecraft’s repeated use of asexual reproduction as a direct outgrowth of his own views toward sexuality, biological determinism, and generational degeneration: Lovecraft’s fiction is rife with examples of societies and individuals that propagate themselves using means other than sexual reproduction, and are thus able to circumvent the pitfalls of degeneration. Not as surprisingly, in the majority of these instances, asexual reproduction is cast by Lovecraft as a preferable and more “advanced” or “superior” means of propagating a species (by this point it should be clear that terms such as “advanced” and “degenerate” hold a great deal of currency in Lovecraft’s descriptions of his creations when positioned against the seemingly inescapable path of degeneration that plagues humanity). In “At the Mountains of Madness” and “The Shadow out of Time,” Lovecraft continues his agenda of supplanting assumptions of humanocentricism by envisioning societies capable of operating without the detrimental effects of sexuality. Additionally, in “The Thing on the Doorstep,” Lovecraft presents us with one of his most complex tales with regards to sex, gender, and attempts at circumventing the perils of reproduction via sexual means. 11 As a parallel thought, consider Lovecraft’s “Herbert West—Reanimator,” a gruesome update and revisitation of the central element in Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein. The creation of Frankenstein’s monster has been considered a masturbatory fantasy in some respects: the idea of man creating life without a woman. 12 One possible reading of “Reanimator,” and by extension Lovecraft’s other cases of asexual reproduction, may be considered in a similar light. Slightly more difficult cases for consideration are Lovecraft’s asexual and ambiguously sexual mythos entities, such as Cthulhu, Shub-Niggurath, 108 Bobby Derie ghouls, and night-gaunts. Many of these are not given any explicit gender or sexual identity in any of the tales, and their alien anatomy, when described, lacks details of genitals or secondary sexual characteristics like breasts. Most of the mythos entities are sexless as far as the Lovecraft Mythos is concerned, save for those who prove some sexual ability by procreating with humanity (Yig, Yog-Sothoth, the Deep Ones) or in cases where the reproductive habits of the entire society (Elder Things, the Great Race, and the inhabitants of K’n-yan) are dealt with in some detail. The “default” gender for many of these entities in common use is, by general convention of the English language, given to be male (i.e., marked by the masculine pronouns he, him, his); Lovecraft is not averse to using the gender-neutral they or it as occasion warrants, but when describing Great Cthulhu, for example, the use of the masculine indeterminate is much more prevalent. In stories with asexual alien races, Lovecraft did not avoid the concept of family or social organization, as noted by S. T. Joshi: It is a fact of no small interest that all three of Lovecraft’s comparatively utopian societies have done away with sex in the normal human fashion. This is understandable in the cases of the Great Race and the Old Ones, since both these races are totally non-human in biology and could thus hardly propagate like humans. Both reproduce by spores; consequently there is little place for family life in the two civilizations. 13 The surveys of civilization for both the Great Race and the Old Ones, for example, both contain accounts of the alternative social structures. The two systems are interesting to contrast with Lovecraft’s sole advanced alien civilization that utilized sexual reproduction—the populace of K’n-yan from “The Mound” (ghostwritten for Zealia Brown Reed Bishop) with its old hereditary lines mostly forgotten, the populace divided into nonfamilial “affection groups.” Nowhere in these societies is there room for romantic love as humans understand it, even absent the need or desire for sexual attraction, but the focus on mental congeniality and mutual affection strongly recalls Lovecraft’s expressed opinions in his letters and supports Joshi’s contention, “That Lovecraft was essentially reflecting his own social views when writing such passages is obvious from the manifestly sympathetic tone in which the passages are written.” 14 It is a question for the reader as to whether the lack of family structure and freedom from sex (or at least, sexual mores) better demonstrates the evolution of these entities, their alienness from humanity, or the asexual Lovecraft. These societies obviously do not reflect Lovecraft’s upbringing— but then again, they may reflect something of his adult life, when his biological family narrowed and he found amicable and mutual nonsexual affection with a surrogate family. More, it may reflect something of Lovecraft’s own understanding of eugenics and his fears of passing on the undesirable traits Great Phallic Monoliths 109 that he had inherited; it is notable that both of Lovecraft’s parents passed away in mental institutions, and the collation of genetic inheritance and institutionalization forms a recurring aspect in stories such as “The Shadow over Innsmouth,” “Facts Concerning the Late Arthur Jermyn and His Family,” and The Case of Charles Dexter Ward. THE HETEROSEXUAL LOVECRAFT The general facts of Lovecraft’s life support the view that he was heterosexual, at least insofar as he expressed (however obliquely) his sexual attraction to women and was married and consummated his marriage to a woman. Even in this context, however, the ex–Mrs. Lovecraft wrote that Lovecraft had great difficulty in expressing his desires: I believe he loved me as much as it was possible for a temperament like his to love. He never mentioned the word love. He would say instead “My dear, you don’t know how much I appreciate you.” I tried to understand him and was grateful for any crumbs from his lips that fell my way. 15 “No, my dear,” he would say, “if you leave me, I shall never marry again. You do not realize how much I appreciate you.” 16 Joshi claims that Lovecraft’s “extreme restraint in displays of affection” was a product of his sexual repression and general upbringing. 17 Whatever the case, already separated, Lovecraft and Sonia did eventually proceed through the divorce process, under the fictitious grounds that Sonia had deserted her husband. Lovecraft failed to sign the final decree, and he and Sonia remained legally married until Lovecraft’s death. Biographers and friends of Lovecraft were generally critical of the marriage—the difference of age, financial position, ethnicity (Sonia was a Ukrainian emigrant of Jewish descent), and disposition are substantial hurdles for any couple to overcome. The best that can be said is there was a mutual attraction between the two: for a time at least, Lovecraft was in love. In considering the heterosexual Lovecraft, it is interesting to see how his quintessentially monogamous, heterosexual relationship is reflected in his fiction. Indeed, all the romantic relationships within Lovecraft’s fiction are heterosexual and essentially trend toward this norm. The best examples come from the two lovers’ triangles of a sort in Lovecraft’s revisions—“The Man of Stone” and “Medusa’s Coil”—where the attractions felt are never consummated. Though the “bad girl” Marceline Bedard attempts a physical affair and is rebuffed, while “good girl” Rose is sorely tempted by her growing love for a man other than her husband, both stories end with the women in question dead. In other stories, the evidence for promiscuity is even slighter: T’la-yub of “The Mound” is part of a polyamorous society, but specifically 110 Bobby Derie develops a monogamous, heterosexual inclination, and Lavinia Whateley, though described as slatternly, is never romantically attached with any particular male figure. The majority of Lovecraft’s other females are in monogamous heterosexual relationships, with extramarital sex only occurring due to rape. Of all these characters, none attempt to maintain affections with two separate male characters at the same time—Marceline Bedard and Rose both turn their attentions from their husbands, T’la-yub abandons her affectiongroup for her conquistador, Anastasia Wolejko is not listed with any other “friends,” and Lavinia Whateley shows no other interaction outside her family. If those characters given here might be considered “promiscuous” by Lovecraft’s standards, it is unclear if they are singled out for unusual punishment in this regard; terrible things happen to many characters in the Lovecraft Mythos regardless of gender, and the deaths of Marceline Bedard and Rose are no more horrific than the rape and madness of Audrey Davis. Even in the cases of Bedard and Rose, the cause of their deaths were the occult forces pervading their lives as much as the instance of their attempts at or temptation to have an affair. THE HOMOSEXUAL LOVECRAFT Others have surmised that he might have been a homosexual or at least a latent one. They have cited his indifference to heterosexual relationships; the lack of women in his stories, whose leading characters are often a single male narrator and one close male friend; and his many friendships with younger men, some of whom either were overt homosexuals or had tendencies in that direction. 18 The idea has some currency, particularly among homosexual fans of Lovecraft’s fiction, who themselves have faced alienation for an aspect of themselves they cannot change and see the parallels to their experience in Lovecraft’s fiction, as well as among biographers and critics seeking to explain Lovecraft’s general lack of perceived sexual attraction to females in his life and fiction. 19 In his published letters Lovecraft has relatively few direct mentions of homosexuality: So far as the case of homosexualism goes, the primary & vital objection against it is that it is naturally (physically & instinctively—not merely “morally” or aesthetically) repugnant to the overwhelming bulk of mankind—including all cultures except the few (the ancient Orient, Persia, post-Homeric Greece) in which strongly inculcated artificial traditions have temporarily overcome in nature. There’s nothing “moral” in the adverse feeling. For instance—I hate both physically normal adultery (which is contemptible sneaking treachery) & paederasty—but while I might enjoy (physically) or be tempted toward adultery, I simply could not consider the abnormal state with- Great Phallic Monoliths 111 out physical nausea. Even excessive psychological sentimentality betwixt members of the same sex has for the average healthy person a repulsion varying from a sense of the ridiculous to a feeling-of-disgust. 20 Lovecraft’s earliest reference to actual homosexuals concerns his meeting Gordon Hatfield and Hart Crane. 21 S. T. Joshi suggests Hatfield may have been the first openly homosexual individual Lovecraft ever met, which would go some way toward explaining his reaction—although if this is the case, Lovecraft’s opinion appears entirely based on “sissy” (feminine, perhaps “camp gay”) behavior. 22 A subsequent letter on the encounter with Hatfield replaces the neuter “it” with the equally sexless “creature,” but the primary focus of the sexually derogatory comments in these letters is on Lovecraft’s belief in the effeminate nature of homosexual men. 23 Lovecraft had a much better reaction to Hart Crane: “Crane has at least the external appearance and actions of a man, and for that much Alfredus respected him.” 24 Joshi suggests Lovecraft did not know Hart Crane was a homosexual, which is why he fared better in Lovecraft letters than Hatfield. 25 Conversely, Frank Belknap Long reportedly confided in Peter Cannon that “Howard and the rest knew of it, but that didn’t affect their friendship with Crane.” 26 Whether Lovecraft was aware of Hart Crane’s homosexuality or not, Crane’s masculine appearance and behavior apparently saved him from Lovecraft’s jibes. Whatever the case, there is no other hint of Crane’s sexuality in Lovecraft’s other letters, nor in the few volumes of Crane’s letters is it mentioned Lovecraft ever insulted him in that regard. More tellingly, Lovecraft is not known to have identified any of his homosexual friends such as Samuel Loveman or R. H. Barlow as such. One letter to J. Vernon Shea goes into some depth, connecting the idea of gender identity with sexual identity: As a matter of fact—although of course I always knew that paederasty was a disgusting custom of many ancient nations—I never heard of homosexuality as an actual instinct till I was over thirty. . . . Of course—in ancient times the extent of the practice of paederasty (as a custom which most simply accepted blindly, without any special inclination) cannot be taken as any measure of the extent of actual psychological perversion. Another thing—many nowadays overlook the fact that there are always distinctly effeminate types which are most distinctly not homosexual. I don’t know how psychology explains them, but we all know the sort of damned sissy who plays with girls & who—when he grows up—is a chronic “cake-eater,” hanging around girls, doting on dances, acquiring certain feminine mannerisms, intonations, & tastes, & yet never having even the slightest perversion of erotic inclinations. 27 Lovecraft’s comment “I never heard of homosexuality as an actual instinct till I was over thirty” is clarified in another letter. 28 It is possible that 112 Bobby Derie Lovecraft was first exposed to the notion of instinctive homosexuality while studying up to be a husband—several sexologists addressed homosexuality in their works, including Havelock Ellis and J. A. Symonds’s Sexual Inversions (1897). Reading in the same area is also the probable source of Lovecraft’s choice of determining homosexuality a “psychological perversion”— at that time, the leading literature described it exactly as such. Lovecraft wrote little about homosexuality among women—though he was certainly aware of the concept of lesbianism, as he mentions it in passing with regard to a literary work in a 1931 letter to R. H. Barlow. 29 As with male homosexuality, Lovecraft confused sexual identity with gender identity and behaviors, as when he wrote: “There are too, undoubtedly, many masculine women whose masculine manners & outlook are equally free from actual homosexuality.” 30 Given the majority of male characters in Lovecraft’s fiction, often close friends and acquaintances who work closely together and are intimate in confessing details of their lives and family histories, as seen for example between the narrator and Edward Derby in “The Thing on the Doorstep,” or Frank Marsh and Denis de Russy in “The Mound,” the reader may receive the impression of an implicit homosexual subtext. On their face, these friendships between Lovecraft’s male characters appear chaste and platonic, harkening to similar literary same-sex friendships and partnerships that Lovecraft was aware of and would have drawn from, notably Phillipps and Dyson, Arthur Machen’s pseudo-detectives from The Three Impostors, “The Shining Pyramid,” and “The Red Hand,” and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson—and from Lovecraft’s many own long and nonsexual friendships with men. That some of Lovecraft’s friends were themselves homosexuals does not detract from this interpretation. Whether or not they have a conscious or subconscious homosexual context, the interpretation of some of the Lovecraft Mythos as allegorical to homosexual experience is valid and worthy of consideration. 31 Consider a simple allegorical interpretation of “The Shadow over Innsmouth” as a journey of self-discovery for a closeted homosexual, exposed for the first time to a homosexual community fearful of persecution, asserting his heterosexuality by exposing them, and then discovering and finally embracing his own sexuality. Of course, a more negative reading of the same story may combine it with suggestions of sexually transmitted disease and degeneration. Several stories in the Lovecraft Mythos can be similarly interpreted in this manner, such as “The Loved Dead”: replacing homosexuality for necrophilia, this collaboration between Lovecraft and C. M. Eddy Jr. very much follows the narrative of a closeted homosexual who discovers his orientation at puberty and is unwilling or unable to express his desires in public, lives a furtive life seeking pleasures on the down-low, and is constantly afraid of discovery and repercussions by the authorities (which is especially appropri- Great Phallic Monoliths 113 ate given the time, when sodomy was still illegal in much of the United States). Schultz in his article “On ‘The Loved Dead’” also notes, “When the narrator describes his love for the dead, Lovecraft uses alliteration to indicate the narrator’s growing excitement. Lovecraft’s poignant sense of what he called ‘expectancy’ is transformed into a bizarre parody of sexual anticipation.” 32 The general character of the protagonist is familiar to Lovecraft’s readers, since the basic archetype appears in several of his stories: the unnamed, obsessive, and sensual seeker of the macabre is prominent in both “The Lurking Fear” and “The Hound.” It is tempting to look for aspects of Lovecraft’s own character and history reflected in that of the unnamed narrator, even elements of his own sexuality, and the bare bones are there—the sickly childhood, the death of grandfather and parents—but the details are wrong, and it is probably best not to read too much into the character. For completeness I should mention “The Trap,” written by Henry S. Whitehead and revised by Lovecraft. An unorthodox reading of this tale may suggest a homoerotic subtext in the close relationship between a schoolboy and his male teacher, and the image and associated sensations given for penetrating to the other side of the mirror as a metaphor for anal sex. THE TRANSSEXUAL LOVECRAFT As a very young boy Lovecraft went about in skirts, and his mother, Susie— whom is said by Sonia to have wanted a daughter—had him in gowns and grew his hair out into long, girlish locks until about the age of six, and he had a tendency to insist at that young age “I’m a little girl!” 33 Such an outburst may make slightly more context given Lovecraft’s extremely young age, and the possible innocent encouragement of his mother: “My mother innocently helped to swell my self-esteem by recording all my ‘cute’ childish sayings, and I began to make these ‘naive’ remarks on purpose to draw attention.” 34 Long locks and going unbreeched were fairly typical practices for children of Lovecraft’s age at those times and probably should not be used as examples of transsexuality. After his hair was shorn and he began to wear pants, there is no material in his letters or biography to suggest that Lovecraft ever identified as female. Still, as with the homosexual Lovecraft, the transsexual Lovecraft strikes a chord with some readers because of the implicit sense of alienation that could have found expression through Lovecraft’s fiction. 35 More directly, the idea of a transsexual Lovecraft dovetails with one of the most evocative stories in Lovecraft’s oeuvre: “The Thing on the Doorstep.” While Lovecraft does not explore the more lascivious possibilities of gender swapping (aside from a single suggestion), the entire crux of the story 114 Bobby Derie depends on Asenath/Ephraim’s desire to change gender. Indeed, “The Thing on the Doorstep” is the only story in Lovecraft’s fiction where gender becomes a major issue for discussion. The crux of the story revolves around the fact that while the body of Asenath is female, the consciousness that drives that body is male—that of Ephraim Waite: What do we make of this man-concealing womanly exterior, this woman in whom—the interiority here is clearly suggestive of the fact that Ephraim has “raped” his daughter in the most extreme way, usurping her very mental identity; he is illicitly inside her—in whom lurks a concealed male presence? 36 The confusion of gender explains certain odd behaviors, such as when Asenath “would frighten her schoolmates with leers and winks of an inexplicable kind, and would seem to extract an obscene and zestful irony from her present situation” at an all-girls school. 37 Ephraim had taken on his daughter’s body to extend his existence, but once in that body became aware of certain esoteric limitations: “Her crowning rage, however, was that she was not a man; since she believed a male brain had certain unique and farreaching cosmic powers. Given a man’s brain, she declared, she could not only equal but surpass her father in mastery of unknown forces.” 38 Joshi is quick to note that this passage is not quite as openly misogynistic as it appears, and he quotes a 1934 letter by Lovecraft to show that Lovecraft believed in a difference in kind of intelligence rather than degree: “The feminine mind does not cover the same territory as the masculine, but is probably little if any inferior in total quality.” 39 A similarly easy-to-mistake sentiment is voiced in the passage “She wanted to be a man—to be fully human—that was why she had got hold of him.” 40 It is to be remembered that Asenath’s physical body is only halfhuman, the mother by inference a Deep One—this causing Burleson to note, “No feminist critic need see in this any remark to the effect that a woman’s humanity is in question.” 41 When the dual nature of the character is intuited by Edward Derby, his confusion over the true “gender” of his wife causes such confusion—“‘I’ll kill her if she ever sends me there again. . . . I’ll kill that entity . . . her, him, it . . . I’ll kill it! I’ll kill it with my own hands!’”—that he is forced to declare Asenath/Ephraim without gender, a neuter “it.” 42 This issue of gender language is reinforced elsewhere in the story, as the narrative drives the reader to identify Ephraim/Asenath less as a human being—with the revelation of Asenath’s Innsmouth blood—and finally to recognize “it” as an inhuman “thing,” left lying on a doorstep. The literal reversal of gender suggests the reversal of typical gender roles in Lovecraft’s marriage. In her own testament Sonia claims to have been deferential in many matters, but it is a sad fact that Lovecraft’s inability to Great Phallic Monoliths 115 secure work in New York made her the sole income for the couple—in an era when the husband typically provided for the wife. That Sonia was aware of his possible feelings of emasculation is made clear in her own account: I effaced myself entirely and deferred to him upon all matters and domestic problems regardless of what they were in order to remove or reduce if possible some of the complexes he might have had. Even to the spending of my own earned money I not only consulted him but tried to make him feel that he was the “Head of the House.” 43 Despite this assertion, Sonia was undoubtedly the dominant force in the relationship—the one who pushed for both their marriage and their divorce, and who always precipitated sex. Whether Lovecraft consciously drew on his relationship or not, the reversal of cultural gender roles in Lovecraft and Sonia’s marriage may well have inspired the literal assumption of the position (and body) of the incapable Edward by the masterly and domineering Asenath. It is relatively easy to consider “The Thing on the Doorstep” an early example of transgender or transsexual speculative fiction—if not a particularly sympathetic one, given that the transformations and relationships are forced and possessive, the masculine warring to overcome or escape from the feminine. Yet the eternal interest for this tale lies in the questions that naturally arise from the gender-bending or body-switching about the sexuality and gender identities of Derby and “Asenath.” Joshi asks, “If, as the story suggests, Lovecraft regarded the mind or personality (rather than the body) as the essence of an individual, is this marriage homosexual?” 44 A few more questions assert themselves. Asenath’s body may be biologically female, but the mind or soul that drives it is male—and carries with it stereotypical male attitudes and behaviors. Does that make Asenath a prototypical transgender character? If “she” considers herself male and had sex with the male Derby, does that make “her” homosexual or bisexual? What does Derby feel about the situation, particularly when he is literally emasculated, transposed into his wife’s body for a period of time—and how much of what Asenath did in Derby’s body would countenance sexual abuse? While never addressed, the possibility that Asenath-in-Derby’s body had relations with Derby-in-Asenath’s body is also a possibility. Finally, what to make of all these questions with regard to what we know of Lovecraft? Of his friends, his mother, his marriage? These are questions without definitive answers; Lovecraft is dead and his letters are silent as to particulars. What is left is speculation and interpretation—but such questions go unasked and unanswered in the story itself. Probably it was a deliberate aesthetic choice. Lovecraft was surely versed in marriage rites and knew more of sexuality and homosexuals at that point 116 Bobby Derie than ever before in his life. To make no mention of it, but not provide some narrative escape mechanism for the marriage bed, would be perfectly in keeping with the idea that a gentleman simply does not discuss certain subjects. Possibly it was an omission of the mind: Lovecraft was so far removed from thinking about intercourse that he wrote the story without giving the gender-bending implications any consideration beyond the hideous facts behind the survival of the Ephraim intellect. The result is what it is: a threshold of speculation crossed by many later scholars, critics, readers, and authors. CONCLUSION Considering the different “faces” of Lovecraft’s sexuality casts his use of gender and character relationships in sharp relief, which may provide valuable insight into the stories and characters—the prevalence of asexual reproduction in his advanced alien civilizations, for example, takes on very different implications if considered from the perspectives of each face. Likewise, there are specific interpretations of Lovecraft and his fiction where an understanding of the different faces is useful for parsing a given depiction of him or his work, such as in the 2007 film Cthulhu, where the stressful homecoming of the homosexual protagonist parallels in many respects the “otherness” experienced by the narrator of “The Shadow over Innsmouth,” on which it is based. 45 The key to the four faces of Lovecraft is the acceptance that Lovecraft was a sexual being and that there is—or could be—a sexual dimension to his work. A writer’s intent cannot be gleaned through his or her works; it can only be construed and interpreted. In this way, many readers have made a mirror of Lovecraft’s fiction, finding their own values reflected in it. In looking at the four faces of Lovecraft’s sexuality, it is important to distinguish the biographical facts from the literary supposition. For most of his life Lovecraft lived a chaste existence, and his one confirmed episode of sexual behavior was his marriage to Sonia Haft Greene, after which he returned to a genteel and sexless bachelordom—so the predominant scholarly views of Lovecraft see him as heterosexual or asexual; relatively few scholars have expressed the opinion that H. P. Lovecraft was homosexual or transsexual. Yet to the reader, there is sufficient ambiguity that the scholarly positions on Lovecraft’s life need not determine their understanding of his fiction; it is possible to read interpretations of Lovecraft’s fiction from the standpoint of different sexualities, without ignoring the facts of his life, and those readings are no less correct than any other. Which is not to say that Lovecraft himself drew any conscious distinction regarding which face he turned to the story when writing any individual piece of fiction; there is no evidence that he ever consciously considered his Great Phallic Monoliths 117 sexuality in that matter, nor are there any distinct phases in his fiction where one face appears more often than any other. Indeed, there are stories like “The Outsider,” which can be, and have been, interpreted in terms of both the homosexual Lovecraft and the transsexual Lovecraft; 46 both of which are valid interpretations—no matter what H. P. Lovecraft might have intended. NOTES 1. Victoria Nelson, “H. P. Lovecraft and the Great Heresies,” in The Secret Life of Puppets (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2001), 136. 2. Cf. Dirk W. Mosig, “The Four Faces of ‘The Outsider,’” in Mosig at Last: A Psychologist Looks at Lovecraft (West Warwick, RI: Necronomicon Press, 1997), 55–74. 3. Barton Levi St. Armand, The Roots of Horror in the Fiction of H. P. Lovecraft (Elizabethtown, NY: Dragon Press, 1977), 65. 4. H. P. Lovecraft, Selected Letters, ed. August Derleth, Donald Wandrei, and James Turner (Sauk City, WI: Arkham Hose, 1965–1976), 5.163. 5. Ibid., 3.65. 6. Ibid., 3.425. 7. Such as Lovecraft, Selected Letters, 3.425, 4.234–35. 8. Ibid., 2.50. 9. H. P. Lovecraft, O Fortunate Floridian: H. P. Lovecraft’s Letters to R. H. Barlow, ed. S. T. Joshi and David E. Schultz (Tampa: University of Tampa Press, 2007), 246–48. 10. H. P. Lovecraft and August Derleth, Essential Solitude: The Letters of H. P. Lovecraft and August Derleth, ed. S. T. Joshi and David E. Schultz (New York: Hippocampus Press, 2008), 2.542. 11. Bruce Lord, “The Genetics of Horror: Sex and Racism in H. P. Lovecraft’s Fiction.” Retrieved from contrasoma.com/writing/lovecraft.html. 12. Rosemary Hathaway, “No Paradise Lost: Deconstructing the Myth of Domestic Affection in Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein,” in Trajectories of the Fantastic: Selected Essays from the Fourteenth International Conference on the Fantastic in the Arts, ed. Michael A. Morrison (Westport, CT: Greenwood Press, 1997), 17–18. 13. S. T. Joshi, “Lovecraft’s Alien Civilizations: A Political Interpretation,” in Selected Papers on Lovecraft (West Warwick, RI: Necronomicon Press, 1989), 4–5. 14. Ibid., 5. 15. Sonia H. Davis, The Private Life of H. P. Lovecraft, rev. ed. (West Warwick, RI: Necronomicon Press, 1992), 15. 16. Ibid., 22. 17. S. T. Joshi, A Subtler Magic: The Writings and Philosophy of H. P. Lovecraft, 2nd ed. (Berkeley Heights, NJ: Wildside Press, 1996), 37. 18. L. Sprague de Camp, Lovecraft: A Biography (1975; New York: Barnes & Noble, 2006), 189. 19. The best summary of these arguments is made by Stanley C. Sargent in an interview with Peter Worthy, see “Stanley C. Sargent” (1997), at reocities.com/Athens/forum/4162/sargent.html. 20. Lovecraft and Derleth, Essential Solitude, 2.545–46. 21. Lovecraft, Selected Letters, 1.280–82. 22. S. T. Joshi, I Am Providence: The Life and Times of H. P. Lovecraft (New York: Hippocampus Press, 2010), 427. 23. Lovecraft, Selected Letters, 1.251. 24. Ibid., 1.292. 25. Joshi, I Am Providence, 427. 26. Peter Cannon, Long Memories: Recollections of Frank Belknap Long (Stockport, UK: British Fantasy Society, 1997), 33. 118 Bobby Derie 27. Lovecraft, Selected Letters, 4.234–35. 28. Ibid., 4.356. 29. Lovecraft, O Fortunate Floridian, 91. 30. Lovecraft, Selected Letters, 4.235. 31. Robert M. Price, “Homosexual Panic in ‘The Outsider,’” Crypt of Cthulhu, no. 8 (Michaelmas 1982): 11–12. 32. David E. Schultz, “On ‘The Loved Dead,’” Crypt of Cthulhu, no. 17 (Hallowmass 1983): 25–28. 33. Joshi, I Am Providence, 65–66. 34. H. P. Lovecraft, Letters to Rheinhart Kleiner, ed. S. T. Joshi and David E. Schultz (New York: Hippocampus Press, 2005), 66. 35. Cf. Mollie L. Burleson, “The Outsider: A Woman?” Lovecraft Studies, nos. 22–23 (Fall 1990): 22–23. 36. Donald R. Burleson, “Lovecraft and Gender,” Lovecraft Studies, no. 27 (Fall 1992): 21–25. 37. H. P. Lovecraft, The Thing on the Doorstep and Other Weird Stories, ed. S. T. Joshi (New York: Penguin Classics, 2001), 345. 38. Ibid. 39. Ibid., 441. 40. Ibid., 351. 41. Burleson, “Lovecraft and Gender,” 23. 42. Lovecraft, The Thing on the Doorstep, 350. 43. Davis, The Private Life of H. P. Lovecraft, 12. 44. Joshi, I Am Providence, 582. 45. Ironically, Robert M. Price suggested a homosexual interpretation of “The Shadow over Innsmouth” in a footnote to “Homosexual Panic in ‘The Outsider’” several years earlier. 46. “Homosexual Panic in ‘The Outsider’” and “The Outsider: A Woman?,” respectively. Chapter Eight Evolutionary Otherness Anthropological Anxiety in Robert E. Howard’s “Worms of the Earth” 1 Jeffrey H. Shanks “Worms of the Earth” is one of Robert E. Howard’s best-known short stories and is often described, anecdotally, as one of his best. 2 Published in the November 1932 issue of Weird Tales, the story features Bran Mak Morn, the last king of the Picts, who fights to preserve his people and their culture from the ever-encroaching military might of the Roman Empire. The main conflict in the story revolves around Bran’s quest for vengeance against a Roman governor and the boundaries he is willing to cross in achieving that goal— not only risking his life and sanity, but perhaps even his very humanity. The story contains numerous examples of the themes and genre elements that have come to exemplify Howard’s work. “Worms” can be categorized as heroic fantasy, historical adventure, or weird fiction. It contains Howard’s favorite ancient people, the Picts; it makes reference to Lovecraftian Mythos elements; it explores the “barbarism versus civilization” theme that pervades so much of his work; and it reflects on the implications of evolutionary theory and on what it means to be human. It is this last aspect of the story that will be the focus of this chapter as I discuss how “Worms of the Earth” and other similar stories are informed by the anthropological and cultural anxieties of the post-Darwin period and how those anxieties are exploited by Howard to achieve the desired state of existential unease in the reader. 119 120 Jeffrey H. Shanks “WORMS OF THE EARTH” “Worms of the Earth” begins with Bran witnessing the crucifixion of one of his Pictish subjects at the hands of the Roman governor in Britain. 3 Bran vows revenge on the governor and his troops, but knows that he lacks the military force to take on the Romans in a head-to-head conflict. Instead he seeks out aid from a more ancient enemy of his people: a degenerate, subterranean race of not-quite-human creatures known as the Children of the Night or, less euphemistically, the Worms of the Earth. 4 This race was the remnant of the prehistoric aboriginal people of Britain who were driven into the hinterlands by the invading Picts during the Neolithic period. Ultimately forced to live in caves and underground tunnels, these prehistoric people began to degenerate culturally and even devolve physically into the short, deformed, and inhuman creatures that would give rise to the tales of fairies, elves, and dwarfs in folklore. Bran learns of a way to secure the assistance of the Worms of the Earth from a mysterious witch named Atla, though her knowledge comes at the price of sexual favors. Atla tells Bran the location of a Black Stone that is sacred to the Worms; he steals the stone and, confronting a group of the creatures within one of their caves, uses it to blackmail them into carrying out his revenge on the Roman governor: As far as he could see floated a glittering ocean of slanted yellow eyes upturned. But the owners of those eyes kept carefully beyond the dim circle of torchlight and of their bodies he could see nothing. Their low hissing speech floated up to him and he shuddered as his imagination visualized, not a throng of biped creatures, but a swarming, swaying myriad of serpents, gazing up at him with their glittering unwinking eyes. 5 With Atla translating, the bargain is struck. The following night the Worms burrow under the Roman fortress, collapsing it and killing the inhabitants. They kidnap the governor, carrying him underground through their tunnels, and eventually deposit him before Bran at the appointed meeting place. Seeing the wretched state of the now insane Roman, Bran realizes with horror and regret that his unleashing of these ancient inhuman creatures upon his fellow man was a far worse crime than anything the Romans had done. Atla, now revealed as less than fully human herself, mocks him as he rides away and declares that through his actions he has tainted himself and sealed the doom of his people. 6 Evolutionary Otherness 121 RACIST ANTHROPOLOGY AND THE PYGMY THEORY “Worms of the Earth” is one of several stories in which Howard makes use of this “Little People” motif with a subterranean nonhuman race that functions as a euhemeristic source for the legends of elves, dwarfs, and other fairylike creatures. This idea can be traced back to the now-discredited Turanian pygmy theory current in late nineteenth-century anthropological thought. 7 The most prominent proponent of the theory, Scottish folklorist David MacRitchie, 8, argued that Neolithic Britain was populated by pre-Celtic aboriginal pygmies belonging to the so-called Mongoloid or Turanian race. MacRitchie’s insistence on a racial categorization for his proposed pygmies and its significance for the purposes of this chapter require some historical contextualization. Most anthropologists in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, following Thomas Henry Huxley, Paul Topinard, and others, divided humankind into four major races: Caucasian, Negroid, Mongoloid (or Turanian), and Australoid. These races were defined primarily based on perceived differences in cranial shape. In his influential 1899 work The Races of Europe, William Ripley further subdivided the Caucasian race into three groups: the Mediterraneans, the Alpines, and the Teutonics (Nordics or Aryans). During the Victorian and Edwardian periods there was considerable time spent and ink spilt trying to classify various ethnic groups as belonging to one of these races or subraces. This was equally true of modern groups like the Basques and Lapps as it was for prehistoric peoples such as MacRitchie’s hypothetical pygmies. This kind of racialist classification has long since been discredited and discarded by anthropologists, but it was still the prevailing thought in MacRitchie’s day and even up through Howard’s and Lovecraft’s time. 9 MacRitchie suggested that his proposed pygmies lived partially underground, claiming that a number of archaeological sites such as barrows and sunken house structures served as their places of habitation. 10 In his two main works, The Testimony of Tradition (1890) and Fians, Fairies, and Picts (1893), MacRitchie argued that the later invading Bronze Age Celts created their legends of fairies and dwarfs based on this Neolithic people whom they displaced and whose modern-day descendants were the Finns, Lapps, Basques, and Picts. Folktales of fairy brides and babies abducted and replaced by changelings were then said to be the distorted remembrances of sexual interaction, both consensual and nonconsensual, between “non-Aryan” Turanian pygmies and “Aryan” Celts. 11 The Little People motif thus became racialized and informed by the colonialist fears of miscegenation and cultural contamination through contact with the Other. MacRitchie’s pygmy theory met with mixed reactions. Some criticized his lack of supporting archaeological evidence for this supposed short-statured Neolithic race, but there were many who did support his views as it 122 Jeffrey H. Shanks meshed well with then popular conceptions of evolutionary theory—this Turanian pygmy race would have been a more primitive form of human, intermediate between Homo sapiens and the so-called missing link. Others proposed variants on the theory, such as folklorist Sabine Baring-Gould, who agreed that a short, dark Neolithic race was the source of fairy folktales, but argued that they were not of Asian origin, but rather of the Mediterranean race. 12 This euhemeristic concept of a primitive subterranean pygmy race as the source of fairy stories soon began to permeate Victorian popular culture, often in the form of degenerate and regressive modern-day survivals of this race. The theme appears prominently in John Buchan’s The Watcher at the Threshold and in William Morris’s The Wood beyond the World, for example. But perhaps the best-known, and for our purposes the most important, use of this theme in Victorian fiction is in the Little People stories of Welsh writer Arthur Machen. In his works “The Red Hand,” “Novel of the Black Seal” (a segment in the episodic novel The Three Impostors), and “The Shining Pyramid” Machen depicts a lost race of cave-dwelling, subhuman, dwarflike creatures terrorizing the Welsh countryside. In “The Shining Pyramid,” first published in 1895, one of the protagonists theorizes that the creatures are “the prehistoric Turanian inhabitants of the country, who were cave dwellers,” 13 clearly borrowing from MacRitchie’s pygmy theory. Machen’s description of the creatures inspired Howard’s vision of the Worms of the Earth nearly four decades later: [H]e peered into the quaking mass and saw faintly that there were things like faces and human limbs, and yet he felt his inmost soul chill with the sure belief that no fellow soul or human thing stirred in all that tossing and hissing host. He looked aghast, choking back sobs of horror, and at length the loathsome forms gathered thickest about some vague object in the middle of the hollow, and the hissing of their speech grew more venomous, and he saw in the uncertain light the abominable limbs, vague and yet too plainly seen, writhe and intertwine, and he thought he heard, very faint, a low human moan striking through the noise of speech that was not of man. 14 Machen’s Little People tales, reprinted in the United States in the 1920s, were an important influence on many of the Weird Tales writers, especially Lovecraft and Howard. In “The Lurking Fear,” serialized in Home Brew magazine from January to April 1923 and reprinted in Weird Tales in June 1928, 15 Lovecraft actually makes use of the Little People theme of subterranean devolution several months before he discovered Machen. 16 In Lovecraft’s version the Little People are the descendants of an isolated family that has degenerated and devolved over the generations into misshapen apelike creatures. Evolutionary Otherness 123 Howard would have certainly read “The Lurking Fear” when it was published in Weird Tales, and it no doubt had an influence on him, but he had already begun to explore the theme in his own work in a story published the year before. 17 HOWARD AND THE LITTLE PEOPLE TROPE Howard’s first effort in the Machenian vein was “The Lost Race,” 18 published in the January 1927 issue of Weird Tales. In this story, a Briton encounters a tribe of primitive Picts living in caves. In contrast to “Worms of the Earth,” written five years later, in this, the first of Howard’s Little People stories, it is the Picts, having been driven underground by the Bronze Age Celts, who are the subterranean race and the source of the fairy legends. Here the Picts are described as a Mediterranean people rather than the Asian Turanian race of MacRitchie. This was the variant of the pygmy theory originally favored by Baring-Gould and by the early twentieth century, the idea that the Neolithic people of Europe were of the so-called Mediterranean race rather than a Turanian or Mongoloid race had become predominant. Howard’s source for this idea was likely G. F. Scott Elliot, who in his 1912 book The Romance of Early British Life used the term Picts to refer to these supposed Mediterranean people 19 and suggested that they were the source of the Little People legends: At a much later period the . . . Pict is himself overcome by the Gaelic Celt. Then it is his turn to become a malignant gnome, a dark little dwarf, whose stone arrows are to be dreaded. . . . It is by no means improbable that the “little people”—that is, the small dark Picts—did live on for many years in those underground houses of theirs. 20 A more overt homage to Machen was the story entitled “The Little People,” 21 written by Howard around 1928, though not published until the 1960s. In this tale, which makes a direct reference to “The Shining Pyramid,” a brother must rescue his sister who is abducted by cave-dwelling dwarfs. The brother refers to the dwarfs as “Turanians, Picts, [and] Mediterraneans,” conflating the two different racialist versions of the pygmy theory (Turanian race vs. Mediterranean race) and showing that Howard was somewhat confused about the various terms being used by Machen, Scott Elliot, and others. Some of this confusion may have resulted from the fact that his sources on prehistoric Europe disagreed with one another on the subject. One of the older works in his library, E. A. Allen’s 1885 book The Prehistoric World, or Vanished Races, argued for a Neolithic Turanian or Mongoloid people, 22 as did Arthur Machen in his stories. Scott Elliot, as we saw, argued for a 124 Jeffrey H. Shanks Mediterranean people, as did another important source for Howard, H. G. Wells’s The Outline of History. 23 By 1930, Howard had begun his voluminous correspondence with Lovecraft and very early on the conversation turned to the racial makeup of the Neolithic Europeans and their relationship to the Little People stories, sounding much like the exchanges of the proponents of racist anthropological theory from the previous century. Lovecraft agreed that the pre-Celtic people of Europe whose modern descendants survived as Lapps, Basques, and Picts were Mediterraneans; he argued, however, that they were preceded by the diminutive Turanian/Mongoloid race and that it was the latter that gave rise to the tales of fairies, dwarfs, and elves, not the former: It’s true that the Celts share most vigorously the myth cycle of fairies, gnomes, and little people, which anthropologists find all over western Europe . . . and attribute to vague memories of contact with the Mongoloids, . . . Since these fair Nordic Celts found a smaller, darker race in Britain and Ireland [i.e., the Mediterraneans], there is a tendency . . . to assume that the “little people” legends allude to contact with those dark aborigines. 24 Lovecraft further observes that the Celtic legends describe the “little people” as “repulsive and monstrous, subterraneous in their habits of dwelling, and given to a queer kind of hissing discourse” 25 and concludes that a Mongoloid or Turanian race would fit this bill better than a Mediterranean people. He was, in effect, trying to reconcile MacRitchie’s older Turanian pygmy idea with the more recent Mediterranean theory by arguing for two Neolithic races in Europe, one following the other. 26 This argument seemed to convince Howard: Your observations regarding the Mongoloid aborigines and their relation to the fairy-tales of western Europe especially interested me. I had supposed, without inquiring very deeply into the matter, that these legends were based on contact with the earlier Mediterraneans, and indeed, wrote a story on that assumption which appeared some years ago in Weird Tales—“The Lost Race.” I readily see the truth of your remarks that a Mongoloid race must have been responsible for the myths of the Little People, and sincerely thank you for the information. 27 Not long after this exchange in 1930, Howard would take Lovecraft’s observation and use it as the main premise for three of his most famous Little People stories. “The Children of the Night,” “People of the Dark,” and “Worms of the Earth” all form a loosely connected trilogy of sorts, with the common denominator being the subterranean creatures encountered by Bran in “Worms.” Following Lovecraft’s suggestion (rather than his earlier story “The Lost Race”), Howard made these creatures an aboriginal Turanian/ Evolutionary Otherness 125 Mongoloid people driven underground by the Mediterranean Picts during the Neolithic period. The Picts in turn were overrun themselves at beginning of the Bronze Age by the Celts and pushed back further by later invaders: the Gaels, the Britons, and eventually the Romans. In effect, Howard took his own ideas about the “little people” legends, modified them with Lovecraft’s theories, and crafted a fictional saga of Neolithic ethnic cleansing. The first of this trilogy, “The Children of the Night,” 28 was published in the April–May 1931 issue of Weird Tales. The story begins in modern times with a group of acquaintances having a debate on the very subject Howard and Lovecraft had been discussing in their letters: the various racial theories surrounding the Neolithic peoples of Europe and the origins of the fairy legends. 29 While conversing they also examine an ancient stone ax from their host’s collection of artifacts. The narrator of the story is accidently struck in the head with the ax by one of the others named Ketrick. Losing consciousness, the narrator finds himself reliving a past life as a Celtic warrior named Aryara at the dawn of the Bronze Age—a member of one of the first groups of Celts to have entered Britain. He encounters a tribe of the Turanian dwarfs living in a village of partially subterranean houses and fights them to the death, eventually succumbing to their overwhelming numbers. With Aryara’s death, the narrator awakens in the present, but in a crazed state he attacks Ketrick, whom he believes has the “tainted” blood of the Turanian dwarfs in his veins due to Ketrick’s slight Asian-like features. The second of these stories, “People of the Dark,” 30 published in the June 1932 issue of Strange Tales, is similar to “The Children of the Night” in that it also involves a reincarnation theme. The narrator follows the woman he loves and another suitor into an underground cave network with the intention of killing his rival. He falls and hits his head and, like his counterpart in “The Children of the Night,” experiences a previous life, this time as an Iron Age Gaelic reaver named Conan. 31 He encounters the past life versions of his lover and her other suitor, as well as the subterranean dwarflike creatures, here described as less human than they were in “The Children of the Night.” All three are eventually killed or driven to their deaths by the creatures and the narrator awakens back in the present. He finds the couple that he was following, but they are all attacked by one of the creatures, apparently the last of its kind. The creature is now no longer human at all, its race having continued to devolve over the last three millennia. The narrator uses his memory of the caves from his past life to kill the creature and lead the others to safety. The third and final story in this series is “Worms of the Earth,” described earlier. Taken together, the three stories depict the subterranean race at four different points in history: the beginning of the British Bronze Age around 2000 BCE, the Iron Age around 500 BCE, the height of Roman Britain in the second century CE, and finally the early twentieth century. We can see them 126 Jeffrey H. Shanks as they regress culturally and devolve physically, becoming less human and more reptilian as the centuries pass. In the Bronze Age they were still living above ground and used stone tools and weapons. During the Iron Age they were living in caves and had lost most of their material culture. In Bran’s time they are much less human in form. By the twentieth century they were no longer human at all and the last of them had become a hideous snakelike creature. ANTHROPOLOGICAL ANXIETY IN “WORMS OF THE EARTH” This motif of cultural regression and physical devolution is one that is not uncommon in the speculative fiction of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Virginia Richter has identified this and other tropes related to evolutionary theory as being expressions of what she calls the “anthropological anxiety” of Western culture in the post-Darwin period. 32 In her 2011 study Literature after Darwin, she applies her anthropological anxiety model to the works of H. Rider Haggard, Rudyard Kipling, Arthur Conan Doyle, Edgar Allan Poe, H. G. Wells, Edgar Rice Burroughs, and other authors who we know inspired and influenced Howard. At the heart of evolutionary theory is the ultimate question of human nature—as Thomas Henry Huxley phrased it, “the ascertainment of the place which Man occupies in nature and of his relations to the universe of things.” 33 Richter’s model addresses the cultural consequences of the answer to that question and how those consequences manifest themselves in art and literature. She examines the forms and tropes that expose the underlying tension between mankind’s former role as a divine being separate from and ascendant over the animal world and its new position as just another bestial species among many. In popular Victorian and modernist fiction, she identifies four main tropes: 34 1. Regression/degeneration: the fear of biological or cultural devolution in the form of atavistic individuals or behavior. 2. Plasticity of the body: the consequence of the physical body (human and animal) no longer being fixed and immutable. 3. Simianation: the blurring of the boundaries between human and ape (or beast) as one tries to become more like the other, often in the form of missing links or humanized apes. 4. Assimilation: the threat of cultural and biological “pollution” through contact with the Other in the form of native “savages,” lost races, or missing links. It is often expressed in the form of regression, miscegenation, and even cannibalism. Evolutionary Otherness 127 One can find examples and variants of these tropes throughout Howard’s works in the form of atavists and lost tribes, ape-men and man-apes, and other expressions of evolutionary oddities. 35 “Worms of the Earth” and the other Little People stories in particular contain examples of all these tropes, and it could even be said that anthropological anxiety is the very matrix upon which these stories are constructed. Most obviously, regression and degeneration are exemplified by the Worms themselves, as they devolve over the centuries in their underground tunnels. The subterranean dwellers also demonstrate the plasticity or mutability of the human form as they begin to lose their humanoid shape and take on the physical characteristics of more chthonic creatures like snakes and worms. Simianation or becoming “ape-ified” is usually expressed in the form of hominids and ape-men. Howard’s Little People are likewise animalhuman hybrids in transitional form, though interestingly he has the so-called Turanian pygmy race devolve not into ape-men, but into more reptilian-like creatures. Perhaps “herponation” would be a more accurate term in this case. But if the changing morphology of the Worms is the overt expression of anthropological anxiety in Howard’s Little People stories, it is the threat of assimilation that creates the effective tension in the story. This would have been particularly true for readers in Howard’s time still living during the last gasp of the Western colonialist system. The Worms and their Turanian pygmy ancestors are the victims of the Neolithic colonization of Britain by the Picts. The Picts in turn become the victims of colonization themselves, first by the Bronze Age Celts and later by the Romans. Like the Worms, the Picts too, begin to undergo the degenerative effects of geographic marginalization, as well as assimilation. Bran is described as a pure-blooded example of the old Mediterranean race, while most of the common Picts had been changed physically through intermarriage with various invading peoples. So to the Romans, the Picts represent the Other; to the Picts, the Worms are the Other. Cultural and physical degeneration serves to increase the sense of Otherness between these groups, but continued contact between them increases the possibility of assimilation, primarily through miscegenation. Within the context of these stories, the most horrific example of assimilation comes through miscegenation with the ultimate Other: the Worms of the Earth. In “Children of the Night” we see this in the character of Ketrick, who exhibits atavistic traits that are a result of one of his ancestors breeding with one of the Worms. Ketrick is the descendant of one of the changeling babies of folklore, whose appearance stirs up ancient racial hatreds within the crazed narrator. In “Worms of the Earth,” Atla plays the role of the fairy bride, seducing Bran by taking advantage of his drive for revenge. The true “reveal” at the end of the story comes when the facade of Atla’s humanity is fully stripped away, showing her to be related in some way to the Worms— 128 Jeffrey H. Shanks perhaps a changeling herself. She is both familiar and alien, repulsive and attractive—a perfect avatar of Freud’s uncanny. The Worms are an expression of Csicsery-Ronay’s science-fictional grotesque—a “conflation of disparate elements,” human and reptile, that “disturbs the sense of rational, natural categorization.” 36 Much of Bran’s horror comes from the realization that he, the pure-blooded chief of the Picts, had tainted himself, symbolically if not physically and psychologically, and by extension doomed his people through his interaction with Atla and the grotesque Worms. This is a twist on the doomed King Arthur–Morgan le Fay union, but instead of incest, the sexual sin is miscegenation with the less-than-human Other. In the early twentieth-century popular conception of Darwinist theory, evolution was often erroneously seen as teleological—a linear progression from simpler organisms to more complex ones. This implied, however, that a regression from complex to simple was also a possibility. The stripping away of mankind’s special status in the post-Darwinist period meant that humanity was subject to these same conditions. For the Western colonialist mind, assimilation through miscegenation was the primary mechanism through which such regression in humans could occur. These expressions of cultural anxiety formed the basis of many of the racialist and often racist anthropological theories of the nineteenth century—like MacRitchie’s pygmy theory. These theories (and anxieties) in turn were mediated through Victorian and Modernist art and literature, including the Little People stories of Machen, Lovecraft, and Howard. The effectiveness of these stories, such as “Worms of the Earth,” were therefore due in no small part to the way in which they exploited the subconscious fears and anxieties of the post-Darwin generations that were still wrestling with the implications of what it means to be human. NOTES 1. Numerous individuals provided assistance and advice with the article, directly or indirectly, and I would like to thank, in no particular order, Patrice Louinet, Rusty Burke, Mark Finn, S. T. Joshi, Morgan Holmes, and Deuce Richardson. 2. See, for example, Rusty Burke, “Introduction,” in Robert E. Howard, The Horror Stories of Robert E. Howard (New York: Del Rey, 2008), xxii. 3. Howard, Horror Stories, 240–43. 4. Ibid., 247. 5. Ibid., 262. 6. Ibid., 265–67. 7. Morgan Holmes, “Lost in the Black Mists,” Forgotten Ages 106 (compiled with Robert E. Howard United Press Association Mailing 224, August 2010, ed. Bill Cavalier; copy on file at Jerome Library, Bowling Green University), 3–4. 8. See David MacRitchie, The Testimony of Tradition (London: Kegan Paul, Trench, Trübner, 1890), and also Fians, Fairies and Picts (London: Kegan Paul, Trench, Trübner, 1893). Evolutionary Otherness 129 9. For further discussion see Steven Jay Gould, The Mismeasure of Man, rev. ed. (New York: W. W. Norton, 1996), 401–12; Bruce G. Trigger, A History of Archaeological Thought, 2nd ed. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), 166–210; and George W. Stocking, Race, Culture, and Evolution: Essays in the History of Anthropology (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1982), 56–66. 10. Carole G. Silver, Strange and Secret Peoples, Fairies and Victorian Consciousness (New York: Oxford University Press, 1999), 47–50. 11. Ibid., 73, 97–99. 12. Ibid., 73. 13. Arthur Machen, The Great God Pan and Other Weird Stories, ed. S. T. Joshi (Welches, OR: Arcane Wisdom, 2009), 220–21. 14. Ibid., 214. 15. H. P. Lovecraft, The Dreams in the Witch House and Other Weird Stories, ed. S. T. Joshi (New York: Penguin, 2004), 62–81. The later reprinting of the story in the 1928 issue is more significant for the purposes of this chapter, as that is the version that Howard would have seen. 16. Epistorary evidence suggests that Lovecraft first discovered Machen in the summer of 1923, several months after “The Lurking Fear” was written and published. See S. T. Joshi, I Am Providence: The Life and Times of H. P. Lovecraft (New York: Hippocampus Press, 2010), 29. 17. S. T. Joshi has noted that certain of Howard’s word choices in “Worms of the Earth” may have been inspired by similar phrases in “The Lurking Fear.” See S. T. Joshi, The Rise and Fall of the Cthulhu Mythos (Poplar Bluff, MO: Mythos, 2008), 133–34. As we will see, Howard’s and Lovecraft’s epistemological exchanges would also have a great impact on Howard’s later Little People stories, though the primary literary influence in this case was Arthur Machen. 18. Robert E. Howard, Bran Mak Morn: The Last King (New York: Del Rey, 2005), 167–86. 19. G. F. Scott Elliot, The Romance of Early British Life (London: Seeley, 1909), 80–81. The influence of this book on Howard’s depiction of the Picts has been well documented (see Rusty Burke and Patrice Louinet, “Robert E. Howard, Bran Mak Morn, and the Picts,” in Howard, Bran Mak Morn, 344–46). 20. Scott Elliot, Romance of Early British Life, 317–18. 21. Howard, Bran Mak Morn, 197–206. 22. E. A. Allen, The Prehistoric World, or Vanished Races (Cincinnati: Central Publishing House, 1885), 210–15. 23. H. G. Wells, The Outline of History: Being a Plain History of Life and Mankind, 4th rev. ed., 4 vols. (New York: Review of Reviews, 1922), 144–45. 24. S. T. Joshi, David E. Schultz, and Rusty Burke, eds., A Means to Freedom: The Letters of H. P. Lovecraft and Robert E. Howard, 2 vols. (New York: Hippocampus Press, 2009), 1.27 (emphasis in original). 25. Ibid. 26. One of Lovecraft’s sources on this topic (see Joshi et al., Means to Freedom, 38) was anthropologist Margaret A. Murray’s popular work The Witch-Cult in Western Europe (London: Oxford University Press, 1921), which was controversial even upon its release. Murray was one of the few holdouts who still subscribed to MacRitichie’s pygmy theory by the 1920s. She made no attempt to speculate on their racial or ethnic makeup, though she did support the notion that stories of fairy brides and changelings had a foundation in reality: “The dwarf race which at one time inhabited Europe has left few concrete remains, but it has survived in innumerable stories of fairies and elves. Nothing, however, is known of the religious beliefs and cults of these early peoples, except the fact that every seven years they made a human sacrifice to their god—‘And aye at every seven years they pay the teind to hell’—and that like the Khonds they stole children from the neighbouring races and brought them up to be the victims” (238). 27. Joshi et al., Means to Freedom, 1.32–33. 28. Howard, Horror Stories, 143–57. 130 Jeffrey H. Shanks 29. Specifically, he has the character Taveral suggest that the Picts were the source of the Little People legends, while the character of Conrad presents Lovecraft’s thesis that only a “Mongoloid” race could “excite such horror and repulsion in the Aryan peoples” (ibid., 147). 30. Ibid., 201–16. 31. Not to be confused with Howard’s more famous creation, Conan the Cimmerian, who would appear a few months later. 32. Virginia Richter, Literature after Darwin: Human Beasts in Western Fiction, 1859–1939 (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2011), 6–8. 33. Thomas Henry Huxley, Evidence as to Man’s Place in Nature (London: Williams & Norgate, 1863), 57. 34. Richter, Literature after Darwin, 8–15. 35. And they can be found in the stories of many other Weird Tales contributors as well. On this, see Jonas Prida’s section on Weird Darwin in his chapter in this volume. 36. Istanu Csicsery-Ronay Jr., “On the Grotesque in SF,” Science Fiction Studies 29, no. 1 (March 2002): 71. Chapter Nine Eugenic Thought in the Works of Robert E. Howard Justin Everett Before beginning his epistolary relationship with H. P. Lovecraft, Robert E. Howard was already on his way to a promising career as a writer of adventure fiction. Early in his career he created Kull of Atlantis, the brooding barbarian king of ancient Valusia, who had to remain ever watchful for shadowy usurpers, and Solomon Kane, the dour Puritan swordsman who trod the ghost-haunted ruins of decayed cities to confront unnamable evils. Though he had also written traditional adventure tales featuring the likes of merchant seaman Steve Costigan and the mercenary Francis X. Gordon, in Kull and Kane could be seen the beginnings of what dark fantasy would become. When Howard began exchanging letters with Lovecraft in 1930, the two shared regional photographs and folklore, debated mythology, exchanged writing, and discussed the publishing business. Among the topics the two discussed at length were theories of race, with the bulk of this debate taking place between 1930 and 1932. Both were clearly well-read in the popular race theories of the day. This chapter will consider the influence of the Lovecraft-Howard discussions on the development of Howard’s theories of race, and particularly the evolution of eugenic thought in several of his stories, including his Little People stories, “Worms of the Earth,” and “Beyond the Black River.” THE ORIGIN OF EUGENICS In concert with Herbert Spencer’s promotion of the idea of “survival of the fittest,” 1 Darwin’s nephew Francis Galton developed the theory of eugenics, the science of improving the race through careful breeding. Though Galton 131 132 Justin Everett emphasized “increasing the productivity of the best stock,” 2 many of his followers were more concerned that “there are elements, some ancestral and others the result of degeneration, that are of little or no value, or are positively harmful.” 3 Though Galton’s work gave it the legitimacy of science, the fear of cultural degeneration began shortly after Darwin published The Origin of Species. This fear was most powerfully expressed in the Continental idea of the fin de siècle, or “the end of the century.” Two themes of the movement were (1) the fear of cultural degeneration as a result of modernization and the theory of evolution, and (2) the fear of atavism, or the appearance of degenerate physical characteristics representative of an earlier stage of human evolution. Cesare Lomboroso’s two popular treatises, Criminal Man (1876–1897 in five editions) and Criminal Woman (1895), expressed these fears. Lombroso used the questionable science of craniometry (skull measurement) to claim that certain individuals are “born criminals” and can be identified by physical and behavioral characteristics, which were signs of regression to an earlier stage in human development: Atavism remains one of the most constant characteristics of the born criminal, in spite of, or rather together with, psychology. . . . [M]any of the characteristics of primitive man are also commonly found in the born criminal, including low, sloping foreheads, overdeveloped sinuses . . . overdevelopment of the jaw and cheekbones, prognathism, oblique and large eye sockets, dark skin, thick and curly head hair, large or protuberant ears, long arms, similarity between the sexes, left-handedness, waywardness among women, low sensitivity to pain, complete absence of moral and affective sensibility, laziness, absence of remorse and foresight, great vanity, and fleeting, violent passions. 4 Another writer who considered the theme of degeneration, and one Howard was known to have read, was H. G. Wells, who in his 1891 essay “Zoological Retrogression” critiqued the scientific optimism of the period, pointing out that “rapid progress has often been followed by rapid extinction or degeneration.” 5 Wells uses the example of the sea squirt, in a reversal of the then-popular “ontogeny recapitulates phylogeny” argument, to demonstrate that an organism can move down the evolutionary ladder in its life cycle. Likewise, Herbert Spencer, the father of social Darwinism, noted that primitive cultures, unfit to compete and advance, are forced into unfavorable climates where they degenerate to an extent that they are not capable of adapting and advancing: “The more-evolved societies drive the less-evolved societies into unfavorable habitats; and so entail on them decrease of size, or decay of structure, or both.” 6 What is interesting here is Spencer’s concept that so-called savages, unable to compete with their superiors, are driven into places where they become adapted to inhospitable climates. This description, taken along with Wells’s idea of evolutionary reversion (or more accurately, adaptation to conditions that, from a modern human perspective, are de- Eugenic Thought in the Works of Robert E. Howard 133 scribed as reversion), accurately describes the underground dwellers Howard depicts in his Little People tales. RACIAL DEGENERATION IN THE LITTLE PEOPLE STORIES Howard was certainly unfamiliar with the intimate details of the scientific and social debates that surrounding eugenics in the 1920s and 1930s. However, as a study of his reading habits reveals, he was familiar with the work of Spencer and Wells, and had some knowledge of public understandings of eugenics prevalent at the time. Though he took high school biology just as eugenic materials in biology textbooks was achieving its peak, 7 Howard’s own high school biology notebook 8 contains exercises from a lab manual designed to accompany Hunter’s Essentials of Biology Presented in Problems (1911), 9 which contains only passing references to selective breeding, whereas his A Civic Biology (1914) is harshly eugenic and advocates the extermination of “inferior” family lines. As the lab manual would have been more than ten years old at the time Howard took biology, it is difficult to say for certain which biology text he used, and no records exist to indicate which book would have been in use at his school. It is known that Howard borrowed books from a traveling library as well as the library at the Cross Plains school, but since the school burned down (twice) since 1936, no record of Howard’s borrowing habits exist. His personal library and correspondence provide a few more clues regarding his views on eugenics. In a book about boxing he gave him, Howard’s friend Truett Vinson wrote, “Don’t forget our opinions on other subjects ranging from prizefighting to birth control!” 10 The chapter on eugenics in a book in his personal library entitled Fewer and Better Babies: Birth Control states, “About the unquestionably insane, imbeciles, morons, and perverts . . . [s]ociety will have to take care of them by sterilizing them or segregating them.” 11 Better clues of Howard’s eugenic views can be found in his letters to Lovecraft, and in the Cthulhu Mythos stories themselves. Howard and Lovecraft’s discussion of race began when Howard sent a letter to Farnsworth Wright, the editor of Weird Tales, pointing out that Lovecraft had his character regress into speaking Gaelic rather than Cymric, presuming that this was an intentional reference to the theory that the Gaels had settled Britain. Impressed that this young author knew the difference, Lovecraft responded, beginning a long exchange in which the race theories of each author are outlined. Early in this correspondence Howard suggests that legends of the Little People must have originated when the Nordics encountered the shorter, darker Mediterraneans in Britain. In a 1930 letter Lovecraft disagrees, suggesting that “Mongoloids” were the origin of the legends of the Little People: 134 Justin Everett After the ensuing conquest the defeated Mongoloids took to deep woods and caves, & survived for a long time as malignantly vindictive foes of their huge blond conquerors—carrying on a guerilla harassing & sinking so low in the anthropological scale that they became the bywords of dread and repulsion. 12 Accepting this argument, Howard expresses fear of racial degeneration when he comments to Lovecraft that a Mongoloid race must have been responsible for the myths of the Little People. . . . As the present Mongolian is more or less repellant in appearance to the present-day Aryan, how much more must the primitive or retrograded type of Mongoloid repelled the original Aryan, who was probably superior in physical comliness to moderns! 13 This comment reflects the fear that the so-called Aryan had degraded from the original, with the implied threat of further degeneration. Racial degeneration as a result of environmental factors (cf. Spencer) is the fate of Howard’s Little People, who are chased underground by the superior Aryans and devolve over time until they become the serpent-like monster featured at the end of “The Children of the Night.” Howard’s timeline in developing his mythos of the Little People is important here relative to Lovecraft’s influence on him. Patrice Louinet dates Howard’s incomplete typescript of the untitled draft story commonly known as “The Little People” to “the second half of 1928.” 14 This story was clearly written in response to Machen’s The Shining Pyramid. Like Machen’s, Howard’s Little People are about four feet tall and carry primitive flint weapons. Machen’s “represent a tradition of the prehistoric Turanian inhabitants of the country, who were cave dwellers . . . accustomed to live in darkness, possessing stone instruments, and familiar with the Mongolian cast of features,” 15 whereas Howard associates them with the darker race of the Mediterraneans, having possibly migrated from Asia: “They are known variously as Turanians, Picts, Mediterraneans, and Garlic-eaters. A race of small, dark people, traces of their type may be found in primitive sections of Europe and Asia today, among the Basques of Spain, the Scotch of Galloway and the Lapps.” 16 Though it is clear from Machen’s description he is thinking of Asians, Howard’s description is more problematic, as Jeffrey Shanks has discussed. Howard had apparently confused contemporary understandings of “Turanian” (of Persian origin) with “Mediterranean” (shorter, darker Europeans of Aryan extraction) in this early fragment but had sorted this out by the time he wrote “The Children of the Night.” 17 To this version Howard adds the concept of “racial memories” 18 of his viewpoint character’s Celtic ancestors, “wherein stunted creatures pursued white limbed women across fens such as these.” 19 This is the first hint Howard provides in the Little People stories of his fear of degeneration via racial mixing. Eugenic Thought in the Works of Robert E. Howard 135 Following his exchange with Lovecraft he abandoned “The Little People” in favor of “The Children of the Night,” wherein the theme of racial memory is further developed and the concept of natural racial enemies introduced. Howard increases the racial stakes when the narrator reveals that the antagonist “Ketrick was undoubtedly an atavism, representing a reversion of type to some dim and distant ancestor of Mongolian blood—a sort of freak reversion, since none of his family show such traces.” 20 Here Ketrick represents the dual threat of exactly the same sort of evolutionary reversion that Lombroso described in Criminal Man, along with the suggestion that a racial hybrid could be living among us and polluting the gene pool. This is consistent with contemporary fears that “race suicide,” or degeneration through racial mixing, would lead to the disappearance of the Anglo-Saxon race. 21 The second threat, gradual racial devolution due to environmental factors, is represented by Howard’s fictional history of the Little People. Rather than take these stories in the order in which they were written, it might be useful to construct a timeline of the author’s fictional history of this unfortunate race. “The Children of the Night” (Weird Tales, April–May 1931) takes us to the earliest point in this timeline, when O’Donnel is hit on the head by Ketrick and transported back to a Neolithic Britain, where he awakens as the aptly named Aryara and encounters the Little People at an early point in their evolutionary decline: They were short and stocky, with broad heads too large for their scrawny bodies. Their hair was snaky and stringy, their faces broad and square, with flat noses, hideously slanted eyes, a thin gash for a mouth, and pointed ears. . . . And they conversed in a speech as hideous as themselves, a hissing, reptilian speech that filled me with dread and loathing. 22 For the first time Howard describes them as “reptiles,” one “squealing like a monstrous lizard,” and “snake-like,” and a “serpent-path” 23 leading to their “subterraneous dwellings.” 24 The second story in the timeline, “People of the Dark” (Strange Tales, June 1932) follows a similar frame narrative. This time John O’Brien, an American of Irish decent, ventures into a cave where he falls and hits his head. O’Brien awakens as his Gaelic ancestor Conan, who encounters the creatures in the bowels of Dagon’s Cave: Erect, it could not have been five feet in height. Its body was scrawny and deformed, its head disproportionately large. Lank, snaky hair fell over square inhuman face with flabby writhing lips that bared yellow fangs, flat spreading nostrils and great yellow slant eyes. I knew the creature must be able to see in the dark as well as a cat. Centuries of skulking in dim caverns had lent the race terrible and inhuman attributes. But the most repellent feature was its skin: scaly, yellow and mottled, like the hide of a serpent. A loin-clout made of real 136 Justin Everett snake’s skin girt its lean loins, and its taloned hands gripped a short stonetipped spear and a sinister-looking mallet of polished flint. 25 In this story the Gael Conan competes with a Briton named Vertorix for the affections of a woman named Tamera. Because of this, the story can probably be placed at least a little later than “The Children of the Night.” At this point in the timeline the subterranean race becomes further developed. While they retain their Mongolian characteristics, the creatures have become increasingly snakelike. THE THREAT OF RACIAL MIXING IN “WORMS OF THE EARTH” Yet these creatures achieve their most horrifying form in what is perhaps Howard’s most powerful story, “Worms of the Earth,” where Bran Mak Morn, the last king of the degenerate Picts, seeks revenge against Titus Sulla, the Roman military commander of Eboracum, who has executed and persecuted his people. Throughout the story is the theme of fear of the foreigner in our midst. In The Passing of the Great Race (1916), Madison Grant recommends placing immigrants in ghettoes, sterilizing them, and preventing them from intermarrying with Anglo-Saxons. In “Worms of the Earth,” when Bran tells the ancient druid Gonar of his plans to seek their help against Sulla, Gonar warns him, “[T]here are some weapons too foul to use, even against Rome!” and adds, “But you can not even reach the being you seek. . . . For untold centuries they have dwelt apart. There is no door by which you can come to them. Long ago they severed the bonds that bound them to the world we know.” 26 This passage eerily echoes the arguments made by Charles Davenport, Madison Grant, and other contemporary advocates of eugenics for the isolation and sterilization of so-called inferiors. Commonly these individuals were isolated in state-run insane asylums where they “dwelt apart.” As barbarian with a close connection with the natural world, Bran reminds Gonar that we are all connected in the web of life: “Long ago,” answered Bran somberly, “you told me that nothing in the universe was separated from the stream of Life—a saying the truth of which I have often seen evident. No race, no form of life but is close-knit somehow, by some manner, to the rest of Life and the world. Somewhere there is a link connecting those I seek to the world I know. Somewhere there is a door. And somewhere among the bleak fens of the west I will find it.” 27 While this statement is not intended as a critique of contemporary eugenics programs, it suggests a kinship of all life, and in this context life that is at least human in some form. The subtle question that this story, then, asks is Eugenic Thought in the Works of Robert E. Howard 137 whether all human life, however different, is somehow connected by a common thread of humanity. To social reformers such as Franz Boas, the answer to this question was an unqualified yes. For eugenicists, however, the answer was that certain human lives were more valuable than others, and certain groups of people can become so dangerous to society that they need to be isolated and prevented from reproducing themselves. This is a question Bran would have to sort out by the end of the tale. Following his meeting with Gonar, Bran seeks the assistance of the halfhuman Atla, the witch-woman of the moors, in finding his way to a cave sacred to the Worms: Bran entered silently and sat him down on a broken bench while the woman busied herself with the scanty meal cooking over an open fire on the squalid hearth. He studied her lithe, almost serpentine motions, the ears which were almost pointed, the yellow eyes which slanted curiously. “What do you seek in the fens, my lord?” she asked, turning toward him with a supple twist of her whole body. “I seek a Door,” he answered, chin resting on his fist. “I have a song to sing to the worms of the earth!” She started upright, a jar falling from her hands to shatter on the hearth. “This is an ill saying, even spoken by chance,” she stammered. “I speak not by chance but intent,” he answered. She shook her head. “I know not what you mean.” “Well you know,” he returned. “Aye, you know well! My race is very old—they reigned in Britain before the nations of the Celts and the Hellenes were born out of the womb of peoples. But my people were not the first in Britain. By the mottles of your skin, by the slanting of your eyes, by the taint in your veins, I speak with full knowledge and meaning!” 28 This passage is perhaps the most revealing in “Worms of the Earth” in addressing Howard’s fear of mongrelism as a potential source of racial degeneration. As a half-breed, Atla is human enough to be attractive, though Bran is repulsed by her inhuman features. As such she is a representative of the shunned Creole, the “half-breed,” and particularly the individual of both white and black blood. She is also suggestive of the greatest threat of the eugenic period—an individual who could perhaps pass as white and attract a white man to mate with her. She represents a threat to the imagined purity of the Anglo-Saxon race. This is made even clearer when she names the price for her assistance—“the kisses of a king!” 29 What happens next underscores the threat. As Bran prepares to make love to her, “An involuntary shudder shook him at the feel of her sleek skin.” 30 Her “sleek skin” reinforces the idea that she is at least somewhat desirable, while Bran’s “involuntary shudder” reinforces the horror of what he is about to do. The real danger is not that she might put a knife in Bran’s back as much as that she might produce his child—a child, more human yet, who 138 Justin Everett might, like Ketrick in “The Children of the Night,” pass for human, while over generations tainting human blood with characteristics that might lie dormant for centuries, only to surface with the occasional birth of an atavistic child. The danger of eugenics, then, lay not so much in the obvious throwbacks such as Lombroso’s criminals, but in the undetected individuals who were silently passing along tainted characteristics to the population as a whole. In spite of Bran’s sympathy for Atla, to whose human side Bran appears to feel a connection, it is with greater trepidation that he faces the “worms” in their subterranean cavern as he bargains with them for his revenge against Sulla: “He realized the horror of his position, but did not fear, though he confronted the ultimate Horror of the dreams and legends of his race.” 31 As Bran speaks, the creatures are but yellow eyes glinting in the darkness. It is not until he seals the bargain, with Atla translating their hissing speech, that he has a glimpse of them: Bran nodded and turning, climbed up the stair with Atla close behind him. At the top he turned and looked down once more. As far as he could see floated a glittering ocean of slanted yellow eyes upturned. But the owners of those eyes kept carefully beyond the dim circle of torchlight and of their bodies he could see nothing. Their low hissing speech floated up to him and he shuddered as his imagination visualized, not a throng of biped creatures, but a swarming, swaying myriad of serpents, gazing up at him with their glittering unwinking eyes. 32 This is the horror of the madhouse. Like the state asylums of the eugenics period, here we find a people isolated and locked away for their undesirable characteristics. In both cases, the narrative is eugenic. Unable to compete with the masses (Spencer), the degenerates have had to be safely removed from the population as a whole. The difference is that in the eugenics period it was a forced isolation as the result of government programs, and in the Little People tales they were out-competed by their evolutionary superiors and retreated into the bowels of the earth. In Bran Mak Morn’s case the lunatics are literally in charge of the asylum. It is at this point that the story takes a Lovecraftian turn. In his earlier conversation with Gonar, Bran hinted at a common linkage with the Little People as a part of the greater web of life. However, by this point in the narrative Bran realizes these creatures have become so removed from humanity that they strike in even his iron heart a degree of trepidation: He felt the gnawing of a strange misgiving, as if he had tampered with powers of an unknown breadth and depth, and he had loosed forces which he could not control. Each time he remembered that reptilian murmur, those slanted eyes of the night before, a cold breath passed over him. They had been abhorrent Eugenic Thought in the Works of Robert E. Howard 139 enough when his people drove Them into caverns under the hills, ages ago; what had long centuries of retrogression made of them? In their nighted, subterranean life, had They retained any of the attributes of humanity at all? 33 This nagging doubt would next be confirmed when the Worms fulfill their agreement with Bran by burrowing beneath Sulla’s tower and pulling him down through the floor. When Bran returns to the cavern to retrieve his enemy, he finds him mad, in a fashion not unlike the ill-fated protagonists of Lovecraft’s tales, driven insane by their inability to reconcile the deeper reality of what they have seen with what they know of nature. Here Bran drives a sword through Sulla’s heart, but in an unusual turn for a Howardian hero, the stroke is delivered out of mercy rather than the desire for revenge. It is in this scene that Bran finally sees the “worms” clearly: One segment of the mass detached itself for an instant and Bran cried out in fierce revulsion, though he caught only a fleeting glimpse of the thing, had only a brief impression of a broad strangely flattened head, pendulous writhing lips that bared curved pointed fangs, and a hideously misshapen, dwarfish body. 34 His kinship at this moment is with his Roman enemy Sulla, who lies dead at his feet. They are both human at least, and perhaps too late Bran realizes that there are greater threats in the world than his differences with the Romans. This realization causes Bran to declare, this time in a state of horror more characteristic of the terrified protagonists of Lovecraft’s stories than Howard’s swashbuckling barbarians: Your ancestors were men, though strange and monstrous—but gods, ye have become in ghastly fact what my people called ye in scorn! Worms of the earth, back into your holes and burrows! Ye foul the air and leave on the clean earth the slime of the serpents ye have become! Gonar was right—there are shapes to foul to use even against Rome! 35 This brings to mind the arguments made by Charles Davenport, Madison Grant, and Earnest Hooten. There were certain people whose “germ plasm” was so dangerous to the rest of the population that they needed to be isolated and contained (negative eugenics), while the best individuals should be encouraged to breed, moving humanity up the evolutionary ladder (positive eugenics). The horror of the Little People is in part the fear of the failure of negative eugenics. When the degenerates can no longer be contained, they may produce hybrids (like Atla) who may go on to breed with individuals of the purer races (like Bran), and move humanity down the evolutionary ladder. Viewed in this way, part of the horror of this tale is Bran’s choice to mate with Atla, which represents a threat to the purity of his line. 140 Justin Everett EVOLUTIONARY PLACE IN THE BARBARISM-CIVILIZATION DEBATE Further understanding of Howard’s views of eugenics can be obtained through an analysis of the letters Howard and Lovecraft exchanged between 1930 and 1934. At first Howard appears to concede the opinions of the senior writer, though this begins to change with time as Howard becomes more confident and Lovecraft’s views become too much for Howard to bear. This disagreement, known informally as the “civilization-barbarism debate,” while largely political in nature, was inherently racial at the same time, as Lovecraft (and probably Howard as well) was incapable of separating eugenic thought from his political opinions. As the debate reached its climax in July 1934, Howard conceived of one of his most-loved stories, “Beyond the Black River,” which was most likely written in August 1934 and eventually published in Weird Tales for May and June 1935. Its authorship at the height of this debate makes it possible to view the story as Howard’s rejection of Lovecraft’s argument favoring fascism, and along with it certain aspects of theories of racial ranking. We have already considered Howard’s opinions regarding his Little People and the influence on the idea of evolutionary degeneration as a result of environmental factors and racial mixing. Both the threat of the degeneration of the Anglo-Saxon race due to environmental factors (such as lack of exercise) and racial mixing are primary themes for Madison Grant and other eugenic writers in this period. To this may be added the tension that built up between Lovecraft and Howard during this epistolary exchange regarding their different perceived positions in the European racial hierarchy. Popular eugenicists, following Madison Grant and others, commonly ranked Europeans into superior Germanic Aryans, mixed-blood Alpines, and inferior Mediterraneans. While Lovecraft clearly viewed himself as a pure AngloSaxon Aryan, Howard’s position was more problematic. While he clearly identifies most of his barbarians with the Aryan race (including Araya from “The Children of the Night,” but also Conan, Kull, El Borak, and others), his fondness for the Picts causes him to struggle against contemporary racist depictions of them and elevate their status. In a 1932 letter to Lovecraft he writes, I had always felt a strange interest in the term [Picts] and the people, and now I feel a driving absorption regarding them. The writer [of a book found in a Canal Street library in New Orleans] painted the aborigines in no more admirable light than had other historians whose works I had read. His Picts were made to be sly, furtive, unwarlike, and altogether inferior to the races which followed—which is doubtless true. And yet I felt a strong sympathy for this people, and then and there adopted them as a medium of connection with ancient times. I made them a strong warlike race of barbarians, gave them an Eugenic Thought in the Works of Robert E. Howard 141 honorable history of past glories and created for them a great king—Bran Mak Morn. 36 In this exchange we can see not only the evolution of Howard’s Picts from his own research to the barbarians he would create for his Kull stories, perfect in the Bran Mak Morn tales and eventually degenerate in “Beyond the Black River,” but we also get a glimpse of Howard’s own struggle with his evolutionary position within Lovecraft’s scheme. Here we sense Howard’s admiration for a so-called inferior race that he reimagines with characteristics that Madison Grant would probably recognize as Aryan or Nordic. Howard unquestionably identifies his Irish as Aryan when he writes in his first letter to Lovecraft in 1930: “I believe that the Gaels were those Celts who remained in the original homeland of the Aryans after the ancestors of the Brythonic races moved westward.” 37 While Lovecraft’s response allows for Howard’s assumption that the original Gaels were “purely Nordic-Aryan,” in the next lines he attests that the later British Celts were of mixed Mediterranean/Aryan blood, 38 which would classify them as Alpines in Madison Grant’s scheme. We can imagine Howard struggling to understand his own place in this hierarchy, since he self-identifies with the Irish, and thus a group Lovecraft would view as a mixed Alpine race of lower status than the Anglo-Saxons. It is this racial positioning, I contend, that fuels the barbarism-civilization debate. The racial characteristics described here are important not only because they form the racial and cultural foundations of Kull, Bran Mak Morn, and Conan, but also because Howard’s fondness for tawny-skinned, dark-haired, sullen-eyed barbarians over their Roman opponents forms the backdrop of Howard and Lovecraft’s debate. In a letter dated August 9, 1930, Howard appears to agree with Lovecraft when he writes, “I believe, like you, that civilization is a natural and inevitable consequence,” though he begins to reveal his differences with Lovecraft when he concludes, “whether for good or evil I am not prepared to state.” 39 However, as the two exchange letters, it is clear that Lovecraft’s elitism begins to rub Howard the wrong way. Whereas Howard says that were he to live in another age he would be most at home among the barbarian Gaels and Goths, Lovecraft prefers the ruling class of ancient Rome in the same period. “I . . . have pride and exultation in all Roman victories, enmity toward all foes of Rome, and deep melancholy at the downfall of the Roman world,” he writes in October 1931. His sense of superiority becomes more evident a few paragraphs later when he adds: “I felt that one good Roman pagan was worth any six dozen of the cringing slum riffraff who took up with a fanatical belief” (Christianity). 40 In a December 1931 letter Howard responds, imagining himself as the outsider who could gaze on the trappings of civilization but never be a part of it: 142 Justin Everett Roman Britain! There is a magic charm to the phrase—the very, repeating of which brings up in my mind vague images, tantalizing, alluring and beautiful—white roads, marble palaces amid leafy groves, armor gleaming among the great trees, blue meres set in the tranquill [sic] slumber of waving forests, strange-eyed women whose rippling golden hair falls to their waists, the everlasting quiet of green hills in the summer sun, standards gleaming with gold— though it is always as an alien that I visualize these things. It is as a skin-clad barbarian that I stride the white roads, loiter in the shade of the green whispering groves, listen to the far elfin echo of the distant trumpet call, and gaze, half in awe and half in desire, at the white-armed women whose feet have never known the rasp of the heather, whose soft hands have never known the labor of fire-making and the cooking of meat over the open flame. I am of Britain, but it is the Britain of Pict and Gael. 41 This passage is instructive. Here we can see the developing relationship between Howard’s identification with the Celts and his evolving political position. What is most interesting about this passage, however, might be his identification with “Pict and Gael” instead of the Gael alone—an Alpine, a barbarian of mixed blood, who in Grant’s scheme and Lovecraft’s view would be positioned below the pure Nordic. Second, this illustrates that Howard’s political position favoring the barbarism of the Alpine over the civilization of the Nordic is tied to his understanding of the popular eugenics of the time. While the perceived racial and cultural differences between Howard and Lovecraft set the stage for their debate, it is in a letter from December 1930 that Howard reacts formally to Lovecraft’s philosophical position. Specifically, he reacts to an article Lovecraft enclosed with that letter, almost certainly an essay entitled “The Materialist Today,” which Lovecraft published in Driftwind in October 1926: That life is chaotic, unjust, and apparently blind and without reason or direction, anyone can see; if the universe leans either way it is toward evil rather than good, as regards life and humanity. That there is any eventual goal for the human race than extinction, I do not believe nor do I have any faith in the eventual Superman. Yet the trend of so many materialists to suppress all primitive emotions is against my every instinct. Civilization, no doubt, requires it, and peace of mind demands it, yet for myself I had rather be dead than to live in an emotionless world. The clear white lamp of science and the passionless pursuit of knowledge are not enough for me; I must live deeply and listen to the call of the common clay in me, if I am to live at all. Without emotion and instinct, I would be a dead, stagnant thing. 42 This passage illustrates not only Howard’s opposition to the technocracy of fascism and his belief that science cannot overcome evolution and instinct, but his insistence on independence and personal freedom, even in the face of personal risk. In Howard’s view, as he aptly illustrates in later letters to Eugenic Thought in the Works of Robert E. Howard 143 Lovecraft, representatives of the government, such as the police, are not to be trusted because they are apt to abuse their power for their own ends. A man must rely on himself and the gifts evolution has given him. Another aspect of this debate concerns Howard’s perception that Lovecraft viewed intellectual activity as superior to physical action. It is perhaps Lovecraft’s unfortunate comments not only about physical labor, but also about sports, that rubbed Howard the wrong way and moved him to respond that physical work was one of the necessities of life. In a particularly heated response in September 1932, Howard uses his father, a country doctor, as a prime example of the dual necessity of mental and physical work in the conduct of daily life: I have sat in colleges and listened to dried up professors mouthing their supercilious viewpoints on life and death, and I could scarcely restrain my mirth, when I compared them with my father, who, while they were sitting at ease in some dusty nook, analyzing the universe from a detached and superior point of view, he was grappling with the raw, elemental vitals of existence in the city slums or the backwood hills. . . . He went into miserable shacks and huts, and without weapons save his own will and intelligence and a few simple medicines of the time, grappled the destroyer and repeatedly overthrew him. Science? My father knows science; it is not an empty word or theory to him; it has been a spear with which he has ten thousand times hurled back death from the quivering body of a helpless victim. 43 Beyond the image of his father as a hero beating back the specter of death with a bloody scalpel, this passage reveals the raw harshness of life in west Texas in the early twentieth century, and, in Howard’s mind, the absolute triviality of thought without action. Intellect without application in the real world was a useless thing. Pure intellectualism Howard associated with civilization, and as inherently artificial and distant from the raw brutality of life. It is this distance and failure to apply thought to action, in Howard’s mind, that doomed civilizations like Rome to fail. The debate continued into 1934 with both men summarizing and firming up their positions. However, a particularly curt passage in a letter Lovecraft wrote to Howard in July 1934, just a few weeks before Howard wrote “Beyond the Black River,” resonates with the themes that Howard would address in his yarn: What I admire is human development away from the unicellular stage—development of all the powers latent within man, and encouragement of such conditions as give them scope. What I detest is human degradation and retardation in any form—violence, ugliness, ignorance, sensuality, brutality, cruelty, abnormality, filth, cloddishness, rapacity, egotism, encroachment, violations of physical or spiritual integrity, and everything that goes with a dull acquiescence in the animal patterns of the lower part of creation. 44 144 Justin Everett It is this argument, and this letter in particular, that I believe inspired Howard to respond publicly in the form of “Beyond the Black River.” It is in this story that Howard argues the opposite position: that civilization is unnatural and ultimately doomed to fail. It was “the animal patterns of the lower part of creation” that Howard viewed as essential to life. It is humanity’s animal nature, the combination of intelligence and instinct, that permits it to survive. The primary evidence for this exists within the story itself. First, in this tale Conan has a companion, Bathus, an Aquilonian scout who erroneously believes he knows how to survive in the Pictish wilderness. In most of the tales, when Conan has a companion, it is usually a female love interest whose primary duty in the tale seems to be getting carried around by Conan and getting her clothes ripped off. Only twice has Conan been furnished with an equal in the form of the pirate queen Belit and the warrior Valeria. Never did he have a male companion who shared the story with him. Further, Balthus serves as the primary viewpoint character, something that happens in no other Conan tale, and the story largely consists of dialogue between Conan and Balthus, with the latter asking questions and learning from the barbarian. It is also telling that Balthus’s name is similar to “Bassus,” one of the Roman names Lovecraft mentions in a 1931 letter as being particularly inspiring to him. 45 In a 1933 letter, Howard responds to Lovecraft’s comment that Howard glorifies barbarians by saying that “your barbarian who suffers so bitterly is no barbarian at all, but a Twentieth Century scholar brutally thrust into alien and barbaric environments.” 46 This is an apt description of Balthus, who, though he is a scout, as a courtier and a civilized man learns all too quickly that he is not suited for surviving the Pictish wilderness. For these reasons, I believe that Balthus is a representation not only of Lovecraft’s viewpoint in their argument, but of Lovecraft himself. Race may also be a consideration here. Just as Howard aligns himself with Gaels and Picts and Lovecraft considers himself a Nordic Anglo-Saxon, so Conan is best compared to Picts along the lines of Bran Mak Morn and Balthus to a Nordic Aryan. While it is true that Conan is a Cimmerian who is supposed to be a descendent of Kull’s race and thus an Atlantean, and also in some sense Aryan, the mythical makeup of Conan’s heritage matters less here than the political and social positioning of Conan in relation to Balthus. Culturally Balthus occupies a higher social position, and in the minds of the Aquilonians he is of a superior type, just as the Nordic was viewed as superior to the Alpine. Viewed in this way, the Conan–Balthus relationship mirrors both the racial and political aspects of the Howard–Lovecraft relationship. Another racial feature of the story concerns the position of the Picts themselves. In the Kull tales, the Picts are at their evolutionary high point, and by the time Bran Mak Morn arrives in the Roman period they have degenerated into gnarled shadows of their former selves, perhaps more suggestive of the Picts found in the Canal Street library book than the noble barbarians Ho- Eugenic Thought in the Works of Robert E. Howard 145 ward would have them be. In between these two historical moments is the Hyborian Age, where, while the Picts are still physically robust, they have culturally degenerated into a position of savagery. This aspect of the story, along with its wider arc, mirrors the evolutionary degeneration illustrated by the Little People tales. A second feature of this tale that makes it unusual is its thinly disguised western setting. While Aqulonia may be compared to the Roman Empire and the Pictish wilderness to ancient Germania, the plot of the story and the language used is strongly suggestive of a western tale. This is particularly relevant to the barbarism-civilization debate, because in the letters Howard often fell back upon discussions of the Old West as his primary evidence of the frailty and corruption of civilization. The plot involves Pictish attacks surrounding the suspiciously Spanish-sounding Conojahara, an Aquilonian “fort” between the Black and Thunder Rivers surrounded by “settler’s cabins.” On the Aquilonian side of the river are Roman-sounding place-names like Velitrium, whereas on the Pictish side of the river are names, in addition to the two western-sounding rivers already mentioned, called Scalp Creek and Gwawela, the village of the Pictish wizard Zogar Sag. Further, the mohawked and war-painted Picts in this story paddle about in dugout canoes and are described more in keeping with Native Americans than with the barbarian warriors of the Bran Mak Morn stories. Early in the story Howard establishes Balthus’s admiration for Conan’s primary trait of instinct, which sets him apart from civilized men: The Cimmerians were barbarians as ferocious as the Picts, and much more intelligent. Evidently Conan had spent much time among civilized men, though that contact had obviously not softened him, nor weakened any of his primitive instincts. Balthus’ apprehension turned to admiration as he marked the easy catlike stride, the effortless silence with which the Cimmerian moved along the trail. The oiled links of his armor did not clink, and Balthus knew Conan could glide through the deepest thicket or the most tangled copse as noiselessly as any Pict who ever lived. 47 In contrast, Conan comments on how Aquilonians, even woodsmen, are ill prepared for the wilderness when he states, “I’ve seen good woodsmen from the Tauran. But the Bossonians have sheltered you Aquilonians from the outer wilderness for too many centuries. You need hardening.” 48 Later in the story this point is emphasized again when Conan, Balthus, and other frontiersmen are captured and tied to posts by Zogar Sag’s Picts. Though like other civilized men he doubts the wizard’s magic as Pictish superstition, Balthus is enlightened when he witnesses the wizard’s control over a saber-toothed cat and a giant venomous snake. After the cat has ripped one of his companions from his stake and the snake is about to kill Balthus, Conan “streaked from the shadows of the huts, and the great reptile whipped 146 Justin Everett about and went into instant convulsions. As in a dream Balthus saw a short throwing spear transfixing the mighty neck, just below the gaping jaws.” 49 A few pages later Conan illustrates how both his knowledge of the world and his gift of primal instinct are keys to his survival. As they flee, Balthus realizes that the wizard’s cat is on their tail. When Balthus wonders why Zogar Sag can command some beasts and not others, Conan informs him that “[o]nly such as remember [the ancient wizard] Jhebbal Sag” can be commanded; “[o]nce all living things worshipped him. That was long ago, when beasts and men spoke the same tongue.” 50 Conan elaborates further: “Civilized men laugh,” said Conan. “But not one can tell me how Zogar Sag can call pythons and tigers and leopards out of the wilderness and make them do his bidding. They would say it is a lie, if they dared. That’s the way with civilized men. When they can’t explain something by their half-baked science, they refuse to believe it.” 51 This comment, I believe, is directed toward Lovecraft and their debate. Howard argues here that intellect alone counts for nothing, but is only worthwhile when it is coupled with instinct a few lines later. Conan applies the knowledge he has gained in his travels by drawing in the dirt an image that he “saw carved in the rock of a cave no human had visited in a million years.” 52 Balthus realizes how much Conan has in common with the beast as he watches the cat inspect the sigil: The barbarian’s eyes were smoldering with fires that never lit the eyes of men bred to the ideas of civilization. In that instant he was all wild, and had forgotten the man at his side. In his burning gaze Balthus glimpsed and vaguely recognized pristine images and half-embedded memories, shadows from Life’s dawn, forgotten and repudiated by sophisticated races—ancient, primeval phantasms unnamed and nameless. 53 “We’ve no more to fear from the beasts,” 54 Conan declares after a moment. It is then that Balthus recognizes that Conan is possessed of an animal instinct he himself does not have at his disposal. As a civilized man, he is but half a man. Conan, possessed of both intelligence and instinct, is a complete man. The rest of the story consists of the Picts’ attack on the fort and the settlers’ cabins. In contrast to other tales, Conan concedes defeat and tells Balthus that the only hope they have is to retreat back across the river. That Balthus has learned a lesson from Conan is evident when he says, “They’ll not rebuild the fort,” 55 and states the tale’s theme when he says, “Barbarism is the natural state of mankind. . . . Civilization is unnatural. It is a whim of circumstance. And barbarism must ultimately triumph.” 56 Though civilization-barbarism debate would continue until Howard’s suicide in 1936, including a passage in one of Lovecraft’s letters that seems to respond to the Eugenic Thought in the Works of Robert E. Howard 147 story’s appearance in Weird Tales, this story is Howard’s best, if not final, word on the subject. CODA Throughout this chapter we have considered the influence of eugenic thought on Howard’s work. This does not imply that Howard was familiar with the details of the then-current science of eugenics as revealed in the work of Francis Galton, Charles Davenport, Madison Grant, and others; rather, he appears to have absorbed popular culture notions of eugenics as understood by the public at large. In particular, we have considered the influence of fear of evolutionary degeneration and atavism, especially as revealed in Howard’s Little People stories; the idea of isolating “degenerates” in asylums in order to prevent inbreeding and the appearance of racial hybrids as revealed in “The Worms of the Earth,” and—perhaps most important of all—Howard’s own struggle with his place within the eugenic evolutionary hierarchy as illustrated by his barbarism-civilization debate with H. P. Lovecraft and his probable response in “Beyond the Black River.” In this argument Howard is positioned between his self-identification as an Anglo-Saxon Nordic and his attraction to the lower-order Mediterraneans, who, in his imagination, are closer to nature, free of the weaknesses provided by civilization, and better suited to survive. With this in mind, while Howard endorsed the ideas of scientific racism so prevalent in his time, he also questioned them. The legacy we are left with is the knowledge that the new genres produced in this time, including Howard’s own contribution of sword-and-sorcery, have eugenic DNA. Where they come from is less important than what we do with them now and in the future. NOTES 1. Principles of Biology, Vol. 1 (London: Williams and Norgate, 1864), 444. 2. Francis Galton, “The Possible Improvement of the Human Breed,” in Essays in Eugenics (London: Eugenics Education Society, 1909), 24. 3. Francis Galton, Inquiries into Human Faculty and Its Development (London: J. M. Dent & Sons, 1907), 2. 4. Cesare Lombroso, Criminal Man, trans. Mary Gibson and Nicole Hahn (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2006), 222. 5. H. G. Wells, “Zoological Retrogression,” Gentleman’s Magazine 271 (1891): 246–53. en.wikisource.org/wiki/Zoological_Retrogression (accessed January 27, 2015). 6. Herbert Spencer, The Principles of Sociology (New York: D. Appleton, 1906), 1.97. 7. Ronald Ladouceur, “Eugenics in High School and College Texts Graphed,” Textbook History, www.textbookhistory.com/eugenics-high-school-college-texts-graphed (accessed January 26, 2014). 8. I am indebted to Rusty Burke and Rob Rohm for their help in securing a photocopy of Howard’s high school biology notebook. 148 Justin Everett 9. Richard W. Sharpe, A Laboratory Manual for the Solution of Problems in Biology (New York: American Book Co., 1911), 4. 10. Rusty Burke, “Witwer, H. C.,” The Robert E. Howard Bookshelf (n.p.: Robert E. Howard Amateur Press Association, 1998), www.rehupa.com/OLDWEB/ bookshelf_w (accessed July 5, 2014). 11. William J. Robinson, Fewer and Better Babies: Birth Control, or The Limitation of Offspring by Prevention (New York: Eugenics, 1927), 124. 12. S. T. Joshi, David E. Schultz, and Rusty Burke, eds., A Means to Freedom: The Letters of H. P. Lovecraft and Robert E. Howard (New York: Hippocampus Press, 2009), 27. 13. Ibid., 33. 14. Patrice Louinet, email message to Pulp Studies List, July 2, 2014. 15. Arthur Machen, “The Shining Pyramid,” Project Gutenberg Australia, gutenberg.net.au/ ebooks06/0606971.txt (accessed July 6, 2014). 16. Robert E. Howard, The Horror Stories of Robert E. Howard, ed. Rusty Burke (New York: Del Rey, 2008), 44. 17. Jeffrey Shanks, “Evolutionary Otherness: Anthropological Anxiety in Robert E. Howard’s ‘Worms of the Earth’” (paper presented at the thirty-fifth annual Conference for the Fantastic in the Arts, Orlando, FL, March 21, 2014). See also Shanks’s chapter in this volume. 18. Howard, Horror Stories, 44. 19. Ibid., 47. 20. Ibid., 144. 21. “Race suicide,” through breeding with non-Anglo-Saxon stock, was a common theme of the popular eugenics of the time, as illustrated in the popularity of Madison Grant’s The Passing of the Great Race, which went through four editions between 1916 and 1921. The popularity of this book in the 1920s and early 1930s is verified by the fact that the fourth edition underwent seven printings between August 1921 and May 1932. 22. Howard, Horror Stories, 148. 23. Ibid., 151. 24. Ibid., 152. 25. Ibid., 208. 26. Ibid., 247. 27. Ibid. 28. Ibid., 252. 29. Ibid., 253. 30. Ibid. 31. Ibid., 261. 32. Ibid., 262. 33. Ibid., 264. 34. Ibid., 267. 35. Ibid. 36. Joshi et al., Means to Freedom, 254–55. 37. Ibid., 18. 38. Ibid., 25. 39. Ibid., 37. 40. Ibid., 234. 41. Ibid., 238. 42. Ibid., 112. 43. Ibid., 380. 44. Ibid., 798. 45. Ibid., 234. 46. Ibid., 597. 47. Robert E. Howard, The Conquering Sword of Conan, ed. Patrice Louinet (New York: Del Rey, 2005), 48. 48. Ibid., 49. 49. Ibid., 70. 50. Ibid., 75. Eugenic Thought in the Works of Robert E. Howard 51. 52. 53. 54. 55. 56. Ibid. Ibid. Ibid., 76. Ibid. Ibid., 100. Ibid. 149 Part III Masters of the Weird: Other Authors of Weird Tales Chapter Ten Pegasus Unbridled Clark Ashton Smith and the Ghettoization of the Fantastic 1 Scott Connors I know the freedom of fantastic things, Ranging in fantasy. I leap and bound and run Below another sun. Was it not well to flee Long, long ago, lest man should bridle me? —Clark Ashton Smith, “The Centaur” Robert Bloch, the acclaimed author of Psycho, once speculated, in a 1941 article for Writer’s Digest, upon the reception that Edgar Allan Poe would receive were he to write an acknowledged classic such as “The Pit and the Pendulum” today. If Poe had asked him for advice on where to submit it, Bloch would not have been encouraging: You, Mr. Poe, usually submitted your tales to the leading literary periodicals of your day. But don’t try it now. Do you think Atlantic Monthly or Harper’s want such material? Not on your life. Neither does Esquire or The Saturday Evening Post. Of course, you might try the pulps. Go ahead, Mr. Poe. Try the pulps with your classic. I’ve got a list of magazines with titles right up your alley. Thrilling Mystery, Horror Stories, Terror Tales, Dime Mystery. But submit your yarn and see what you get. A mimeographed “page” giving a formula for saleable fantasy. 2 Bloch was not the first to note that selling quality fiction dealing with the macabre, the weird, or the supernatural had become problematic. Henry S. 153 154 Scott Connors Whitehead had observed as early as 1926 that Weird Tales was the “only . . . market in the English-speaking world for the occult short story.” 3 Yet it was not so long ago, he related, that such stories could be found in popular magazines such as the British Strand, and that a substantial portion of the work of such well-known writers as Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Rudyard Kipling, and W. W. Jacobs fell into the genre. For instance, the issue of Collier’s for December 16, 1905, contained F. Marion Crawford’s vampire story “For the Blood Is the Life,” and Edith Wharton’s ghostly tale “Afterward” was first published in the Century for January 1910. Both stories have been frequently anthologized. “It is a still unanswered question,” writes S. T. Joshi, “whether the emergence of the pulps caused mainstream magazines to scorn weird fiction . . . or whether the departure of weird fiction from mainstream magazines led to or fostered the development of the pulps.” 4 Regardless of the answer to this riddle, it is quite clear that as the divide between so-called highbrow and lowbrow cultures widened, many literary people came to regard all pulp literature as “basically trash, or something very close to it.” 5 We need look no further than Edmund Wilson’s dismissal of H. P. Lovecraft, whose work he scorned as “hack-work contributed to such publications as Weird Tales and Astounding Stories, where, in my opinion, they ought to have been left.” 6 Regardless of the cause, by the time Clark Ashton Smith started writing such stories, Weird Tales and its peers were the only venues that were receptive to imaginative or fantastic works such as his. Smith was a California poet and painter who, between 1929 and 1935, wrote approximately one hundred extraordinary tales “of inconceivable fear and unimaginable love.” 7 Smith’s poetry had been published in such venues as the Yale Review, Poetry, Current Literature, the London Academy, the London Mercury, Ainslee’s, Pearson’s Magazine, the Saturday Review, the Laughing Horse, and other publications reflecting both mainstream and avant-garde sensibilities, but the market for his stories was largely confined to such publications as Weird Tales, Strange Tales, and Wonder Stories. He had begun his career as a published author with a series of Oriental contes cruels and adventure stories that were published in the Black Cat and the Overland Monthly. Under the mentorship of the renowned California poet George Sterling, Smith came to think of himself primarily as a poet. As such he regarded prose as a lesser form of expression, as evidenced in such statements as “I don’t blame you for writing prose, if you can make money by it. But it’s a hateful task, for a poet, and wouldn’t be necessary, in any true civilization.” 8 Except for two exercises in romantic irony that he sold to risqué publications such as 10 Story Book, Smith’s only prose writings consisted of the prose poems that he collected in Ebony and Crystal (1922). His correspondence with Lovecraft proved to Smith that there were artistic possibilities in the weird tale, and in 1925 he wrote “The Abominations of Pegasus Unbridled 155 Yondo,” the first of his stories that could accurately be described as “weird fiction” or fantasy. Smith had submitted it to Weird Tales, Lovecraft’s chief venue and a market to which he had sold many poems since it was founded in 1923, but editor Farnsworth Wright rejected it as being “a prose poem rather than a weird narrative.” 9 Sterling arranged for it to be published in the Overland Monthly. Much to Smith’s delight, Sterling passed along the report that it had “awoke many protests from the mentally infirm.” 10 Sterling had earlier warned Smith that “[y]ou are truly naÑ—ve in imagining that you could have the ‘Yondo’ poem accepted by any magazine that pays!” He went on to warn Smith, “All highbrows think the ‘Yondo’ material outworn and childish. The daemonic is done for, for the present, so far as our contemporaries go, and imagination must seek other fields.” 11 This is hardly a sentiment that one would expect from the poet who wrote “The blue-eyed vampire, sated at her feast, / Smiles bloodily against the leprous moon.” 12 But in the years since Sterling first penned those lines in “A Wine of Wizardry,” his self-confidence began to waver before repeated attacks on his work by critics such as Harriet Monroe. As he grew older, Sterling was befriended by writers such as Theodore Dreiser and H. L. Mencken, who were hardly advocates of the type of romantic or symbolist fantasy that had first drawn Smith to the older poet’s work. In his penultimate letter to his young protégé, Sterling asserted that “[it] is disquieting to observe that the whole intellectual (including of course the esthetic) trend is increasingly against admiration of the daemonic, the supernatural. Such elements now seem only to awaken smiles, as being childish in their nature and no part of the future vision of the race.” 13 This is surprising at first glance: it had not been long since Arthur Machen achieved cult status, thanks to the efforts of enthusiasts such as Vincent Starrett and Carl Van Vechten; that James Branch Cabell was at the height of his popularity and critical acclaim; and that Lord Dunsany’s books and plays made him America’s favorite lord. Wesley D. Sweetser reminds us that the 1920s were a decade of literary experimentation, where the realism espoused by Ben Hecht, F. Scott Fitzgerald, and Ernest Hemingway could coexist with the last gasps of the aesthetic-decadent school with which not only Machen but also Sterling and Smith were associated. 14 But by 1926 the market had collapsed for Machen’s books, so that his royalties from his American publisher for this period amounted to a mere twenty-five dollars; 15 Cabell’s reputation had begun its downward spiral as a result of overexposure through the massive eighteen-volume Storisende edition of the Biography of the Life of Manuel; 16 and Dunsany was in the process of abandoning his earlier style of fantasy: as Lovecraft observed, “As he gained in age and sophistication, he lost in freshness and simplicity.” 17 It appears as though Sterling had been won over by the new humanists, a critical movement led by Harvard professor Irving Babbitt (who was a men- 156 Scott Connors tor of T. S. Eliot). They stressed the human elements of experience over supernatural and attacked romanticism for its embrace of individualism and emotionalism. Babbitt taught that literature was most “vital” when it was subordinate to the affirmation of “a general nature, a core of normal experience” that was open to most normal people. 18 Sterling expressed this shift in his aesthetic views in a 1925 letter to Smith wherein he wrote, “As one grows older, one takes pleasure in writing things that have a vital value, a human relationship, as apart from ‘the literature of escape.’” 19 Smith rejected the judgment of Sterling’s “highbrows,” asserting, I can’t agree with the high-brows that the weird is dead either in poetry or anywhere else. They’re all suffering from mechanized imaginations. But, I, for one, refuse to submit to the arid, earth-bound spirit of the time; and I think there is sure to be a romantic revival sooner or later—a revolt against mechanization and over-socialization, etc. If there isn’t then I hope to hell my next incarnation will be in some happier and freer planet. Neither the ethics nor the aesthetics of the ant-hill have any attraction for me. 20 Smith rejected the charge of escapism, asserting that “[a]nything that the human imagination can conceive of becomes thereby a part of life, and poetry such as mine, properly considered, is not an escape, but an extension.” 21 He would later expand upon this in a letter to Lovecraft, asserting that “there is absolutely no justification for literature unless it serves to release the imagination from the bounds of every-day life. I have undergone a complete revulsion against the purely realistic school, including the French, and can no longer stomach even Anatole France,” 22 as well as in a series of letters and essays printed in the fantastic pulps and the “fanzines” that grew up around them. By 1927 Smith was struggling to support his aged and increasingly infirm parents. During a camping trip to the Sierra Nevada mountains in September of that year, Smith’s friend Genevieve K. Sully took him “to task for idleness” and suggested that he try his hand at writing fiction for the pulps. Smith responded by pledging himself to the task, and later said, “Once started, the pledge has not been hard to keep.” Besides the remuneration that fiction sales would bring to the family coffers, Smith confided, “I need an imaginative escape from the human aquarium—and, moreover, a ‘safety-valve’ to keep from blowing up and disrupting the whole countryside. And, beyond all this, I am finding a pleasure in fiction-writing, and deriving a mental ‘kick’ from it which I seldom got from poetry.” 23 Between September 1929, when he wrote “The Last Incantation,” and December 1929, Smith completed no fewer than ten stories, five of which were promptly accepted by Farnsworth Wright for Weird Tales, with two more eventually being accepted after reconsideration or revision. Smith duly reported this activity to his literary admirers. While Smith acknowledged that Pegasus Unbridled 157 his stories were “hardly representative of the fashionable thing among the ‘intelligentia’” [sic], he apologetically explained that “they are the only sort of fiction that amuses me.” 24 Smith’s correspondence contains ample evidence that he was greatly enjoying the freedom of expression that his fiction writing provided him. For instance, he wrote to his patron Albert M. Bender, “I have derived no end of fun from the concoction of these stories”; 25 and to Donald Wandrei, “I’ve gotten a huge kick out of writing these stories”; 26 and to August Derleth, “My fiction writing is mainly a matter of the past year and I could wish I had applied myself to it sooner.” 27 Smith’s letters during the early months of his career as a pulp fictioneer bubble with optimism. He reveled in their composition, bragging that “there seems to be no limit to the prose, some of which I write with as much facility as if it were being dictated to me!” 28 In another letter to Wandrei, Smith demonstrated his conversion to the notion that “[t]here is undoubtedly a public for fantastic fiction” 29 and had visions of books by him, as well as by Lovecraft and Wandrei, dancing in his head. Such melioristic pronouncements as “It may seem a bold project to make a living from fantastic fiction of a high literary type, but I believe it can be done” went in tandem with the dire realization that “[i]n fact, I shall have to do it—or else take to ditch-digging. I have no other alternative, since I am not fitted for business or any of the professions.” 30 The realities of modern publishing would, unfortunately, temper this initial optimism. It would soon become clear that his stories were too outré for the slicks and too sophisticated for all but a handful of pulp editors. Smith’s main, and for some little while only, market for the fantastic was Weird Tales, which was established in 1923 by J. C. Henneberger, who also published College Humor, a predecessor of National Lampoon. Whereas earlier pulps, such as those published by Frank A. Munsey, offered a wide variety of fiction, including so-called queer stories such as Edgar Rice Burroughs’s “Under the Moons of Mars” (All Story, February–July 1912) or Irvin S. Cobb’s “Fishhead” (Cavalier, January 11, 1913), a new class of magazines that were aimed at specifically targeted audiences, mostly male and working class, had begun to appear during the Great War, with one of the earliest beginning Street and Smith’s Detective Story Weekly (1915). Joshi observes, “It was in the pulps that the genres as we know them—the western, the horror story, the detective story, the love story, the science fiction tale— all became viable forms of popular writing.” But, as noted earlier, as these specialty publications appeared it became more and more rare for the socalled slicks to publish “genre fiction . . . except when written by especially eminent authors.” 31 For instance, not long before “The Abominations of Yondo” appeared in the Overland Monthly, one of the greatest ghost stories of all time appeared in the July 1926 issue of Harper’s Bazaar: D. H. Lawrence’s “The Rocking-Horse Winner.” 158 Scott Connors Smith himself recognized this early on, in terms that foreshadowed those used by Bloch quoted earlier: [M]any of the yarns in “Wonder Stories” and “Amazing Stories” [are] interesting for their ideas. One can’t even find ideas in the other classes of magazines—all of them, from the “Atlantic” to the wild-west thrillers, are hidebound and hog-tied with traditions of unutterable dullness. The other day, when I got out the “W. T.” containing your “Dunwich Horror,” to loan to a friend, I noticed that it also included a reprint of “The Diamond Lens” by FitzJames O’Brien, which first appeared in the “Atlantic” back in 1858. I couldn’t help musing on what would be the fate of this fine story if it were submitted to the “Atlantic” now for the first time. 32 “The end result,” Joshi asserts, “was the ghettoization of these genres” so that “even today certain snobbish critics still disdain this work on principle” despite the appearance in the pulps of such writers as Dashiell Hammett, Raymond Chandler, Tennessee Williams, Ray Bradbury, H. P. Lovecraft, and of course Clark Ashton Smith. 33 The editor of Weird Tales for the period of Smith’s greatest productivity as a fiction writer was Farnsworth Wright (1888–1940). Wright was an educated man of good taste; like Smith he was a native Californian and had work published in the Overland Monthly. However, due to the magazine’s precarious financial condition, Wright had a regrettable habit of underestimating the taste of his readership and turned down worthwhile stories, some of which are now regarded as classics, because he was unsure whether the hypothetical “average reader” would be turned off by them. His rejections of Lovecraft’s best work have become legendary, but he also turned down, at least initially, such stories as Donald Wandrei’s “The Red Brain,” August Derleth’s “The Panelled Room,” and Carl Jacobi’s “Revelations in Black.” Despite this, Smith defended the magazine because “in spite of certain cheapnesses [Weird Tales] is about the only periodical in America that is hospitable to imaginative literature of a high class.” 34 Between September 1929 and the end of 1930, Smith submitted twentysix stories to Wright. Of these, Wright accepted eleven for Weird Tales on first submission (plus two that were published in Weird Tales’s companion magazine Magic Carpet/Oriental Stories); rejected but ultimately accepted three stories; and rejected the remainder (although he would accept three of these toward the end of his tenure as editor, since other stories by Smith were not forthcoming). Of the ten stories that Wright rejected outright, Smith was able to find paying markets for four of them. Wright’s most frequent excuse for rejecting a story was that it was “unconvincing,” but in regard to the others Wright expressed the fear that they would not appeal to his readership, while assuring Smith that he had personally enjoyed them. At first Smith took these rejections in stride, more or less: “Wright is certainly capricious in Pegasus Unbridled 159 his rejections and acceptances; though I, for one, am the last to blame him for trying to please his public. But it seems to me that he makes mistakes even from this view-point.” 35 Wright would occasionally surprise Smith by accepting a story that he expected would not meet with approval, as with “The Uncharted Isle,” which he thought unsellable due to its “subversive pessimism and nihilism.” 36 By the end of 1930 Wright had no fewer than eight stories or novelettes by Smith in inventory. He had effectively saturated this market. The news that Weird Tales would become a bimonthly magazine in 1931 seemed to be the final nail in the coffin, even though this new schedule would only last for a few issues. One factor that might have affected Wright’s rejection of several Smith stories was the possibility of the seizure or banning of an issue by censors. As Sam Moskowitz has observed, some of Smith’s stories “all but exceed the tolerance factor for physical horror of the average reader.” 37 Wright rejected stories such as “The Return of the Sorcerer” and “The Dweller in the Gulf” for gruesomeness. Weird Tales had run into difficulty with authorities in Indiana when C. M. Eddy Jr.’s story “The Loved Dead” (which was either extensively revised or ghostwritten by Lovecraft) was published in the May–June–July 1924 issue; “ever since,” complained Lovecraft, Wright “has been in a continual panic about censorship.” 38 Other forms of popular entertainment continued to encounter similar problems, so Wright’s jitteriness was not unrealistic. Motion pictures such as The Island of Lost Souls (1932) and The Raven (1935) were considered shocking at the time and were greeted with outrage by civic groups and cuts from film censors. To cite just one example: after the James Whale–directed 1931 version of Frankenstein was released, civic groups pressured the Motion Picture Theatre Owners Association to discourage producers from making horror movies. 39 The issue of censorship brings us back again to the question of whether the pulps drove weird fiction from the slicks, or if they were filling a vacuum caused by the reluctance of mainstream periodicals to publish tales of the mysterious and macabre. These incidents suggest that a vocal portion of consumers of popular culture found physical horror objectionable enough to warrant state intervention. When considered along with other actions of censorship undertaken against modernist writers such as James Joyce, it suggests that the editors of these magazines decided to avoid controversy by exercising their role as literary gatekeepers in a proscriptive manner, refusing to publish anything that, as Thomas Benediktsson observed, “could not be read by the women of the family circle.” 40 From the start Smith tried to develop new markets for his fiction. He consulted trade journals such as Writer’s Digest for information on possible targets and read samples of magazines to develop a “feel” for what each editor was seeking. Although he would sometimes take a chance on nonpulp markets, submitting stories to the Atlantic Monthly 41 or even the New Or- 160 Scott Connors leans Times–Picayune (to which he sent “The Devotee of Evil”), 42 Smith proved himself to be an accurate prognosticator when he wryly observed to Derleth: “Personally, I can see that I’m doomed to the writing of scientifiction.” 43 The oldest of the science fiction magazines was Amazing Stories. Although Smith professed to be “appalled by the increasing pedantry of its contents,” 44 he still submitted “The Tale of Satampra Zeiros” to its editor, T. O’Conor Sloane. 45 He also wrote “The Immeasurable Horror” specifically for Amazing, only to see it ultimately end up with Weird Tales. 46 Sloane could take as long as six months to respond to story submissions. 47 This was apparently not uncommon among the more unscrupulous pulp editors, since it allowed them to maintain their story inventories at no cost until actual publication. 48 After repeated rejections, Smith concluded that Sloane seemed “to have a fixed prejudice against my stuff as not being sufficiently scientific.” 49 Ultimately Smith placed only one story, “The Plutonian Drug,” with Amazing Stories, which was submitted in April 1932 50 but not published until September 1934. Amazing Stories paid only one-half cent per word, which was less than any of Smith’s other prospective markets. Astounding Stories of Super-Science was one of several magazines published by William Clayton. Smith did not think much of it, describing it as the “crudest of the pseudo-scientific group.” 51 It specialized in what Smith described, in a letter published in Amazing Stories, as “ordinary adventure stories with a futuristic or ultra-planetary setting.” 52 However, it paid two cents a word on acceptance, making it the best paying of the fantastic pulps. Unfortunately, all Smith’s submissions were rejected by editor Harry Bates “as being ‘too high-brow’ or as ‘lacking action.’” 53 As we shall see later, Smith would later establish an excellent relationship with Bates, but despite his attempts to put more action into such stories as “The Invisible City” and “The Immortals of Mercury,” Bates would continue to reject his science fiction because it lacked “human interest, which is doubtless true.” 54 A much more favorable market opened up to Smith when Clayton decided to publish Strange Tales of Mystery and Terror, a competitor to Weird Tales. While the new magazine, also edited by Bates, would match or exceed its companion magazines’ word rates, Smith worried that it would also “bank pretty strongly on popular plot-appeal, like the other Clayton publications.” 55 He was pleasantly surprised to discover that, at least as regarding weird fiction, “Bates seems to have a glimmering of taste” and was permitted by the publisher to print “an occasional tale of the poetic and atmospheric type.” 56 Bates would publish five of Smith stories and accept three more. Some of these stories had been rejected by Wright as “unconvincing” (“The Door to Saturn”) 57 or as too gruesome (“The Return of the Sorcerer”), which struck Smith as fortuitous, since he ended up with twice the usual Weird Pegasus Unbridled 161 Tales rate. 58 Unfortunately, Strange Tales ceased publication with its March 1933 issue, when the Clayton magazines went out of business. Although Amazing Stories was the earliest science fiction magazine, the senior publisher of the still-novel genre was Hugo Gernsback. He was a Luxemburg-born immigrant with an evangelical zeal who had founded the magazine in 1926 for the purpose of promoting science fiction as a force for the popularization of science fact. Gernsback lost control of the magazine early in 1929, but almost immediately he started a new magazine that went through several name changes until it finally was called Wonder Stories. Smith’s first sale was a Wright reject, “A Murder in the Fourth Dimension,” which Gernsback’s editor, David Lasser, accepted for a companion magazine, Amazing Detective Stories. It was fortunate for Smith that his entry into the field coincided with a realization by Lasser that the literary quality of the stories in their magazines needed improvement. “We needed more imagination in the stories,” Lasser would later tell Eric Leif Davin, and Clark Ashton Smith was just the man to provide it. 59 Clark Ashton Smith was probably, as Mike Ashley notes, the most original writer to appear in Wonder Stories, 60 but the relationship was never a comfortable fit for either party. After the first story that Smith wrote especially for Wonder Stories, “Marooned in Andromeda” (October 1930), was accepted, Lasser asked him to write an entire series featuring the same characters. Smith was excited about the “undeniable possibilities in such stories—even though I would rather drop the stale paraphernalia of ether-ships, gas-masks, etc., and the personnel of terrestrial explorers, and plunge into something wholly ultra-terrene and belonging to the Beyond.” 61 Lasser and Smith quickly established a working relationship that was not without a certain amount of friction, as the former attempted to develop Smith into a more conventional pulp writer. He suggested specific story ideas that Smith utilized, with varying degrees of enthusiasm; this resulted in such stories as “An Adventure in Futurity” and “The Dimension of Chance,” neither of which are likely to show up on any list of Smith’s best stories. But Lasser and Gernsback also had “the perspicacity to print some of [his] more out-ofthe-way stuff which no one else would touch,” 62 such as “A Star-Change” (published as “The Visitors from Mlok,” Wonder Stories, May 1933) and “The Eternal World” (Wonder Stories, March 1932). Competition from Astounding Stories, which led all the fantastic pulps in sales, prompted changes in Wonder Stories’s editorial policy. Ashley quotes a letter that Gernsback wrote to Edmond Hamilton earlier that year to the effect that “we are besieged by our readers to incorporate more action in our stories.” 63 Not only did Gernsback reject “The Red World of Polaris,” the sequel to “Marooned in Andromeda” that Smith wrote specifically at Lasser’s request, but Lasser clarified Wonder Stories’s editorial requirements, which Smith summarized rather acerbically in his own correspondence: 162 Scott Connors “A play of human motives, with alien worlds for a background.” But if human motives are mainly what they want, why bother about going to other planets— where one might conceivably escape from the human equation? The idea of using the worlds of Alioth or Altair as a mere setting for the squabbles and heroics of the crew on a space-ship (which, in essence, is about what they are suggesting) is too rich for any use. 64 Action was the new word of the day, and atmosphere was no longer required. Lasser warned Smith that Wonder Stories was “not interested in weird tales” or any “bizarre scientific themes,” which of course was Smith’s forte. 65 As regards individual stories, Lasser wrote of “The Eternal World” that while it had “an excellent idea,” Smith’s descriptions relied too heavily on “strange and bizarre words,” and that they were “so long that the story hardly moves and although it is true that you are describing a timeless world in which nothing happens, you cannot afford to have your story be a ‘timeless one.’” 66 The friction culminated when Lasser rewrote the ending of Smith’s tale of horror set in the caverns of Mars, “The Dweller in the Gulf.” Editorial philistinism was not the only problem that Smith encountered while writing for the science fiction pulps. Some science fiction fans hoped that science fiction might become more respectable by embracing the form, if not the substance, of realism. As early as 1932, a letter published in Amazing Stories stated that the proper intent of a science fiction story was “to show a cross-section of a man’s life, at a point where he is faced with some problem” and to portray “the breakdown or building up of his character, or the way he reacts to the test.” 67 Smith replied that this definition of literature was “rather narrow and limited” and offered the opposing opinion that “imaginative stories offer a welcome and salutary release from the somewhat oppressive tyranny of the homocentric, and help to correct the deeply introverted, ingrowing values that are fostered by present-day ‘humanism’ and realistic literature with its unhealthy materialism and earth-bound trend.” 68 This type of fan would return to plague Smith. For a glorious period in the early 1930s, Smith was selling his stories regularly to Weird Tales, Strange Tales, and Wonder Stories. He would often have two, even three stories, on the newsstands at the same time. This allowed him more freedom in his writing, as what one editor rejected might be accepted by another. It is probable that “The Nameless Offspring” would not have been written, let alone published, had Strange Tales not existed, since Smith recognized that “its commercial chances are pretty nil” 69 as far as Wright was concerned, because he would probably have been too squeamish to take the story because of the necrophagia and also the sexual element. Bates, on the other hand, was more open to purely gruesome material, such as “The Return of the Sorcerer,” also rejected by Wright, while also being personally receptive to Smith’s more outré stories such as “The Door to Pegasus Unbridled 163 Saturn.” However, selling to a mere three markets limited Smith’s possible sales, since no matter how many stories Smith wrote, he could only appear in a mere eighteen to thirty issues a year (Wonder Stories was a monthly, Weird Tales a monthly except for a brief period in 1931, and Strange Tales was on a bimonthly schedule). Most markets paid on publication (the Clayton magazines theoretically paid upon acceptance, but contemporary circumstances often frustrated their intentions). Another factor that limited Smith’s sales was editorial reluctance to have too many stories by one author in stock. Smith’s friend E. Hoffmann Price pointed out that “to have an oversupply of any writer’s work might prevent his accepting desirable and quite different scripts.” 70 Smith continued to seek out new markets. He sold “The Satyr” to La Paree Stories, which was a borderline pornographic magazine featuring photographs of nude women, and “The Willow Landscape” to the Philippine Magazine in Manila, but neither of them had the potential for repeat sales (although he did sell a “prose pastel” to the latter). One particularly desirable market was Ghost Stories, which, like the Clayton magazines, paid two cents a word. It was published by Bernarr Macfadden, a publisher who specialized in “true confession” magazines and featured allegedly true accounts of hauntings and other psychic occurrences, illustrated by trick photography. While Ghost Stories did publish writers such as Algernon Blackwood, E. F. Benson, and Lady Cynthia Asquith (sometimes pseudonymously, often reprinted), Smith’s assessment is fairly accurate: “[O]ne or two of the ‘Weird Tales’ contributors have had stories in it; so there may be a chance for me. W. T. at its worst is a compendium of classics in comparison.” 71 The editor at this time was Harold Hersey, with whom Smith had a prior editorial relationship (Hersey had purchased some of Smith’s sonnets for the Thrill Book), and initial correspondence was promising: “The stuff I have sent in, such as ‘Medusa’ and ‘The Ghoul,’ has evidently been read carefully, and has drawn personal letters. I even submitted ‘The Willow Landscape,’ though with no idea that it would have any real chance, and drew the only editorial compliment (‘very charming and poetic’) which this tale has yet received.” 72 Despite this encouragement, Smith never sold to Ghost Stories, for much the same reasons Will Murray gave to explain why Lovecraft never sold to them: “Ghost Stories had an ironclad slant and it sold respectably for many years. It was not interested in stories out of tune with its intended audience, which would seem to have been primarily women interested in spiritualism and astrology—much the same readers who bought Macfadden’s confession titles.” 73 Hugo Gernsback’s editorial tampering with the ending of “The Dweller in the Gulf,” combined with his reluctance to pay his authors monies owed 164 Scott Connors them, so infuriated Smith that he never submitted to him again, even after Lasser was replaced by wunderkind fanzine editor Charles D. Hornig, who would dedicate an issue of the Fantasy Fan to him: Smith would rather give away stories to a nonpaying market than suffer such rude treatment at the hands of the man he and Lovecraft called “Hugo the Rat.” The simultaneous collapse of Strange Tales “certainly sends my financial prospects glimmering. Also, it leaves Wright the monarch of all he surveys, as far as weird fiction is concerned. It’s bad all around.” 74 The publication of “The Dweller in the Gulf” in Wonder Stories (under the title “The Dweller in the Martian Depths”) precipitated a backlash among a contingent of science fiction fans who objected to anything that smacked of the fantastical or supernatural in their “scientifiction,” a backlash that was similar to that which occurred when some of the readers of Astounding Stories attacked Lovecraft when that magazine published At the Mountains of Madness and “The Shadow out of Time.” Forrest J. Ackerman’s attack on the story, and on Smith in general, that appeared in the Fantasy Fan’s “The Boiling Point” column is the best known, but other letters that lacked even the veneer of civility affected by Ackerman soon appeared both in the Fantasy Fan and the letter columns of Wonder Stories. 75 The aftershocks of this ruckus continued for several months. After the failure of the Clayton magazines, Astounding Stories was purchased by Street & Smith and resumed publication with the October 1933 issue under the editorship of F. Orlin Tremaine. The new magazine at first indicated that it would be receptive to one or two weird stories per issue, and Smith was surprised when it accepted “The Demon of the Flower” for the December 1933 issue. Smith sent Lovecraft a hopeful postcard stating, “It is certainly encouraging if they will buy work so out-of-the-way as that yarn, which Wright and Clayton thought too recherché.” 76 Donald Wandrei had become a regular contributor to the Tremaine-edited Astounding, which Smith duly noted: I have followed your stories in “Astounding,” always with interest. The magazine, it strikes me, is an improvement on its Clayton avatar: at least, there are fewer stories with formula plots, and more stress on ideas. Certainly it offers a first-rate market; and I must try to revive my one-time interest in the writing of science fiction. The idiotic criticisms of a certain class of readers have disgusted me deeply; but one should remember that the unimaginative and the literal-minded are always with us. However, it is a mystery why they should read anything that avowedly partakes of fantasy. 77 The reaction of scientifiction fans to this hybrid editorial policy may be inferred from a memoir by Robert A. W. Lowndes that describes his reaction to the first three issues of the Tremaine Astounding Stories: “Worse still, several of the stories were clearly supernatural.” 78 Ultimately the Ackermans Pegasus Unbridled 165 of science fiction fandom prevailed, and Astounding Stories would return to a pure science fiction format. Dime Mystery Magazine had been published since 1931, but beginning with the October 1933 issue it adopted a new editorial policy that put it into competition with Weird Tales, in a race-to-the-bottom manner. Its stories now followed the manner of the Grand Guignol Theatre of Paris, with a touch of Ann Radcliffe’s Gothicism wherein an apparently supernatural threat is explained away in a rational manner after the heroine-in-distress is rescued. 79 Smith looked over the magazine and was not impressed: “Dime Mystery is wretched stuff—the crudest kind of physical horror, written in a style so cheap and staccato as to be simply ridiculous.” 80 Smith nevertheless felt that they might be amenable to a story such as “The Return of the Sorcerer,” and submitted to them “Mother of Toads,” a tale that Wright had rejected for being too sexually explicit. Two of Smith’s friends, E. Hoffmann Price and Henry Kuttner, successfully sold to this new market, which soon spawned its own imitators such as Terror Tales. Kuttner shared with Smith the formula Price used to sell them “nearly a hundred tales . . . the formula is sex, sadism, and destruction of valuable property.” 81 Smith would never sell a story to the terror pulps by himself. As a market they were not interested in innovation or imagination, only formula. The publication of Donald Wandrei’s “The Eye and the Finger” in the December 1936 issue of Esquire held the promise that this market might be equally receptive to Smith’s work, so he submitted a reworked version of “The Maze of the Enchanter.” Esquire editor Arnold Gingrich rejected it as “‘reminiscent of both Burroughs and Cabell’; a criticism that amazed and disgusted me. I was not aware that Burroughs had any copyright on jungle hunters, or that Cabell had acquired a monopoly of irony. *******!!******** I fear that Mr. Gingrich is a better judge of garbage than of literature.**********!!” 82 Weird Tales remained Smith’s only reliable market; yet beginning in 1936 he appeared there more and more infrequently. Smith’s mother had been severely scalded in an accident in late 1933, which necessitated his transition from writer to nurse, cook, and housekeeper for both her and his equally fragile father. The decline in his productivity was not readily apparent, as Wright had sufficient stories on hand to last him through 1935. But then the larder was empty. He wrote to Smith on November 23, 1938: “Since we are using your story, ‘The Double Shadow’, in our February issue, we are left without any manuscripts of yours on hand. This should not be.” 83 By this time myriad rejections of his best work; ignorant criticisms by hostile science fiction fans; the death of Lovecraft, his most appreciative reader; and the deaths of his parents, which removed much of the motivation for him to write fiction, had taken their toll. Smith resubmitted several stories that Wright had 166 Scott Connors previously rejected, and Wright accepted them. But once again Smith played fortune’s fool. Late in 1938 Weird Tales was purchased by a New York businessman, William J. Delaney, who already published the highly successful pulp Short Stories. Delaney relocated the operation to New York City. Wright was kept on as editor and made the move, but was let go with the March 1940 issue. Robert A. W. Lowndes interviewed Delaney and found him to be a pleasant and cultured man who was very fond of weird stories, “but he was also a strict Catholic. He also found some of the Clark Ashton Smith stories on the ‘disgusting’ side and told me that he had returned one that Wright had in his inventory when he left.” 84 Shortly after Lovecraft’s death, Smith wrote to Robert H. Barlow, stating, “Writing is hard for me, since circumstances here are dolorous and terrible. Improvement in my father’s condition is more than unlikely, and I am more isolated than ever. Also, I seem to have what psychologists call a ‘disgust mechanism’ to contend with: a disgust at the ineffable stupidity of editors and readers.” 85 The hostility of the new Weird Tales management proved to be the final straw. When E. Hoffmann Price visited him early in 1940, Smith presented him with the typescripts of two unpublished stories, “The House of the Monoceros” and “Dawn of Discord,” and told Price to do whatever he wanted with them: “Scrap the god-damn things if after all you don’t like them. The less I hear of them—.” Price interpreted this to mean that Smith realized “his stories did not fit into the publisher’s new pattern. Clark, fed up with adverse criticism or outright rejection, rejected the rejector, and gave me the scripts.” 86 Smith did not respond to invitations to submit to Strange Stories, a pulp edited by Leo Margulies for Standard Publications whose contents seemed to consist mostly of stories rejected by Weird Tales. 87 Even when John W. Campbell Jr. solicited Smith for contributions to what would become Unknown, he would only make some half-hearted attempts to write something suitable. 88 Smith began writing his unique style of fantastic fiction for the pulps based upon two premises: that his writing would not find favor among the literary mainstream, and that the editors, readers, and publishers who favored forms of expression that did not share the “thirst for literalism . . . which would proscribe the infinitudes of imagination” and recognized that “the highest intellects have always delighted in poetic fancy and paradox, and that everything perceived or conceived as actuality is merely one phase of that which has or may have innumerable aspects.” 89 The closest that he came to discovering such an El Dorado was in the pages of Weird Tales, yet even there Farnsworth Wright’s timidity and habit of underestimating the taste of his readership proved a source of constant frustration. Wright’s replacement as editor, by Short Stories editor Dorothy McIlwraith, dealt a fell blow to what little motivation Smith had to continue writing fiction. Pegasus Unbridled 167 The establishment of Arkham House by August Derleth and Donald Wandrei was initially devoted to the preservation of the works of H. P. Lovecraft, but as soon as the opportunity presented itself, Derleth expanded its scope to include other writers of the Weird Tales school, and Clark Ashton Smith was the first writer besides Lovecraft and Derleth to benefit from this. 90 When Arkham House published Smith’s second story collection, Lost Worlds, in 1944, a review appeared in the New York Times by Kenyon Review contributor Marjorie Farber. According to Farber, Smith’s work was “exhumed” from Weird Tales and its peers and was “enshrined” in hardcovers. When she referred to its “horrifying” predecessors from Arkham House, one suspects that she was using the word not in the sense of “to cause to feel fear,” but rather of “to fill with distaste.” 91 It “deserves to be put on the shelf and admired,” because “it cannot be read.” 92 Yet other critics, such as Anthony Boucher and William Rose Benét, proved more appreciative. Smith finally saw the pendulum begin to swing back toward imaginative writing when his work, and that of Lovecraft, began to be appreciated by the surrealists. 93 Unfortunately, Smith was unable to take advantage of this newly receptive atmosphere. He found the carving of outré figurines from native stone to be easier, both in creating and in selling, and returned to his first love, poetry. Thanks to Derleth’s encouragement, Smith made sporadic attempts to write new stories in the late 1940s and early ’50s, but he experienced difficulties in producing saleable work even for sympathetic editors such as Boucher (Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction) or Cele Goldsmith (Fantastic), who commissioned what turned out to be his last story, “The Dart of Rasasfa”; unfortunately, it was not publishable. Clark Ashton Smith was condemned to suffer the same fate as Moses: to see the promised land, but not to enter it. Around 1943 a new writer named Ray Bradbury, who credited Smith with his decision to become a writer, began to be noticed, and not just by pulp fans. 94 Bradbury was the last undoubted master of weird fiction to emerge from Weird Tales, yet the magazine’s editors accepted his lyrically dreamlike stories only with reluctance and tried to steer him toward more conventional horror fare. 95 Bradbury was able to sell stories such as “The Man Upstairs” and “The Homecoming” to Harper’s and Mademoiselle, and soon achieved recognition as one of the most important and respected American literary figures of the second half of the twentieth century. In addition, H. P. Lovecraft had begun his long ascent to canonical status, despite occasional reactionary attacks, beginning in France and the United Kingdom and culminating in the publication of his H. P. Lovecraft: Tales by the Library of America in 2005. When Clark Ashton Smith died in 1961, Arkham House had not managed to sell all the copies of his 1947 collection Genius Loci and Other Tales. 96 In the years following his death, Smith’s work has become more widely known and appreciated. While paperback editions of his work have not been as 168 Scott Connors popular as those of Lovecraft or Robert E. Howard, they are treasured by those fortunate enough to have discovered them. Books by Smith have been published in many languages, including French, Spanish, Italian, Dutch, German, Finnish, Hungarian, Russian, Polish, Turkish, Greek, and Japanese. Critics and writers as diverse as Michael Dirda, Fred Chappell, and Jack Foley have praised his work, and Smith has been embraced by the “new weird” movement and such writers as China Miéville and Jeff VanderMeer. There have been several recent editions of his work, including The Dark Eidolon and Other Fantasies, a hefty selection of his fiction, poetry, and poems in prose, edited by S. T. Joshi, which was published by Penguin Classics, and both his poetry and short fiction have been collected into critical editions. The ghetto wall has been breached at last. NOTES 1. The assistance of Randall D. Larson in obtaining some of these sources is gratefully acknowledged. All errors are of course the responsibility of the author. 2. Robert Bloch, “Yoo Hoo! Mr. Delacorte,” Writer’s Digest 21 (July 1941): 41. 3. Henry S. Whitehead, “The Occult Story,” in The Free-Lance Writer’s Handbook, ed. William Dorsey Kennedy and Margaret Gordon (Cambridge, MA: Writer’s Publishing Co., 1926), 70. Whitehead pointed out that this was due in large part to the reluctance of more “mainstream” magazines such as the Saturday Evening Post to publish what he referred to as the “occult story.” 4. S. T. Joshi, Unutterable Horror: A History of Supernatural Fiction (Hornsea, UK: PS Publishing, 2012), 2.495. 5. J. A. Cuddon, “Pulp,” Dictionary of Literary Terms and Literary Theory, 3rd ed. (London: Penguin, 1992), 757. 6. Edmund Wilson, “Tales of the Marvellous and the Ridiculous” (1945), in H. P. Lovecraft: Four Decades of Criticism, ed. S. T. Joshi (Athens: Ohio University Press, 1980), 47. 7. Clark Ashton Smith, “To the Daemon,” in The End of the Story, vol. 1 of Collected Fantasies of Clark Ashton Smith, ed. Scott Connors and Ron Hilger (San Francisco: Night Shade, 2006), 1. 8. Clark Ashton Smith, letter to George Sterling, October 27, 1926, in The Shadow of the Unattained: The Letters of George Sterling and Clark Ashton Smith, ed. David E. Schultz and S. T. Joshi (New York: Hippocampus Press, 2005), 283. Hereafter referred to as SU. 9. Farnsworth Wright, letter to Clark Ashton Smith, October 21, 1925, Clark Ashton Smith Papers, John Hay Library, Brown University. Hereafter referred to as JHL. 10. Sterling, letter to Smith, April 18, 1926, SU, 271. 11. Sterling, letter to Smith, November 28, 1925, SU, 263. 12. Sterling, “A Wine of Wizardry,” in The Thirst of Satan: Poems of Fantasy and Terror, ed. S. T. Joshi (New York: Hippocampus Press, 2003), 152. 13. Sterling, letter to Smith, October 31, 1926, SU, 283. 14. Wesley D. Sweetser, Arthur Machen (New York: Twayne, 1964), 41. 15. Ibid., 44. 16. See Michael Swanwick, What Can Be Saved from the Wreckage? James Branch Cabell in the Twenty-First Century (West Montclair, NJ: Temporary Culture, 2007), 1: “This remarkable feat of self-obliteration was accomplished through diligence, hard work, and a perverse brilliance of timing on Cabell’s part. His chief tool was a uniform edition of his works.” Swanwick argues that by presenting his works as a unified whole, he alienated readers by forcing them to slog through much inferior work to get to the good parts. Pegasus Unbridled 169 17. H. P. Lovecraft, letter to Fritz Leiber, November 15, 1936, in Selected Letters, ed. August Derleth, Donald Wandrei, and James Turner, 5 vols. (Sauk City, WI: Arkham House, 1965–1976), 5.354. 18. Irving Babbitt, Rousseau and Romanticism (New York: Meridian, 1955), 27. 19. Sterling, letter to Smith, October 16, 1925, SU, 260. 20. Smith, letter to Sterling, December 1, 1925, SU, 264. 21. Smith, letter to Sterling, October 27, 1926, SU, 282–83. 22. Smith, letter to Lovecraft, c. late October 1933; Selected Letters of Clark Ashton Smith, ed. David E. Schultz and Scott Connors (Sauk City, WI: Arkham House, 2003), 123. Hereafter referred to as SL. 23. Smith, letter to Lovecraft, c. January 27, 1931, SL, 145. 24. Smith, letter to Helen Hoyt, May 16, 1930, SL, 114. 25. Smith, letter to Albert M. Bender, December 9, 1929, Albert M. Bender Papers, Mills College, Oakland, CA. 26. Smith, letter to Donald Wandrei, January 24, 1930, Donald Wandrei Papers, Minnesota Historical Society, St. Paul, MN. Hereafter referred to as MHS. 27. Smith, letter to August Derleth, November 11, 1930, August Derleth Papers, Wisconsin Historical Society, Madison, WI. Hereafter referred to as WSH. 28. Smith, letter to Wandrei, October 9, 1930, SL, 125. 29. Smith, letter to Wandrei, June 4, 1930, MHS. 30. Smith, letter to Wandrei, October 9, 1930, MHS. 31. Joshi, Unutterable Horror, 2.494. 32. Smith, letter to Lovecraft, c. mid-September 1930, SL, 119. 33. Joshi, Unutterable Horror, 2.494. 34. Smith, letter to Albert M. Bender, December 14, 1930, SL, 140. 35. Smith, letter to Lovecraft, c. late October 1930, SL, 122. 36. Smith, letter to Lovecraft, c. November 16,1930, SL, 135. 37. Sam Moskowitz, “Letter,” in Emperor of Dreams: A Clark Ashton Smith Bio-Bibliography, ed. Donald Sidney-Fryer (West Kingston, RI: Donald M. Grant, 1978), 162. 38. Lovecraft, letter to Lillian D. Clark, December 13, 1925, in Letters from New York, ed. S. T. Joshi and David E. Schultz (San Francisco: Night Shade, 2005), 252. 39. Tom Weaver, Michael Brunas, and John Brunas, Universal Horrors: The Studios Classic Films, 1931–1946, 2nd ed. (Jefferson, NC: McFarland, 2007), 44. There is a legend that the furor surrounding this brush with the censors led to an increase in sales that saved Weird Tales, but this is doubtful given business practices in common use at the time. Weird Tales, like all pulp magazines, was at the mercy of the distributors who supplied the newsstands and drugstores of the nation. They would typically purchase the entire print run of a magazine at half the cover price, with the publisher buying any unsold copies back at a slightly higher price to compensate for the return shipping (Jerry K. Westerfield, “The Sky’s No Limit,” in Pulp Fictioneers: Adventures in the Storytelling Business, ed. John Locke [Silver Spring, MD: Adventure House, 2004], 87). In the case of Weird Tales the news company held “back payment always for three full issues, a sum which we cannot tap” (Farnsworth Wright, letter to Dr. I. M. Howard, September 6, 1936, in The Collected Letters of Doctor Isaac M. Howard, ed. Rob Roehm [n.p.: The Robert E. Howard Foundation Press, 2011], 104). Seizure of an issue by the police would have precipitated a serious cash flow crisis as well as a souring of good will with the distributors who had purchased the impounded issue. 40. Thomas Benediktsson, George Sterling (Boston: Twayne, 1980), 62. 41. Smith, letter to Derleth, November 2, 1930, SL, 131. 42. Times-Picayune (New Orleans), letter to Clark Ashton Smith, June 20, 1932, JHL. He also submitted “The Devotee of Evil” to Illustrated Detective Magazine, “which is said to favor the psychic and the subtle rather than what is usually known as the detective story.” Smith, letter to August Derleth, July 10, 1932, SL, 180. 43. Smith, letter to Derleth, December 1, 1930, SL, 139. 44. Smith, letter to Lovecraft, November 26, 1929, in Letters to H. P. Lovecraft, ed. Steve Behrends (West Warwick, RI: Necronomicon Press, 1987), 3. 45. Smith, letter to Lovecraft, December 10, 1929, SL, 106. 170 Scott Connors 46. Smith, letter to Lovecraft, July 30, 1930, SL, 116. 47. Smith, letter to Derleth, February 1, 1933, SL, 200. 48. Allan K. Echols, “The Waning Woodpile,” in Locke, Pulp Fictioneers, 200. 49. Smith, letter to Derleth, October 15, 1931, WHS. 50. Smith, letter to Lovecraft, c. early April 1932, SL, 175. 51. Smith, letter to Lovecraft, April 23, 1930, SL, 114. 52. Smith, letter to Amazing Stories, in Planets and Dimensions: Collected Essays of Clark Ashton Smith, ed. Charles K. Wolfe (Baltimore: Mirage Press, 1973), 15. Hereafter referred to as PD. 53. Smith, letter to Derleth, November 20, 1930, WHS. 54. Smith, letter to Derleth, February 16, 1932, SL, 169. 55. Smith, letter to Derleth, April 9, 1932, SL, 150. 56. Smith, letter to Derleth, July 30, 1931, WHS. 57. Smith, letter to Lovecraft, c. November 16, 1930, SL, 137. 58. Smith, letter to Wandrei, August 7, 1931, MHS. 59. Eric Leif Davin, Pioneers of Wonder (Amherst, NY: Prometheus, 1999), 48. 60. Mike Ashley and Robert A. W. Lowndes, The Gernsback Days (Holicong, PA: Wildside Press, 2004), 175. 61. Smith, letter to Lovecraft, c. mid-September 1930, SL, 119. 62. Smith, letter to Wandrei, November 10, 1932, SL, 195–96. 63. Hugo Gernsback, letter to Edmond Hamilton, February 25, 1930, quoted in Ashley and Lowndes, Gernsback Days, 164–65. 64. Smith, letter to Lovecraft, April 2, 1930, SL, 112. 65. David Lasser, letter to Smith, August 11, 1932, JHL. 66. Lasser, letter to Smith, October 21, 1931, JHL. Wonder Stories publisher Hugo Gernsback disliked Smith’s use of language. In a 1932 article in Writer’s Digest, “Authors I Dislike,” he wrote, “Then, of course, we have the well-meaning but misguided author who must use difficult and obscure words in his manuscript to impress others with his ‘learning.’ In a popular magazine, ‘hallfalutin’ English of this sort has no reason for being. The average man does not like to read a story with a dictionary in his lap. You will find that the greatest authors were those who used the simplest words.” Reprinted in Locke, Pulp Fictioneers, 47. 67. Julian Gray, “We Still Feel Science Fiction Will Play an Important Role in the Literature of Tomorrow” (letter), Amazing Stories 7, no. 3 (June 1932): 281. 68. Smith, letter to Amazing Stories, PD, 14. 69. Smith, letter to Lovecraft, c. early November 1931, SL, 166. 70. E. Hoffmann Price, Book of the Dead: Friends of Yesteryear—Fictioneers & Others, ed. Peter Ruber (Sauk City, WI: Arkham House, 2001), 13. 71. Smith, letter to Lovecraft, c. October 24, 1930, SL, 127. 72. Smith, letter to Lovecraft, c. January 27, 1931, SL, 144. 73. Will Murray, “Lovecraft and the Pulp Magazine Tradition,” in An Epicure in the Terrible: A Centennial Anthology of Essays in Honor of H. P. Lovecraft, ed. David E. Schultz and S. T. Joshi (Rutherford, NJ: Fairleigh Dickinson University Press, 1991), 111. 74. Smith, letter to Derleth, October 8, 1932, SL, 194. 75. The complete text of the “Boiling Point” debate was published as The Boiling Point by Clark Ashton Smith, Forrest J. Ackerman, H. P. Lovecraft, et al. (West Warwick, RI: Necronomicon Press, 1985). Lance Thingmaker reprinted the entire run of the Fantasy Fan as a facsimile hardcover in 2010. It will also be included in a forthcoming edition of Smith’s collected essays and published letters edited by the current writer. 76. Smith, postcard to H. P. Lovecraft, postmarked October 5, 1933, private collection. 77. Smith, letter to Wandrei, October 16, 1934, MHS. 78. Ashley and Lowndes, Gernsback Days, 354. 79. See Robert Kenneth Jones, The Shudder Pulps: A History of the Weird Menace Pulps of the 1930s (West Lynn, OR: FAX Collector’s Editions, 1975), 6. 80. Smith, letter to Lester Anderson, July 31, 1934, SL, 260. 81. Henry Kuttner, letter to Clark Ashton Smith, September 5, 1937, private collection. 82. Smith, letter to R. H. Barlow, September 9, 1937, SL, 312. Pegasus Unbridled 171 83. Farnsworth Wright, letter to Smith, November 23, 1938, JHL. 84. Robert A. W. Lowndes, “Letters,” Weird Tales Collector, no. 5 (1979): 31. See also “Weird Tales Stays Weird,” Science Fiction Weekly, March 24, 1940, 1. 85. Smith, letter to Barlow, May 16, 1937, SL, 302. 86. Price, Book of the Dead, 125. 87. Julius Schwartz, postcard to Smith, postmarked August 2, 1938, private collection. 88. John W. Campbell Jr., letter to Clark Ashton Smith, October 27, 1938, JHL. 89. Smith, “On Fantasy,” PD, 39. 90. A detailed history of August Derleth’s efforts in the preservation of Smith’s work may be found in John Haefele, “Far from Time: Clark Ashton Smith, August Derleth, and Arkham House,” Weird Fiction Review, no. 1 (Fall 2010): 154–89. Much of the credit for the preservation of Smith’s literary work belongs to Derleth and his partner, Donald Wandrei. 91. Merriam-Webster.com, s.v. “horrifying,” www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/horrifying (accessed February 2015). 92. Marjorie Farber, “Atlantis, Xiccarph” (review of Lost Worlds), New York Times Book Review, November 19, 1944, rpt. Klarkash-Ton, no. 1 (June 1988): 26. 93. See Robert Allerton Parker, “Such Pulps as Dreams Are Made On,” VVV (1943), rpt. Radical America, January 1970, 70–77, www.eldritchdark.com/articles/criticism/31/such-pulpas-dreams-are-made-on-%28h.-p.-lovecraft-and-clark-ashton-Smith%29 (accessed February 23, 2015). 94. Ray Bradbury, “Introduction,” in Smith’s A Rendezvous in Averoigne (Sauk City, WI: Arkham House, 2003), ix. 95. Jonathan R. Eller, textual apparatus to “The Lake,” The Collected Stories of Ray Bradbury: A Critical Edition, ed. William A. Touponce and Jonathan R. Eller, Vol. 1 (Kent, OH: Kent State University Press, 2010), 415. 96. Genius Loci remained in print until late 1967. August Derleth, letter to Carol Smith, October 25, 1967, WHS. Chapter Eleven “A Round Cipher” Word-Building and World-Building in the Weird Works of Clark Ashton Smith Geoffrey Reiter In 1924, one year into its run, Weird Tales published an editorial (now ascribed to Otis Adelbert Kline) that served as a mission statement for the magazine. 1 “Why Weird Tales?” placed the pulp publication in the long run of great imaginative literary writers, from Homer to H. G. Wells, with special emphasis on Edgar Allan Poe, celebrating them because, “[t]o the imaginative writer, the upper reaches of the ether, the outer limits of the galactic ring, the great void that gapes beyond, and the infinity of universes that may, for all we know, lie still further on, are as accessible as his own garden.” 2 Perhaps no contributor to Weird Tales exemplified this approach to the imagination better than Clark Ashton Smith, who published more than fifty stories in the magazine, many of them occurring within various story-cycles, such as Hyperborea (a prehistoric northern continent), Averoigne (a mythical province in medieval France), Poseidonis (an island of Atlantis), and Zothique (a dying far-future realm). 3 Smith rejected the hardline materialism of friends and correspondents like H. P. Lovecraft, contending that for all anyone knew, reality itself might be illusory and that, as a result, an author’s fictional worlds could be just as “real” as the mundane human world. This philosophy permeates his entire corpus, from his juvenilia and poetry to his best stories, including many classics first published in Weird Tales. The creative artist or writer is thus invested with an immense, well-nigh godlike power; but that power must be wielded skillfully, lest the artist lose control and be consumed by his or her own creation. It was that belief in the powers of descriptive language that allowed Smith to be so effective as a writer and would later 173 174 Geoffrey Reiter influence such future authors as Ray Bradbury and Harlan Ellison, who has written that Clark Ashton Smith’s stories “thrashed out of me my ignorance about the limits of language.” 4 Smith was never reticent to discuss his views on the limitations of the material world and the significance of the creative imagination. For instance, in his brief essay “On Fantasy,” he wrote, From paretic to psychoanalyst, from poet to rag-picker, we are all in flight from the real. Truth is what we desire it to be, and the facts of life are a masquerade in which we imagine that we have identified the maskers. The highest intellects have always delighted in poetic fancy and philosophical paradox, knowing well that the universe itself is multiform fantasy and paradox, and that everything perceived or conceived as actuality is merely one phase of that which has or may have innumerable aspects. In this phantom whirl of the infinite, among these veils of Maya that are sevenfold behind sevenfold, nothing is too absurd, too lovely, or dreadful to be impossible. 5 The universe itself, the real world, is for Smith but a “multiform fantasy.” Thus, the sophisticated fantasy writers can create fictions that are no less real than the world around them. Such an attitude places Smith in the line of other theorists and practitioners of fantasy such as George MacDonald and J. R. R. Tolkien, even if they operated within a Christian worldview that Smith would reject. In his essay “The Fantastic Imagination,” George MacDonald articulates a theory of writing fantasy that resembles Smith’s own: The natural world has its laws, and no man must interfere with them in the way of presentment any more than in the way of use; but they themselves may suggest laws of other kinds, and man may, if he pleases, invent a little world of his own, with its own laws; for there is that in him which delights in calling up new forms—which is the nearest, perhaps, he can come to creation. When such forms are new embodiments of old truths, we call them products of the Imagination. 6 J. R. R. Tolkien advocates a similar theory in distinguishing between the real “primary world” and the artist’s “secondary world”: “What really happens is that the story-maker proves a successful ‘sub-creator.’ He makes a secondary world which your mind can enter. Inside it, what he relates is ‘true’: it accords with the laws of that world.” 7 Both MacDonald and Tolkien are adamant, however, that while an author might create a new world with new laws, the moral and ethical guidelines of that world must not vary from those of the primary world. MacDonald insists, “In the moral world it is different: there a man may clothe in new forms, and for this employ his imagination freely, but he must invent nothing. He may not, for any purpose, turn its laws upside down. He must not “A Round Cipher” 175 meddle with the relation of live souls.” 8 For Tolkien, too, the purpose of fantasy is not escapism, a flight from participation in the primary world. Rather, a significant aspect of the “faery story” is Recovery, which he defines as “a re-gaining—regaining of a clear view. I do not say ‘seeing things as they are’ and involve myself with the philosophers, though I might venture to say ‘seeing things as we are (or were) meant to see them’—as things apart from ourselves.” 9 Thus, both MacDonald and Tolkien see tales of the fantastic as fundamentally moral and ethical exercises. Though Smith eschews the overtly Christian backdrop against which MacDonald and Tolkien would operate in their own fiction, his own attitude toward the imagination parallels theirs in many ways. The emphasis that both authors place on the creative role of the imagination is one Smith could find accord with. Like MacDonald, he sought to “invent a little world of his own, with its own laws; for there is that in him which delights in calling up new forms.” And like both MacDonald and Tolkien, the rules of his poems and story-cycles are generally kept internally consistent. The comparisons become a little more difficult regarding the moral and ethical functions of fiction. Some critics have suggested that Smith violates MacDonald’s maxim that a writer “must invent nothing” in the moral realm, particularly in his poetry. Donald Sidney-Fryer, for instance, maintains that the poems “Satan Unrepentant” and “A Vision of Lucifer” are “remarkably sympathetic to Satan-Lucifer, no less than undeniably hostile to the usual portrait of the God limned in the Old Testament of the Bible, whom Smith perceives in terms of some Oriental despot, or tyrant-king.” 10 And there is some truth in Sidney-Fryer’s claim. Smith’s writings often evince a hostility to traditional moral and religious categories, especially during his poetic phase—roughly 1910 to 1930. Throughout his life, he littered his letters and stories with arcane occult references. And he found literature that dwelt on mundane human themes to be unimaginative, believing “[o]ne could attack the current literary humanism, with its scorn of all that has no direct anthropological bearing, as a phase of the general gross materialism of the times.” 11 Yet despite these contrarian attitudes, Smith’s corpus often falls within more traditional moral parameters. W. C. Farmer, who knew Smith later in life, attests to his moral convictions: Clark was not an occultist but had a very considerable respect for real evil; he acknowledged its existence as a palpable reality, and not just as a value judgment upon random events. He had read the writings of the Buddha, respected them as any contemplative mind would, yet agreed that the Western notion of vicarious sacrifice was more humane when practiced than simply feeling deep sympathy for life’s pathetic victims. It is reasonably clear in his earliest writings . . . that he had early on absorbed the Victorian era’s understanding of Christian morality, decency, and sanctity of one’s person. Yet the failure of 176 Geoffrey Reiter most “Christians” to even begin to approach the standard they espoused turned him away from the dominant Protestantism of his environment. 12 Likewise, according to John Kipling Hitz, “Smith once said that he was compelled to believe that evil exists in some absolute sense because of its manifestations. . . . [T]he horror in Smith’s tales derives from the human center in evil.” 13 While never condoning such evil, Smith’s jaundiced view of human nature means his stories are often bleak or ironic; he once wrote that communism was “about as practical, and likely to be practised, as the Golden Rule of Jesus Christ,” 14 though his condemnation of the former as materialistic and “anti-religious” demonstrates his support for the latter. Smith thus resembles MacDonald and Tolkien in his substantial respect for the role of the imagination in creating fantastic and coherent “secondary worlds.” Also like them, his writing, particularly his fiction, is not without suggestions of a moral code, though such morality tends to be less pronounced, as Smith remained aloof from any doctrinal religious belief system. Moreover, Smith differs from the other fantasists in that he reduces—perhaps even demolishes—the boundary between secondary worlds and the primary world, since both to him could be seen as equally illusory. In his juvenalia, before even his major poetic phase, Smith’s emphasis on the artist as creator is more muted than it would later become. Somewhere in his later teenage years, he abandoned his adventure tales in favor of poetry, writing that “for some unfathomable reason, I switched suddenly and entirely to verse.” 15 Smith published his first volume, The Star-Treader and Other Poems, when he was nineteen, and he soon established a correspondence with fellow Californian George Sterling, whose own poetry was beginning to receive some acclaim, particularly from Ambrose Bierce. These poets— Bierce, Sterling, Smith, Nora May French, Robinson Jeffers—are sometimes referred to as the “California romantics,” a brief regional phenomenon of writers who employed universal themes and cosmic imagery in their works, as opposed to the modernistic realism that was dominating most “literary” circles of the day. It is hardly coincidence that Smith’s poetry should be called “romantic,” for his attitude toward the imagination bears some resemblance to the English romantic poets of the early nineteenth century. To many romantics, the poet or artist takes on the roles once traditional ascribed to God of creator and redeemer. As Morse Peckham puts it, for the romantic poet “the self does not emerge through the perception of order and value in the world; rather, order and value emerge from the perception of the self.” 16 Similarly, M. H. Abrams observes that in romanticism “it is the subject, mind, or spirit which is primary and takes over the initiative and functions which had once been the prerogatives of deity.” 17 This attitude toward the role of the imaginative artist can be found both in the original British romantics and in their Califor- “A Round Cipher” 177 nian counterparts. In examining the California romantics, Donald SidneyFryer marks five characteristics of the movement, the third of which is “a love of and unswerving loyalty to the individual artist’s own perception of truth: above all, following one’s own initiative/intuition or ‘fantasy’ (in the sense of fancy or natural inclination) or imaginative imperative.” 18 Smith’s poetry also bears the imprint of the French symbolists, who sought, perhaps even more than the English romantics, to build worlds from their words. Fred Chappell, who has analyzed the symbolist influence on Smith’s poetry, observes that “Smith’s poems do add up to a coherent pattern, a vision that for all its scope and variety is isomorphic in its constituent parts. Taken together, almost all these poems would compose an artificial universe. The idea of a self-enclosed, hermetic universe purely visionary, impervious to the sordidness and distractions of daily life, was one to which the great French Symbolist writers aspired.” 19 This idea sounds remarkably like the secondary worlds of Tolkien, though closer to Smith’s own taste in that the “hermetic universe” possesses a reality all its own. This reality is inextricably tied to the use of language—images and word pictures—as Chappell notes when he asserts that Smith “hoped to cast, as a wizard casts with his magical incantations and concoctions, a more-than-verbal enchantment over his readers, following Symbolist tradition.” 20 Smith himself said as much when he wrote to H. P. Lovecraft: “My own conscious ideal has been to delude the reader into accepting an impossibility, or series of impossibilities, by means of a sort of verbal black magic, in the achievement of which I make use of prose-rhythm, metaphor, simile, tone-color, counterpoint, and other stylistic resources, like a sort of incantation.” 21 Smith’s vintage poetry manifests this approach to the imagination, particularly his longest and perhaps best-known poem, “The Hashish-Eater; or The Apocalypse of Evil,” which seeks to delve into the vast cosmic potentialities of human thought. This work is framed as a series of visions experienced by the eponymous narrator, visions that to many readers initially seem rather plotless and disconnected. S. T. Joshi has rightly noted that there is in fact a subtle but important structural arc to “The Hashish-Eater,” which he divides into four segments. The poem moves from its narrator’s proclamation of supreme sovereignty toward the eventual collapse of that sovereignty, as he is overwhelmed by visions he has sought to control. 22 The poem begins with the hashish-eater’s declaration, “Bow down: I am the emperor of dreams,” 23 immediately establishing Smith’s theme that the imaginative individual possesses great power. The speaker grants himself regal, even godlike, authority, commanding the audience to bow before him. By describing himself as an “emperor of dreams,” he asserts that he not only has visions in his drug-induced state, but that he is also sovereign over those visions. He eventually grows even more explicit in ascribing to himself the qualities of deity, calling himself “Supreme / In culminant omniscience man- 178 Geoffrey Reiter ifold,” knowing everything that occurs in his cosmic dream-world. Though his visions are many and varied, he claims to be able to “attend / At once their myriad witness.” 24 Yet for all the power he insists upon, the hashish-eater is in fact not Smith’s ideal artist, nor does he ultimately wield the imperial authority he claims for himself. A close examination of the poem reveals that he is not a writer but a reader, and his control over the narrative is far more precarious than he initially lets on. His reference to a “Babel of . . . visions” 25 connotes that there is at least some sense in which he cannot comprehend the very vision he is experiencing, that the language of these apparitions has become confused, as in the biblical Babel. Sometimes, the hashish-eater gives the impression that even if he is not a creator, he is at least the supreme interpreter. Smith often underscores the hashish-eater’s voyeuristic attention to the words and symbols of his vision. Many of the long, convoluted clauses in the poem begin with “I know,” “I behold,” “I read,” or other such phrases. Yet there is clear evidence from the poem that the narrator’s power is usurped, and that even his abilities as a visionary are tenuous. Smith sets him up from the start as a Satanic figure, evident even in the subtitle, “The Apocalypse of Evil.” Dan Clore looks at the poem’s title and three possible meanings of “apocalypse”—as “a religious revelation in the form of a vision,” as “a (written) description of such a vision,” and as the specific Apocalypse of John, the biblical book of Revelation. 26 Drawing together these ideas, he sees “The Hashish-Eater” as representing a cosmic battle “drawing heavily on the myths of Prometheus and Satan/Lucifer that formed commonplace topoi of the Romantic-DecadentSymbolist trajectory from which Smith’s aesthetic derives.” 27 The narrator’s ambition is in a sense to out-Satan Satan. The biblical—or at least the Miltonic—Lucifer sought to rule over heaven, to supplant God from His throne, but he was nonetheless well aware of God’s omnipotence and omniscience. The hashish-eater, on the other hand, denies the biblical God any special merit; He is but one of “the gods that are or gods to be,” 28 on no different plane from the demon Asmodeus or the Egyptian deity Set. Even other mere humans can exceed His knowledge, for the narrator mentions later that “the sorcerers / Of hooded stars inscrutable to God / surrender me their demonwrested scrolls” 29 (emphasis mine). But despite his pretensions to kingship and deity, the hashish-eater finds his own power, his own rebellion, threatened as the poem progresses. Ironically, he often finds that he has no words for his terror. It is “a fear / That found no name in Babel” 30 and “[a] monstrous dread unnamed in any hell.” 31 This fear is one previously foreign to the brazen hashish-eater, who never had the ability to create, and now is losing the ability to know. As the poem climaxes, its narrator finds himself finally overwhelmed by the vastness of all that he has sought to circumscribe. The glut of sensory “A Round Cipher” 179 input that the hashish-eater has attempted to assimilate ultimately proves more than he is able to control, or perhaps even survive—he is, in the end, not a god: But when I reach The verge, and seek through sun-defeating gloom To measure with my gaze the dread descent, I see a tiny star within the depths— A light that stays me while the wings of doom Convene their thickening thousands: for the star Increases, taking to its hueless orb, With all the speed of horror-changèd dreams, The light as of a million million moons; And floating up through gulfs and glooms eclipsed It grows and grows, a huge white eyeless Face That fills the void and fills the universe, And bloats against the limits of the world With lips of flame that open. 32 Dan Clore correctly observes that this ending serves “to indicate a negative view of cosmic consciousness as unbearable to a mere human.” 33 Smith himself wrote to Samuel J. Sackett, “It is my own theory that if the infinite worlds of the cosmos were opened to human vision, the visionary would be overwhelmed by horror in the end, like the hero of this poem.” 34 The poem’s final image—“lips of flame that open”—is significant because it once again carries connotations of language. It was an unintelligible word that first struck fear into the heart of the hashish-eater, and now, once again, he is threatened by what may be a spoken word, a final cosmic word. While the “lips of flame” may open to swallow him, they are perhaps also opening to speak, to subsume him finally beneath his own inability to “read” the text of his visions. Smith elsewhere called the immense visage “the face of infinity itself, in all its awful blankness.” 35 The narrator has sought to guzzle down the infinite and is justly recompensed for his hubris. There are many reasons the hashish-eater is flawed, even evil. His Satanic desire to rebel, coupled with a tyrannical and domineering spirit worse than the deities he seeks to supplant, marks him as a less than admirable character. But more immediately, he is at best an observer, at worst a destroyer. He is not an artist—a creator—but a reader, maybe even a critic. The true creator in the poem is really the poet. Despite his protestations, the hashish-eater is never in control; the cavalcade of images that pile up on him are all conveyed by the god of the work, its writer—none other than Clark Ashton Smith himself. Fred Chappell, who considers “The Hashish-Eater” one of Smith’s weaker poems, believes that it “seems to exploit the drug of its title as an excuse to geyser forth a flood of flimsily connected images.” 36 This assessment is absolutely true, but then, the poem is supposed to be a series of 180 Geoffrey Reiter images, a created cosmos. The narrator’s problem is that he cannot accept his role as a participant in the world described by the poet, the god who stands outside the work looking in. The hashish-eater plays Prometheus to Smith’s Jove, Satan to Smith’s God. And like Prometheus and Lucifer, he is punished for his transgression. A similar psychology is at play in many of Smith’s poems, such as “Nero,” which Smith described as “the emperor’s soliloquy after he has watched the burning of Rome.” 37 Like the hashish-eater, Nero is a tyrant who aspires to deity, and like the hashish-eater, he is an inveterate watcher. But Smith’s Nero differs from the hashish-eater in that the former is actually far more self-conscious of his role within the created world of the poem. Nero knows he is not a god, not a creator, and in fact is not even interested in creation. Rather, his great interest is in destruction. In this way, Nero does not desire the greatest quality of God—the ability to be a creator. The hashish-eater seeks to observe creation and Nero seeks to destroy it, but neither seeks to make a world of his own. Unlike the narrators of his poems, then, Smith himself believes it to be his duty to play god in his poetry, to “compose an artificial universe,” as Chappell puts it. 38 Smith develops this theme most profoundly in his prose fiction. As a creative artist himself, Smith frequently invests variations of supreme creative power into characters who are either artists of some kind or at least sensitive souls who reject the pragmatism of society at large. For example, in “The Maker of Gargoyles,” the sculptor Reynard’s creations come to life and manifest his subconscious impulses. Tortha, the poet of “The White Sybil,” follows his Muse, the titular Sybil, to the discovery that her mystical realm “was real beyond all that mean deem reality.” 39 In other cases, the main characters are not necessarily artists themselves but recognize the value of supreme creativity, allowing them to transcend mundane existence for more imaginative planes. The protagonist of “The Willow Landscape,” Shih-Liang, “like all his ancestors, was a scholar, a poet, and a lover of both art and nature”; 40 and he escapes the unscrupulous creditor Mung Li by entering into the willow landscape depicted on his inherited tapestry. The antiquarian Francis Melchior in “The Planet of the Dead” empathetically experiences life and love on a dying world; since emerging from this vision, “always he is troubled by a dull regret that he should ever have awakened (if awakening it was) from the death that he died in the palace of Altanoman, with Thameera in his arms and Thameera’s kisses on his lips.” 41 But it is magic above all arts that Smith emphasizes in his works; more than any other figures, magicians dominate his short fiction. They are the most frequent analogues for creative artists to appear in his prose works. This is hardly surprising: after all, had not Smith told Lovecraft that he saw his writing “as a sort of verbal black magic . . . as a sort of incantation”? 42 Yet Smith does not exhibit uncritical approval of his magician-artist figures. On “A Round Cipher” 181 the contrary, while his magicians do demonstrate the great power inherent in the creative artist, they also serve as warnings of the ways that power can be abused. Smith was hardly a social activist and indeed held little love for the politically charged literature of his day. Still, he was quite aware of the ways in which power could be abused. The least sympathetic of his magicians are those who manipulate their verbal sorcery for their own advantage at the expense of others. Such is the case, for instance, with the first story in Smith’s Zothique cycle, “The Empire of the Necromancers.” Here, two corrupt sorcerers establish a realm of dead servants, where, “[d]reaming of conquest, and of vaster necromancies, they grew fat and slothful as worms that have installed themselves in a charnel rich with corruption.” 43 Appropriately, some of these undead denizens revolt, killing their overlords. Similarly, Abnon-Tha, a necromancer in “The Charnel God,” becomes the presumptive victim of the death-god Mordiggian’s monstrous priests after attempting to revive and control the beautiful Arctela (whom he himself had slain). In “The Double Shadow,” part of Smith’s Poseidonis cycle, the wizard Avyctes and his acolyte Pharpetron find themselves consumed by a mysterious darkness after delving into forbidden lore. “The Witchcraft of Ulua,” another Zothique tale, contrasts the destructive voluptuousness of Ulua’s spells with the magic of Sabmon, whose interest in sorcery is far less manipulative. He saves his virtuous young nephew Amalzain from Ulua and the destruction of her home city of Miraab, concluding, “It is needless to moralize on what has happened. . . . You have learned the true nature of carnal desire, and have likewise beheld the history of mundane corruption. Now, being wise, you will turn early to those things which are incorruptible and beyond the world.” 44 Indeed, many of Smith’s more positively portrayed wizards fall in the same category as Sabmon, and they use their power of words to exact justice upon abusive authority. 45 In “The Seven Geases,” the sorcerer Ezdagor curses the Lord Ralibar Vooz. 46 A corrupt moneylender is similarly cursed by a poor prophet in “The Weird of Avoosl Wuthoqquan.” Some of his magicians lack the piety of Sabmon but are still agents of judgment on the unimaginative philistines around them; Smith frequently penned stories in which nary a virtuous character can be found. The nameless wizard at the beginning of “The Voyage of King Euvoran” 47 practices the forbidden art of necromancy but also casts the spell that sends the materialistic Euvoran on his ironic and fateful journey. And in several cases, equally malevolent figures cancel each other out with their abuses of the supernatural. Namirrha, wizard of “The Dark Eidolon,” is driven mad in search of vengeance against Zotulla, the emperor who has harmed him, and initiates a battle that results in mutual annihilation. And the fearsome Malygris is able to bring his scheming rivals down with himself in “The Death of Malygris.” 182 Geoffrey Reiter The great creative power of Malygris is even more evident in one of Smith’s first stories, “The Last Incantation.” In this brief early work, an aging Malygris conjures up the image of his lost love, Nylissa. Yet in this case, Smith suggests a rare limitation to the verbal black magic of his character, for the image of Nylissa fails ultimately to satisfy him: “Your necromancy was potent up to this point,” Malygris’s familiar tells him, “but no necromantic spell could recall for you your own lost youth or the fervent and guileless heart that loved Nylissa, or the ardent eyes that beheld her then.” 48 Such an acknowledgment of limitations occurs even among some of Smith’s most powerful wizards, many of whom possess the kind of well-nigh godlike powers that the hashish-eater vainly supposed himself to have. One example of such a powerful being is Maal Dweb, who dominates the action in “The Maze of the Enchanter” 49 and “The Flower-Women.” In the former tale, the barbarian Tiglari attempts to rescue Athlé, the object of his affections, from Maal Dweb’s dominion. But the youth really stands no chance in this competition; indeed, as with Malygris, the only limit to Maal Dweb’s creative power is that he cannot make himself content because he cannot create beings with agency. In “The Last Incantation,” the Nylissa simulacra cannot be Nylissa herself. “The Maze of the Enchanter” concludes by depicting Maal Dweb’s conversation with a sycophantic automaton. He contends that “the repetition of even the most remarkable thaumaturgies can grow monotonous after a certain number of times.” 50 In “The Flower-Women,” Maal Dweb’s ennui is briefly interrupted when he chooses to perform an act of compassion, saving the Flower Women from the ruthless Ispazars: “The struggle had been difficult, even dangerous; and he reflected that his boredom had been thoroughly overcome, at least for the nonce.” 51 Yet even this implies that the omnipotent sorcerer may soon grow weary of his all-powerful existence, as he will be left alone once more with a bevy of statues and preternatural yesmen. But arguably no work in the Smith corpus plays out his philosophy better than “The Last Hieroglyph,” which he had appropriately envisioned as the last work of his Zothique cycle. 52 It begins with an epigraph labeled “Old prophecy of Zothique,” which reads, “The world itself, in the end, shall be turned to a round cipher.” 53 This “quotation” is indeed at the heart not only of this story but of Smith’s entire aesthetic. “The Last Hieroglyph” follows the exploits of Nushain the astrologer. Like the hashish-eater, he is not a creator but a reader/interpreter, and not a very good one at that. His attempts to read the stars as an astrologer are at best hit-or-miss, and as a result, Smith paints him as an exceedingly pathetic figure. Nushain worships a mysterious godlike entity, Vergama, “who, throughout the whole continent of Zothique, was deemed the most powerful and mysterious of the genii, and was thought to rule over the heavens as well as the earth.” 54 Nushain creates a new horoscope to accommodate a star that has recently appeared in the sky, only “A Round Cipher” 183 to discover that additional figures begin appearing, first on his horoscope and then in reality. Three characters—a mummy, a merman, and a salamander— appear as guides, conducting him at last to the fabled “house of Vergama.” Vergama appears as a cowled and cryptic figure. His words to Nushain, however, make his identity explicitly clear: “I am Vergama, whose other name is Destiny; Vergama, on whom you have called so ignorantly and idly, as men are wont to call on their hidden lords; Vergama, who has summoned you on the journey which all men must make at one time or another, in one way or another. Come forward, O Nushain, and read a little in my book.” 55 Vergama shows Nushain a book, the pages of “which were covered with a myriad signs written in inks of various colors, and representing men, gods, fishes, birds, monsters, animals, constellations, and many other things.” 56 Indeed, Nushain sees his own life depicted as well. At last, Vergama declares, In my book . . . the characters of all things are written and preserved. All visible forms, in the beginning, were but symbols written by me; and at the last they shall exist only as the writing of my book. For a season they issue forth, taking to themselves that which is known as substance. . . . It was I, O Nushain, who set in the heavens the stars that foretold your journey; I, who sent the three guides. And these things, having served their purpose, are now but infoliate ciphers, as before. . . . Vainly do men seek to resist or evade that destiny which turns them to ciphers in the end. In my book, O Nushain, there is room even for a bad astrologer. 57 The story ends with Nushain himself being transformed into a hieroglyph, after which Vergama turns the page of his book. Who ultimately is Vergama? He is, of course, a stand-in for the creator of Zothique, its “god,” as it were: Clark Ashton Smith. As the story’s epigraph establishes, the world—at least the world of Zothique—is indeed a round cipher, a symbol, a creation on a page by the authorial figure of Smith. It is he who controls the destiny of his characters, he who ordains the world which they inhabit. In the course of the story, which essentially describes the process of Nushain’s death and judgment, one can see Smith tearing away the layers of his world, essentially un-creating it, which is not surprising since, for Nushain, the world is ending. Nushain himself might very well represent Smith’s readers and interpreters, competent to understand his project only by fits and starts. But the figure in the end, the massive mysterious Vergama writing in his book, is for Smith the perfect metaphor for the entire imaginative process as he saw it. Nushain and his worlds are real, because Smith has created them. If such attitudes seem arrogant or self-aggrandizing, one must note that Smith was working within a long tradition. In creating internally consistent worlds of words, he is following in the footsteps of George MacDonald and 184 Geoffrey Reiter J. R. R. Tolkien, though his lack of doctrinal Christian mooring results in an even higher view of the artist, not as subcreator but as an almost fully fledged creator of an alternate reality, hampered only by the inability to craft characters with true volition and independence. This high estimation of the imaginative artist’s ability to make new worlds follows the romantics and the symbolists. And even if one finds his approach extravagant or excessive, it is important to note that the result was some of the most inventive and fantastic stories and poetry of the early twentieth century. Clark Ashton Smith may not have been a god, but he was an immensely creative individual, and on that level at least his works can still be enjoyed today. NOTES 1. Robert Weinberg, The “Weird Tales” Story (West Linn, OR: FAX Collector’s Editions, 1977), 16. 2. Quoted in Weinberg, “Weird Tales” Story, 17. 3. For a survey of pulp readers’ responses to Smith’s fiction, see T. G. Cockcroft, “The Reader Speaks: Reaction to Clark Ashton Smith in the Pulps,” Dark Eidolon, no. 2 (1989): 15–20. Though Smith frequently complained in his letters about Weird Tales editor Farnsworth Wright, the magazine was his most reliable publication venue, and his works seem to have been generally well received by its audience. 4. Harlan Ellison, “Clark Ashton Smith: Out of Space and Time,” in Horror: 100 Best Books, ed. Stephen Jones and Kim Newman (New York: Carroll & Graf, 1988), 100. 5. Clark Ashton Smith, The Emperor of Dreams: The Lost Worlds of Clark Ashton Smith (London: Gollancz, 2002), 2. 6. George MacDonald, The Complete Fairy Tales (Harmondsworth, UK: Penguin, 1999), 5–6. 7. J. R. R. Tolkien, The Tolkien Reader (New York: Ballantine, 1966), 60. 8. MacDonald, Complete Fairy Tales, 6. 9. Tolkien, Tolkien Reader, 77. 10. Donald Sidney-Fryer, “James Blish versus Ashton Smith; to Wit, the Young Turk Syndrome: A Riposte,” in The Freedom of Fantastic Things: Selected Criticism on Clark Ashton Smith, ed. Scott Connors (New York: Hippocampus Press, 2006), 79. 11. Clark Ashton Smith, Selected Letters of Clark Ashton Smith, ed. David E. Schultz and Scott Connors (Sauk City, WI: Arkham House, 2003), 95. 12. W. C. Farmer, “Clark Ashton Smith: A Memoir,” in Smith’s The Sword of Zagan and Other Writings, ed. W. C. Farmer (New York: Hippocampus Press, 2004), 179–80. 13. John Kipling Hitz, “Clark Ashton Smith: Master of the Macabre,” in Connors, Freedom of Fantastic Things, 175. 14. Smith, Selected Letters, 296. 15. Ibid., 249. 16. Morse Peckham, “Toward a Theory of Romanticism: II. Reconsiderations,” Studies in Romanticism 1, no. 1 (Autumn 1961): 5. 17. M. H. Abrams, Natural Supernaturalism: Tradition and Revolution in Romantic Literature (New York: W. W. Norton, 1971), 91. 18. Donald Sidney-Fryer, “A Statement for Imagination: George Sterling and Clark Ashton Smith,” Romantist 6–8 (1982–1984): 14. 19. Fred Chappell, “Communicable Mysteries: The Last True Symbolist,” in Connors, Freedom of Fantastic Things, 93. 20. Ibid., 93–94. 21. Smith, Selected Letters, 126 (emphasis in original). “A Round Cipher” 185 22. S. T. Joshi, Emperors of Dreams: Some Notes on Weird Poetry (Sydney, NSW: P’Rea Press, 2008), 21–22. 23. Clark Ashton Smith, The Complete Poetry and Translations, Vol. 1, The Abyss Triumphant, ed. S. T. Joshi and David E. Schultz (New York: Hippocampus, 2nd ed. 2012), 207 (l. 1). 24. Ibid., 208 (ll. 49–50). 25. Ibid. (l. 55). 26. Dan Clore, “The Babel of Visions: The Structuration of Clark Ashton Smith’s The Hashish-Eater,” in Connors, Freedom of Fantastic Things, 109–10. 27. Ibid., 110. 28. Smith, The Complete Poetry and Translations, 208 (l. 47). 29. Ibid., 211 (ll. 167–69). 30. Ibid., 216 (ll. 368–69). 31. Ibid., 218 (l. 466). 32. Ibid., 221 (ll. 568–81). 33. Clore, “The Babel of Visions,” 122. 34. Smith, Selected Letters, 366. 35. Smith, Strange Shadows, 246. 36. Chappell, “Communicable Mysteries,” 91. 37. Smith, Selected Letters, 11. 38. Chappell, “Communicable Mysteries,” 93. 39. Clark Ashton Smith, The Maze of the Enchanter, vol. 4 of Collected Fantasies of Clark Ashton Smith, ed. Scott Connors and Ron Hilger (San Francisco: Night Shade, 2009), 49. 40. Clark Ashton Smith, The Door to Saturn, vol. 2 of Collected Fantasies of Clark Ashton Smith, ed. Scott Connors and Ron Hilger (San Francisco: Night Shade, 2007), 51. 41. Clark Ashton Smith, The End of the Story, vol. 1 of Collected Fantasies of Clark Ashton Smith, ed. Scott Connors and Ron Hilger (San Francisco: Night Shade, 2006), 178. 42. Smith, Selected Letters, 126. 43. Clark Ashton Smith, A Vintage from Atlantis, vol. 3 of Collected Fantasies of Clark Ashton Smith, ed. Scott Connors and Ron Hilger (San Francisco: Night Shade, 2007), 197. 44. Clark Ashton Smith, The Last Hieroglyph, vol. 5 of Collected Fantasies of Clark Ashton Smith, ed. Scott Connors and Ron Hilger (San Francisco: Night Shade, 2010), 38. 45. Despite the overall ethical arc to his work, Smith’s interest in storytelling over pontificating makes it an oversimplification to suggest that his magicians always fall into the two categories of power-hungry necromancer and old, wise, otherworldly sage. Some of his stories do feature manipulative wizards who persist in their behaviors until the end without the prospect of judgment. Such could be said of works like “The Holiness of Azédarac,” “Necromancy in Naat,” or “The Enchantress of Sylaire.” 46. I have elsewhere examined Ezdagor’s role as one of Smith’s poet/priest figures. See Geoffrey Reiter, “‘A Thoroughly Modern Disdain’: The Materialist’s Descent into Hell in ‘The Seven Geases,’” Lost Worlds 5 (2008): 7–9. 47. “The Voyage of King Euvoran” was first printed in Smith’s 1933 self-published collection The Double Shadow and Other Fantasies. It was substantially altered for its reprinting in Weird Tales, where it appeared under the title “The Quest of the Gazolba.” For an analysis of the ways in which these alterations muted Smith’s linguistic world-building, see Jim Rockhill, “The Poetics of Morbidity: The Original Text to Clark Ashton Smith’s ‘The Maze of Maal Dweb’ and Other Works First Published in The Double Shadow and Other Fantasies,” Lost Worlds 1 (2004): 24–25. 48. Smith, End of the Story, 20. 49. Like “The Voyage of King Euvoran,” “The Maze of the Enchanter” first appeared in The Double Shadow and Other Fantasies. Its altered reprinting in Weird Tales appeared under the title “The Maze of Maal Dweb.” The revision excised or modified some of Smith’s customarily florid prose, as it had when “The Voyage of King Euvoran” became “The Quest of the Gazolba.” See Rockhill, “The Poetics of Morbidity,” 21–23. 50. Smith, Maze of the Enchanter, 120. 51. Ibid., 283. 186 Geoffrey Reiter 52. Scott Connors and Ron Hilger observe that Smith, in his correspondence, seems to have intended “The Last Hieroglyph” to be his final Zothique tale, though he soon continued on to “Necromancy in Naat.” See Connors and Hilger, “Appendix One: Story Notes,” in Smith’s Last Hieroglyph, 320–22. 53. Smith, Last Hieroglyph, 105. 54. Ibid., 106. 55. Ibid., 115–16. 56. Ibid., 116. 57. Ibid., 116–17. Chapter Twelve C. L. Moore, M. Brundage, and Jirel of Joiry Women and Gender in the October 1934 Weird Tales Jonathan Helland The October 1934 issue of Weird Tales was a special one. It was in this issue that Catherine Lucille Moore (hereafter C. L. Moore) published “The Black God’s Kiss,” featuring Jirel of Joiry—the world’s first female sword-andsorcery hero. Moore had published her first short story, “Shambleau,” in Weird Tales the previous year and was already one of the magazine’s most popular regular authors, but “The Black God’s Kiss” was the first (and only) of Moore’s stories to be honored with a cover illustration. That cover was painted by Margaret Brundage, one of the most prolific, popular, and controversial Weird Tales cover artists. Moore was neither the first woman writer in Weird Tales nor the most prolific, but she was arguably the most popular and certainly the most enduring. She and Brundage would go on to be, without question, the two best-known women associated with the magazine, and the October 1934 cover was their only collaboration. However, prior to October 1934, most readers assumed they both were men. That is what makes the October 1934 issue so special: it was in this issue that editor Farnsworth Wright revealed Brundage’s first name, and therefore her gender, to the world, thereby stirring the pot of an ongoing controversy about her erotically charged artwork. Moore’s first publication, “Shambleau,” appeared in Weird Tales in November 1933 and made her one of the most popular of the magazine’s regular contributors. “The Black God’s Kiss,” taken by itself, is a work that challenges patriarchy and undermines traditional gender constructs. It tells the story of a strong female warrior and leader who is undermined by male 187 188 Jonathan Helland power and goes to extraordinary lengths to regain her power. However, when readers first encountered this story, it was in the larger context of the October 1934 issue of Weird Tales, inclusive of the artwork, advertisements, letter column, stories by other authors, and even the public perception of the magazine and of pulp magazines in general. Margaret Brundage’s artwork first graced the cover of Weird Tales in September 1932. She went on to become both one of the most popular and controversial artists for the magazine. This controversy was carried out in the pages of the magazine’s letter column, “The Eyrie.” Those speaking out against nudity in the cover art rarely admitted distaste; rather, they tended to claim that the erotic covers misrepresented Weird Tales. For example, one reader wrote, Can’t something be done about those lurid covers? . . . I have not the least objection to nudity. . . . I much prefer the overgrown spiders, the hideous lizards, and the exotic flora and fauna that we don’t learn about in school. They typify the bizarre contents of the magazine, while the scantily clad chorus girls would look more at home on French Follies. 1 These reactions were always printed among an equal or greater number of letters praising Brundage’s covers and recommending that “he” be allowed to continue to paint nudes. The anxiety felt by some was grounded in the need to separate Weird Tales from the “sex magazines.” 2 Popular pulp magazines with titles such as Spicy Adventure Stories and Saucy Movie Tales would have been a common sight on the newsstands throughout the 1930s. These magazines featured stories that would probably earn a PG-13 rating in a modern film, but were nevertheless marketed entirely for their prurient qualities. The covers of these magazines, ironically, almost never featured actual nudity—the women on sex magazines were much more likely to appear as if they were about to be exposed. Given the desire for pulp readers to legitimize their favorite fiction, 3 it is hardly surprising that some Weird Tales readers wanted to distance themselves from magazines that were disreputable even by the standards of pulp. While the letters and editorials defending Brundage’s nudes positioned themselves in favor of artistic license and against censorship, economic forces were at the heart of the matter. While Brundage had the freedom to draw any scene she wished from the month’s top story, it was editor Farnsworth Wright and business manager William Sprenger who encouraged her to draw nude (and nearly nude) women. According to Brundage, “Wright told me that the nude covers did better than those that did not feature nudes. . . . I would submit several sketches to Wright and Sprenger and they always wanted the ones with the scantiest clad girls. I drew what they wanted.” 4 Brundage, who had failed to find work as a fashion artist 5 and had C. L. Moore, M. Brundage, and Jirel of Joiry 189 a son to support and a husband who drank and contributed little to the household, 6 depended on the $90 she earned for each Weird Tales cover illustration. The editorial preference for suggestive cover art also served as an incentive for the writers to include scenes with nudity or damsels in distress. The writer with the greatest number of cover stories during Brundage’s tenure was Seabury Quinn. Seabury Quinn mostly wrote about the occult detective Jules de Grandin, a sort of French Sherlock Holmes. Largely forgotten now, he was one of the magazine’s most popular authors in the 1920s and 1930s. Brundage herself attributes Quinn’s near domination of the magazine’s cover art to good business sense: “He realized immediately that Wright was having me do a nude for every cover. So, he made sure that each de Grandin story had at least one sequence where the heroine shed her clothes.” 7 Nevertheless, Brundage’s art has been considered subversive by some, and, in many cases, the women portrayed on the cover of Weird Tales, no matter how they are dressed, seemed to be stronger and more compelling than the women in the stories, 8 although this is clearly not the case with Jirel of Joiry. In the August 1934 issue Farnsworth Wright wrote an official comment on the issue of Brundage’s nudes: The argument about the covers by M. Brundage, instead of subsiding, seems to grow hotter and more furious. Many of you have written to the Eyrie protesting against nudes and near nudes on our covers. . . . So far, those who like Brundage’s covers are a great majority, to judge by the letters that pour in to the editor’s desk; but those who object to nude womanhood on the cover of Weird Tales are very emphatic. 9 It seems that Wright is intentionally stirring up the controversy here. By pointing to a “majority” of readers who like Brundage’s nudes, he creates the impression that Weird Tales operates democratically, and that the way to create change is to write more letters. Wright ends his editorial cementing this impression by claiming, “the magazine belongs to you, the readers, and if you wish us to banish nudity from our covers, we will do so.” 10 Considering that the motivation for putting nudes on the cover was clearly economic and was the result of Wright’s own machinations, this seems somewhat disingenuous. Neither Brundage’s cover painting, nor Moore’s story can be fully understood outside of their original context in an issue of a pulp magazine. In Bibliography and the Sociology of Texts, D. F. McKenzie argues for a new bibliographical approach to texts, one that “examines every stage of their production, transmission, and consumption.” 11 In this view, every reading is influenced by the material form of the text. 12 Therefore, any examination of C. L. Moore’s fiction as a whole text must be historicized and contextualized in relation to its original publication history. McKenzie’s principles are per- 190 Jonathan Helland haps nowhere more important than when dealing with the pulp magazines. The pulps were literally defined by their material—cheap paper made from wood pulp. This physical fact of their publication had an additional symbolic meaning to readers and writers in the pulp era. They were cheap, disposable, “trashy.” 13 The position of the pulps, relative to class and economics and therefore on the continuum between “high culture and low,” 14 is encapsulated in and represented by the gritty texture and yellowing color of every page. In Re-covering Modernism: Pulps, Paperbacks, and the Prejudice of Form, David M. Earle goes further: “The idea of the pulp as sensational counterpoint to artistic fiction is best illustrated in the connotations of the word itself; in recent years, the moniker of ‘pulp’ has grown to mean trashy, popular forms of fiction.” 15 According the Erin A. Smith, in Hard-Boiled: Working Class Readers and Pulp Magazines, pulp magazines were marketed to specific niche audiences determined demographically. 16 Smith argues that the most important of these demographics was gender: “Though the vast majority of pulp titles were action and adventure magazines aimed at men, every major pulp publisher had at least one romance pulp for women. The circulation of women’s pulps usually topped all the others, so male readers of pulp fiction probably did not out number female readers.” 17 Nevertheless, Smith attests, the detective, action, and adventure pulps aggressively sought out male readers and touted the masculine qualities of their stories. Black Mask, for instance, bore the subtitle “The He-Man’s Magazine.” 18 However, Smith’s tight focus on Black Mask is problematic, especially when she uses this to generalize about the pulp magazine market in general. Earle is highly critical of this approach: “Erin Smith . . . has attempted to re-create the typical pulp reader based solely on the hard-boiled genre, particularly Black Mask magazine. . . . There were, in fact, millions of female readers of the ‘love’ and true confession type pulps. . . . Hard-boiled fiction was not the most prevalent genre, just the most ‘literary.’” 19 He goes on to suggest that the common portrayal of pulp magazines as a male-dominated market is the product of a narrow, elitist, and “androcentric” approach to the study of the pulps by the academia. 20 Certainly, the tendency of critics and scholars to focus their attention on Black Mask among the hundreds of pulp titles from the same era has much to do with the relative “legitimacy” held by editor H. L. Mencken and the subsequent canonization of Dashiel Hammett, 21 and probably less to do with any particular significance that Black Mask might have had at the time of its publication. Weird Tales cannot be painted with the same brush as Black Mask. The editors of Weird Tales certainly did not make such anxious attempts to prove the masculinity of its content (except, perhaps, through the cover art), nor did it market itself solely to men. However, the assumption of male readership and male authorship does seem to have been prevalent, if much less so than C. L. Moore, M. Brundage, and Jirel of Joiry 191 in Black Mask. “The Eyrie” published many letters by women. Smith describes letters from women in Black Mask being labeled with headlines such as “From the ladies” and “A mere woman.” 22 However, unlike Black Mask, “The Eyrie” allowed letters from women to be presented without comment, identified as women only by their first names and the occasional “Miss.” Remarkably, women make up at least 26.7 percent of the people who wrote into “The Eyrie.” 23 From this I think it is safe to say that the editors of Weird Tales did not find it necessary to try and portray their magazine as a “male space” or to exaggerate the “manliness” of their stories or their readership in the same way as the detective pulps. On the other hand, nearly all of those who wrote letters to Weird Tales assumed that the authors were all or mostly men. Both Moore and Brundage are referred to in the letters as “he,” even though the editors were very careful to use only gender-neutral terms to describe them. (For example, the biography attached to “The Black God’s Kiss” refers to “this writer’s first story, ‘Shambleau’” 24 [emphasis mine].) In her introduction to Women of Wonder: The Classic Years, Pamela Sargent insists that Moore was not interested in concealing her sex from her readers: “Some have assumed that Moore used her initials in her by-line instead of her real name, Catherine, to conceal her sex. In fact, she was trying to keep the management of the bank where she worked from finding out that [she] was writing for pulp magazines.” 25 This may also have been true, but Moore did conceal her gender from her readers and sometimes took some pains to do so. For example, Moore’s 1936 “Autobiographical Sketch” manages never to reveal or even to hint at her gender. This could almost have been accidental. After all, English doesn’t have gendered first-person pronouns. However, when describing her writing process, she writes, “[C]uriously, the Jirel stories run more smoothly [than the Northwest Smith stories].” 26 Why is that curious? It is not curious if you think that Jirel is a character that Moore would identify with more closely. In describing Jirel’s origins in this same essay, Moore takes on a decidedly masculine tone when mentioning the “belligerent dame who must have been her progenitor.” 27 Additionally, we can see that Farnsworth Wright had many opportunities to reveal her gender (without necessarily revealing her first name to her employer), in the introductions to the stories or in “The Eyrie.” It is no wonder that most of Moore’s biggest fans assumed that she was a man. In 1936, when Moore’s future husband, Henry Kuttner, got her address from H. P. Lovecraft, he addressed his fan letter to “Mr. C. L. Moore.” 28 This deception, however, wasn’t necessary for Moore to achieve legitimacy and respect as a Weird Tales writer. In a study of all the writers published in the magazine, Eric Leif Davin identified 114 women whose stories appeared before Moore’s first published tale in 1933, none of whom felt the need to use masculine pseudonyms. 29 The total number of women to publish stories in Weird Tales during its entire run (1923–1954) was 127. 30 Overall, 192 Jonathan Helland 17 percent of the fiction writers for the magazine are known to have been women. 31 This was, according to Davin, comparable to other fantasy magazines and a little more balanced than the science fiction pulps. 32 Despite these facts, there may nevertheless have been an assumption (as there is now) that the divide between male and female writers was much greater, and Moore may well have believed that her stories would be read and understood differently if the readers knew she was a woman. The presence of a sizable minority of women writers and woman readers in Weird Tales does not necessarily excuse the magazine from all accusations of sexism. Total exclusion is not the only way to manifest patriarchal hegemony. It may well be that cultural, editorial, and economic pressures resulted in a presentation of women in pulp magazines that can be seen as an exploitation of male sexual fantasies about women. In the case of Weird Tales, this was often manifested in the artwork. “The Black God’s Kiss” was the only one of C. L. Moore’s stories to be featured in the cover illustration. The cover of the October 1934 issue of Weird Tales is striking. The statue of the titular black god stands out against a bright orange background. He is vaguely reminiscent of Buddha in his crosslegged posture. He is also highly racialized: the broad nose and thick lips of the statue’s face look like a racist caricature of African features, made alien by a single oversized eye in the middle of the face. These racial characterizations are nowhere to be found in Moore’s description in the text, 33 but they add an extra element of miscegenation and taboo to Brundage’s cover. Brundage’s depiction of the heroine is typical of her highly erotic style: Jirel is draped over the statue, leaning in for the kiss, her eyes closed, her red curls hanging back from her head. Her posture and presentation are overtly sexual and submissive as she arches her back and presses her body against the statue; her mail hauberk is formfitting and shaped more like a chemise (or perhaps a particularly daring flapper’s party dress) than any armor ever worn. It hangs from the shoulders by thin impractical straps, barely covers the buttocks (clearly defined), and is slit up to the hips. Jirel is bare legged and barefoot—her toes are pointed like a ballerina’s. Moore did not take the Seabury Quinn approach with “The Black God’s Kiss.” Jirel of Joiry is not put into the sort of situations that would make for memorable Margaret Brundage paintings. Yet the artwork seems determined to make Moore’s character more sexual and more vulnerably feminine. The interior art for “The Black God’s Kiss” is a drawing by H. R. Hammond in which Jirel is being held topless by two soldiers. In the text of the scene being illustrated, Jirel is dressed from head to toe in armor. The only undressing taking place in Moore’s version of Jirel’s capture is the removal of her helmet. Hammond’s drawing, even more than Brundage’s, seems to be at odds with the subversive message of Moore’s story. The sense of helpless- C. L. Moore, M. Brundage, and Jirel of Joiry Cover for the October 1934 issue of Weird Tales by Margaret Brundage 193 194 Jonathan Helland ness and vulnerability implied by Hammond’s image could form a first impression of Jirel that tempers Moore’s strongly feminist approach. The October 1934 issue of Weird Tales can be seen as a battlefield in which alternating visions of femininity compete in the person of Jirel of Joiry. Margaret Brundage’s Jirel is sensual and sexual, but she is not merely a sex object; she is presented on the cover as the initiator of a taboo sexual Interior illustration for “The Black God’s Kiss” by H. R. Hammond C. L. Moore, M. Brundage, and Jirel of Joiry 195 act. H. R. Hammond’s Jirel, on the other hand, is a captive damsel in distress who has been laid bare and dominated by the men around her. Her nudity seems as much in service of vulnerability as of sexuality. It is interesting that Farnsworth Wright chose the October 1934 issue to reveal to his readers that M. Brundage, the source of so much controversy and discussion, was in fact a woman. It may be that he was aware of the significance gender played in the magazine that featured the first female sword-and-sorcery protagonist. This knowledge may force the reader to reevaluate the cover illustration: what was once a male sexual fantasy becomes something else. It is possible to see Brundage’s Jirel not only in terms of sexual exploitation, but also of sexual liberation. The taboo act of physical intimacy moments away from occurring on the cover of the October 1934 Weird Tales appears to be entirely within her control. While the H. R. Hammond illustration places Jirel in the traditional context of weakness expected of women in pulp fiction, Brundage’s image can be seen as a femme fatale—eroticized but still dangerous, a seductress. The femme fatale goes back to the nineteenth century, and a woman who is at once sexually available to men and dangerous to them can be seen as a symbol of patriarchy’s fear of female sexuality. 34 Yet Moore’s Jirel directly rebels against both of these characterizations. Jirel begins the story captive, but by no means helpless. She fights back viciously when they cut the straps holding her helmet; she curses and insults her captors, and even breaks free from the men holding her. 35 And unlike the femme fatale, Jirel doesn’t use her sexuality as a weapon. When she is caught again by Guillaume and kissed against her will, Moore passes on the opportunity to talk about her soft feminine lips or to have her swoon in his masculine arms. Rather, kissing Jirel is “like kissing a sword-blade,” and Jirel takes her proximity to her captor as an opportunity to kill him with her bare teeth: “[S]he missed the jugular by a fraction of an inch.” 36 When Jirel is knocked unconscious, she is neither bound nor naked, and when she finally does undress it has no hint of exhibitionism, but rather a sense of preparing for battle: Jirel got herself out of her armor alone, somehow, after much striving and twisting. Her doeskin shirt was stiff with sweat and stained blood. She tossed it disdainfully into a corner. The fury in her eyes had cooled now to contained and secret flame. She smiled to herself as she slipped a fresh shirt of doeskin over her tousled red head and donned a brief tunic of link-mail. 37 Another story that begins with a woman being kissed by her captor and features a dramatic change of clothes could find a home in the pages of Spicy Adventure Stories. Moore, however, denies the readers this titillation by focusing on her heroine’s harder qualities (“sweat and stained blood,” “fury”), 196 Jonathan Helland by never presenting her as weak or helpless, and by insisting on attitudes, behaviors, and clothes that have been constructed as masculine. Yet this rebellious subtext is somewhat undermined by the artwork, which in both cases emphasizes a quality of feminine beauty that Moore explicitly denies to her protagonist. It is impossible to reconcile Brundage’s languid beauty with Moore’s description: “[T]he face above the mail may not have been fair in a woman’s head-dress, but in the steel setting of her armor it had a biting, sword-edge beauty as keen as the flash of blades.” 38 And while Hammond may have come closer to capturing a face with a hard-edged beauty, he abandons its “steel setting” in favor of bare flesh. However, the artists are not alone in denying Jirel’s more masculine qualities: Guillaume, the story’s antagonist, does the same. He instantly nicknames her “pretty one” and describes her mouth as “fair.” 39 The use of “fair” and “not fair” to describe the same person on the same page is surely no coincidence. Guillaume can be seen to represent the same patriarchal process of constructing femininity that seems to be at work with the artistic representations of Jirel in the issue. In the story, Guillaume’s attempt to feminize Jirel only brings her aggressively unfeminine qualities into sharper context until the very end when her complete revenge fills her with the love for her captor. Yet it is unclear whether the conflicting messages provided by the illustrations and other stories in the magazine draw the subversive nature of Moore’s text into contrast or whether the effect is one of muting and muddling the issue. Certainly, Jirel’s strength of will and ferocity stands apart from the stereotypically weak and helpless women more common in the pulps, but the multiple depictions of her within the October 1934 issue of Weird Tales can be seen as having a softening effect on Jirel’s more disruptively gender ambiguous traits. The relationship between the text of Moore’s stories and their material form in the pulp magazines is tangled and complex. At the beginning of her career, Moore did apparently feel it necessary to conceal her gender identity from the readers of Weird Tales. But this does not mean that Moore’s work is significant and nuanced despite its having been written for pulp magazines; rather, Moore’s fiction is in dialogue with the work that is being done in these magazines and relies on the contrasts and comparison for some of their effect. It does not undermine Moore’s rhetoric about gender that it had to compete against alternate and opposing texts. However, it is worth asking if some of those texts, particularly the artwork related to the story itself, served to conceal these themes from the reader. Readers confronted with Margaret Brundage’s cover illustration and H. R. Hammond’s interior art, or one who is accustomed to approaching the stories in Weird Tales in an uncritical way, may well blind themselves to the psychosexual depths of “The Black God’s Kiss.” But to the many readers for whom questions of gender and sexuality C. L. Moore, M. Brundage, and Jirel of Joiry 197 were already troubling, C. L. Moore’s unique story must have been a revelation. “The Black God’s Kiss” was the fifth story C. L. Moore had published in Weird Tales. The first four, starting with the memorable “Shambleau,” featured her male protagonist, Northwest Smith. The Northwest Smith stories tended to follow a pattern in which the roguish hero would find himself helpless and at the mercy of (often female) alien forces. In many ways, Northwest Smith can be seen as a distillation of male pulp heroes; he carries shades of the western wandering gunslinger and the noir amoral antihero. He has the iron will and fearsome reputation of a Robert E. Howard larger-thanlife warrior. But all that strength and ability is rendered meaningless by his helplessness in the face of the cosmically powerful threats he faced, from which he usually needed some rescue from without. Jirel of Joiry’s adventures, similarly, follow a repeating pattern: involuntary travel to another realm where she faces strange forces (usually male), which she then overcomes through inner reserves of willpower and resolve. These forces often try, and fail, to force her to conform to a traditionally female role of submission for a state against which she wholeheartedly rebels. This was a significant and meaningful reversal of the gender roles assumed by most readers and writers in 1934. Some feminists argue that taking on male behaviors and roles is not enough to advance female agendas or perspectives. In Feminism and Science Fiction, Sarah Lefanu suggests that Jirel of Joiry, particularly in the story “Jirel Meets Magic,” fails to challenge the sexist conventions of speculative fiction, despite the female protagonist. 40 This argument is made in the context of criticizing Pamela Sargent’s More Women of Wonder collection for anthologizing works with female protagonists without concerning herself with whether they challenge patriarchy or further feminist values. 41 This is, of course, a valid concern; a female protagonist is never reason enough to label a work “feminist,” any more than is a female author. Furthermore, Lefanu’s subsequent suggestion that either “Shambleau” or “No Woman Born” (a later work outside the scope of this paper) would have been more compelling representations of C. L. Moore’s fiction 42 is no doubt true. However, Lefanu is too quick to disregard the transgressive nature of Jirel as a character. Lefanu gives no indication that she has read any Jirel stories other than “Magic,” and this may be part of the problem. However, later in Feminism and Science Fiction, Lefanu illuminates a problem not with Jirel specifically, but with the archetype that Jirel helped establish in fantasy fiction: “Attempts have been made to reclaim Amazons for women if not for feminists by taking the heroes of sword-and-sorcery fiction and giving them breasts. . . . The problem with the role reversal stories—as with role-reversal societies—is that they do not necessarily challenge the gender stereotypes that they have reversed.” 43 This is true to an extent; a pure reversal maintains 198 Jonathan Helland the assumptions of gender as binary and gender as hierarchy. However, it is reductive to utterly dismiss the value of role reversal as a tool in speculative fiction. Janice Bogstad argues that, while role-reversal stories have been used to uphold patriarchal assumptions in the past, 44 they can also serve to sever the ties between sex and gender and undermine the perceived inevitability of those gender-role assignments. 45 In all her Jirel of Joiry stories Moore actively subverts the language and stereotypes of her era, not only those that appeared in the pages of Weird Tales, but also those from other pulp magazines and popular culture in general. In the 1930s, the language didn’t exist to launch a frontal assault on the artificiality of the socially constructed gender binary, or against the inequality of the socially prescribed gender roles. Moore, however, took advantage of the flexibility of fantasy and science fiction to confront those issues anyway. Where language and society was lacking, alien beings and magical forces picked up the slack. Questions that were impossible to ask in America in the 1930s echoed through Martian canals and strange otherworlds. The result not only was subversive in relation to her contemporary society, but remains extremely amenable to analysis within the nuanced and sophisticated framework of modern feminist theory. However, whatever open challenge to patriarchal hegemony may exist in the text of “The Black God’s Kiss” is complicated and compromised, if not actually undermined, by the rest of the material text. The artwork by Brundage and Hammond, the letters, the other stories appearing alongside it, and even the cultural perception of the pulp fiction magazine as a whole would have had a profound influence on how this story would have been understood and interpreted by its original readers. Nevertheless, the gestalt effect achieved by the October 1934 issue of Weird Tales is far from an unambiguous endorsement of the status quo. Rather it can be seen as a lively conversation, full of nuance and contradiction. NOTES 1. Weird Tales, August 1934, 268. 2. Weird Tales, October 1934, 524. 3. Erin A. Smith, Hard-Boiled: Working-Class Readers and Pulp Magazines (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 2000), 34. 4. Quoted in Robert Weinberg, The “Weird Tales” Story (West Linn, OR: FAX Collector’s Editions, 1977), 68. 5. Weinberg, “Weird Tales” Story, 66. 6. Paula Guran, “Our Queen, Our Mother, Our Margaret: How One Artist’s Magazine Covers Shaped the Vision of a Genre for a Gender,” Weird Tales 65, no. 2 (Summer 2010): 25. 7. Weinberg, “Weird Tales” Story, 68. 8. Guran, “Our Queen,” 21. 9. Weird Tales, August 1934: 266. 10. Ibid. C. L. Moore, M. Brundage, and Jirel of Joiry 199 11. D. F. McKenzie, Bibliography and the Sociology of Texts (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), 15. 12. Ibid., 25. 13. Smith, Hard-Boiled, 204. 14. Mark McGurl, “Making ‘Literature’ of It: Hammett and High Culture,” American Literary History 9, no. 4 (1997): 702. 15. David M. Earle, Re-covering Modernism: Pulps, Paperbacks, and the Prejudice of Form (Farnham, UK: Ashgate, 2009), 74. 16. Smith, Hard-Boiled, 27. 17. Ibid. 18. Ibid., 28. 19. Earle, Re-covering Modernism, 78. 20. Ibid., 79. 21. McGurl, “Making ‘Literature’ of It,” 706. 22. Smith, Hard-Boiled, 29. 23. Eric Leif Davin, Partners in Wonder: Women and the Birth of Science Fiction, 1926–1965 (Lanham, MD: Lexington, 2006), 65. 24. Weird Tales, October 1934, 403. 25. Pamela Sargent, “Introduction,” in Women of Wonder: The Classic Years: Science Fiction by Women from the 1940s to the 1970s (San Diego: Harcourt Brace, 1995), 4. 26. C. L. Moore, “An Autobiographical Sketch of C. L. Moore,” in Echoes of Valor II, ed. Karl Edward Wagner (New York: Tor, 1990), 38. 27. Ibid., 37. 28. Robert Silverberg, “‘No Woman Born’: Flowing from Ring to Ring,” in Science Fiction 101 (New York: ibooks, 1987, 2001), 196. 29. Davin, Partners in Wonder, 68. 30. Ibid., 68. 31. Ibid. 32. Ibid., 69. 33. “The image was of some substance of nameless black, unlike the material which composed the building, for even in the dark she could see it clearly. It was a semi-human figure, crouching forward with outthrust head, sexless and strange. Its one central eye was closed as if in rapture, and its mouth was pursed for a kiss.” Weird Tales, October 1934, 416. 34. Mary A. Doane, Femmes Fatales: Feminism, Film Theory, Psychoanalysis (New York: Routledge, 1991), 3. 35. Weird Tales, October 1934, 404. 36. Ibid. 37. Ibid., 405. 38. Ibid. 39. Ibid. 40. Sarah Lefanu, Feminism and Science Fiction (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1989), 16. 41. Ibid. 42. Ibid., 17. 43. Ibid., 35. 44. Janice Bogstad, “Gender, Power and Reversal in Contemporary Anglo-American and French Feminist Science Fiction” (PhD diss.: University of Wisconsin, Madison, 1992), 35. 45. Ibid., 45. Chapter Thirteen Psycho-ology 101 Incipient Madness in the Weird Tales of Robert Bloch Paul W. Shovlin Robert Bloch and Sigmund Freud had much in common. Both were prolific writers and their collected works are still sought out and read. Both ruminated on the nature of psycho- and sociopathy in their writing. For Freud, notably in The Psychopathology of Everyday Life, nearly every quirk or mistaken pronunciation or instance of forgetfulness originates from our subconscious in manifestations of neuroses. 1 Bloch, in many of his weird tales, exploits our tendency to attempt to normalize that which does not fit normal expectations, rather than come to the conclusion that reality can’t be explained away with neat explanations by psychology. While Freud searched for inconsistencies as evidence leading back to psychological trauma that might be named and treated, Bloch artfully wove tales that utilized such inconsistencies to emulate psychological trauma in the controlled and safe environment of the reader’s armchair. The writing they did was interested in and reflected on real cases of the mentally disturbed, from the case of “the Rat Man” in Freud to that of Norman Bates in Bloch, notably inspired by Ed Gein. The sheer scope and variety of each of their texts show minds at work, not merely displaying fully thought-out representations, but teasing out nuances and perspectives and recursively evolving their differing projects. For Freud, it is obvious that his disciplinary audience (although he also wrote for the general public on occasion), professional and academic psychologists and psychiatrists, motivated and nourished his writing. In the case of Bloch, we can see how the American pulp magazine industry served as an early safe haven and catalyst, and its resulting audience similarly served Bloch while he developed and tested his theories on the psychology of the horror tale. In this chapter, I will apply Freud’s notion of the uncanny—experience that begins 201 202 Paul W. Shovlin to diverge from normalcy or what is expected—to the method in which Bloch’s stories hinge on psychology in order to get at Bloch’s concept of the psychology of horror or, more fittingly, the horror of psychology, and how it obfuscates rather than clarifies. Before I get to the analysis and given the nature of the chapters in this volume, I am interested in ways that the “medium is the message,” as Marshall McLuhan famously put it in Understanding Media: The Extensions of Man, and how the medium of a pulp magazine such as Weird Tales affected its writers, such as Bloch and the stories he told. 2 As we survey Bloch’s weird tales and paying special attention to those in which madness is a central concern, it becomes evident that the medium of publication had an effect on the work that is likely to be forgotten or ignored as his short stories go through republication in other forms. Bloch’s “The Weird Tailor,” 3 for example, is a tale about a magical suit that has the ability to animate corpses or mannequins it is placed on. The story isn’t very remarkable, even given its inclusion of a corpse in a freezer, a satisfying bludgeoning, and madness on the part of two characters. It seems a bit long and convoluted (certainly in a way that doesn’t fall in line with Bloch’s ability to write concisely and to carefully design particular stories), and given the nature of pulp writing, with payment often based per word, it makes sense that writers such as Bloch were being conditioned to write in those ways, in terms of their audiences’ and editors’ preferences, but also in terms of the limitations and opportunities pulp publishing offered. Bloch writes, “In order to make a living it was often necessary to write material more or less geared to the requirements of the pulp-magazine markets.” 4 I mention this before I begin my analysis because I believe this is one of the blind spots of literary criticism that must be noted and considered, especially in terms of authors relatively recently joining the ranks of canonization, but also because it lends credence to the unique venue of Weird Tales for nourishing so many great American writers, for example, Robert E. Howard, H. P. Lovecraft, and talents such as a young Tennessee Williams. In considering the broader impact of a cultural phenomenon such as Weird Tales, it is clear that the community, editorial process, and medium of the pulp magazine interacted in a unique way, contributing to an explosion in new American literary forms, 5 such as the hard-boiled detective yarn, sword-and-sorcery, the Cthulhu mythos, and so forth. Regardless of which particular titles they originated in, these genres and their creators cut their teeth in Weird Tales. That noted, in this chapter I will focus on the work of Robert Bloch, known mostly for his dark humor and for how psychology figures in his stories. Given their uncanny connection with Freud, I am interested in how Weird Tales was a sandbox for a young Robert Bloch as his handling of psychology and horror evolved toward later better-known works such as Psycho. In “Yours Truly, Jack the Ripper,” for example, issues of sanity, Psycho-ology 101 203 mental health, and the efficacy of psychologists are central to its outcome, in which a seemingly crazy man is vindicated in light of his odd theories and a psychologist becomes the threat. “Enoch” offers another view of a crazed killer who speaks at length with a psychologist regarding his impulse to kill. In stories such as these, we see Bloch recursively circling different positions—that of patient, doctor, madman, imagination, the nature of sanity, the affirmation of superstition, the reality of evil. Freud’s notion of a “talking cure” can be inversely applied to these stories. Both contain dialogues between doctors and patients, 6 which rather than culminating in the salvaging of sanity come to a crescendo of madness and the supernatural. But his notion can also be used as a meta-theory for considering the function of Weird Tales as a psychosocial moratorium, a series of psychoanalytic sessions, if you will, for the evolution of psychological terror in the work of Bloch. I am arguing that we might view his work leading to Psycho as a series of sessions delving deeper and into different aspects of the nature of the horror of psychology. While this analysis will be useful for considering the work of Bloch, it could be further extended to consider how theoretical concepts, such as Howard’s “dark barbarism” 7 or Lovecraft’s cosmic horror, were similarly nurtured in the Petri dish of Weird Tales. The story “Enoch” 8 hinges on discourse, much like psychoanalysis, and much like the story “Yours Truly, Jack the Ripper.” We get the story as a stream of consciousness from the narrator, Seth. As we peel back the layers of the onion, we see his story revolving around dialogue between him and Enoch, a tiny creature presumed to be some sort of devil or demon who resides on his skull and whispers in his ear. Seth asks the reader: “Have you ever felt the tread of little feet walking across the top of your skull? . . . It starts like that.” 9 But Enoch is not satisfied with merely traipsing about on people’s heads; he also “wriggles down the back of your neck and whispers in your ear.” Seth relates that Enoch asks him to do wicked things and compels him to obey. Enoch asks Seth to kill for him. Part of the appeal of the story and, to use Freud’s term, the uncanniness of it is the narrator’s perspective, which posits Enoch as a real being. Literally, because we are reading words on a page, we are a captive audience to Seth’s narrative, but that reality mirrors the kind of response Seth might get from a psychologist or confidant. When confronted with his claims that a tiny imp lives inside his head and asks him to kill people, the safe bet is to remain calm and go along with Seth’s story, in order to delve deeper into what may actually be at the root of his (dangerous) hallucinations. But the detached perspective of the psychologist also suggests some sort of fascination with the object of insanity and a lack of humanity on the part of the doctor. Part of the draw of Bloch’s stories rests in how they punish those who think they know best. In the case of Seth, we may believe the narrator is unable to discern the difference between reality or hallucination, and his testimonial 204 Paul W. Shovlin colors our own perception. Borrowing from the language of psychology, we might imagine Enoch as an extension of Seth’s id, his aggressive drive, manifesting itself outside of his subconscious. Or, listening, like a therapist, we may suspect Enoch is an alter ego or an aspect of a multiple personality disorder or schizophrenia. But the truth is, we don’t know for sure. When I teach popular genres and we cover Poe’s “The Tell-Tale Heart,” one of my favorite questions to ask students is why the narrator killed the old man. They usually reply that it was because of his eye, giving their answer from the narrator’s perspective. The answer is completely reasonable within the framework Poe offers us, that of the narrator. It was because of the old man’s vulture eye. None of my students answer by stating the narrator killed the old man because he is a raving lunatic. Freud describes uncanniness as a kind of “common reality” that has been slowly invaded by hints of that which has been repressed. 10 In the horror genre, this is why the supernatural elements often start slowly, because at first the main characters (and we as readers) must be able to attempt to normalize them. First, normalcy and context must be established, then one small, strange thing happens and then another and the weirdness works itself up to a frightening pitch, because we begin to realize the horror is real. This strategy is evident in the haunted house genre or classical ghostly tales such as those of M. R. James. Obviously, as readers of the genre we suspect the ultimate end of the process of uncovering the nature of what is transpiring, but we go along with the characters for the ride. In real-life Wisconsin, when sheriff Arthur Schley walked into Ed Gein’s garage and found the butchered carcass of his deputy’s mother hanging from the beams “dressed out like a deer,” it is likely that for a split second his mind attempted to make what he saw a part of “common reality” rather than what it was, mind-blasting terror. 11 As the police searched the house and found Gein’s other souvenirs, Freud’s notion of the uncanny turned into full-blown psychosis (what theorist Julia Kristeva, in The Powers of Horror: An Essay on Abjection, refers to as abjection). 12 Likewise, Bloch’s tales tease readers via our armchair knowledge of psychology to attempt to dismiss the genuine horror of what human beings are capable of by (psycho)analyzing the discourse of madmen, which constitutes our only tenuous link to the common reality of the fictive realm. We use psychology to normalize what we experience within the narrative confines of the story. In these cases, the uncanny becomes that which we are unable to dispel with our mostly empirical construction of knowledge. Part of the thrill of “Enoch” is that, as a weird tale, we are unsure of whether the story is a supernatural one or a depiction of insanity. Probably, as a reader of Weird Tales (or, as Bloch might put it, connoisseurs of horror), we are more likely to desire Enoch to be real, as part of the nature of the genre we take pleasure in. In real life, this indetermination marks the uncanniness of extreme mental disorders that simply can’t make sense to us as Psycho-ology 101 205 rational people. Bloch imagines the mind-set, quite realistically, in a way that suggests he is perhaps capable at getting into the head of a serial killer, much as Enoch does. As an author, Bloch does exactly that. Seth (and Enoch, for that matter) is Bloch’s marionette. The story serves as a (likely) conscious metaphor for the creative act and the artist. As we will see later, “Yours Truly, Jack the Ripper” also includes metaphors for writing and makes wry commentary on the nature of artists, as does the title of “The Weird Tailor.” This ability to write characters that are quite normal in some regards, but crazy or possessed in other ways, casts doubt on the sanity or nature of humanity of the author. Bloch was aware of this, as evidenced by his wry humor in well-known quotes such as “Despite my ghoulish nature, I really have the heart of a small boy. I keep it in a jar on my desk.” 13 In “Enoch,” Seth’s murderous crimes are discovered after he killed Emily Robbins, a blonde driving through the swamp. He disposed of the body and car by sinking them in quicksand. If this sounds familiar, it’s because it is. The stories of Seth and Norman Bates run parallel in a few ways, in terms of some small details like these, and in terms of a perception of reality mostly filtered through an insane protagonist, each of whom has a monkey on his back as a result of a domineering mother. It is arguable that the inclusion of the so-called transvestite tendencies of Norman Bates complicates the impact of perspective in the novel, more so than in “Enoch.” This is because, dressed up as his mother and in makeup, Norman Bates is seen by victims such as Mary who identify their killer as a crazed old lady. In the case of “Enoch,” told entirely from the point of view of Seth, we only hear about the district attorney, Edwin Cassidy, who is taken over by Enoch from Seth. We don’t get an internal register from Cassidy, which can aid our armchair psychological analysis of Seth. Psycho shows us that even if we did, witnesses are unreliable. In his jail cell, like a good patient, Seth tells Dr. Silversmith, probably a psychiatrist, about his mother. Seth tells us, “Enoch has protected me, just as my mother planned. She knew I couldn’t get along alone.” 14 Presumably, Seth’s mother is a witch who summoned Enoch, a familiar, imp, devil, or demon, to guide her son. To readers, this is clearly the implication, given the details Seth offers and the very inclusion of the story in Weird Tales. This is important because it gets at the nature of the weird tale. In the traditional ghost story, the uncanny, those unfamiliar details and almost inexplicable happenings are a pleasurable and suspenseful, exquisite move toward the terror of realizing the bogeyman is real. But weird tales begin with that supposition. The uncanny becomes a string of clues a reader follows with a joyful feeling of suspense on determining just where and how exactly they lead not just to the supernatural, but also to the weirdness or strangeness that Weird Tales promises. 206 Paul W. Shovlin Within the confines of the story, Silversmith is a victim of casting, a stereotypical psychiatrist. Bloch’s depiction of Silversmith “lean[ing] forward and strok[ing] his little beard and [saying] ‘Yes, yes’ over and over again” offers the image of psychiatrist as Freudian dupe, a specialist who does not understand the psychosis of the patients he serves, one who is driven by therapy for therapy’s sake, the prestige of the trappings, and ingrained with paternalistic and belittling views toward the mentally afflicted. 15 Seth reads him well, saying, “I could feel his eyes watching me. The same kind as the people in the mob. Mean eyes. Eyes that don’t trust you when they see you. Prying peeping eyes.” 16 In some ways, Bloch seems to be referencing our perspectives of and responses to mental illness as well. Afterward, the DA, Edwin Cassidy, visits Seth in his cell in order to extract some sort of confession and to get Seth to act during trial as if he is not crazy (i.e., not to mention Enoch). It is clear he wants an open and shut case. We are told that the doctor mentioned Enoch to Cassidy. Seth says, “That doctor thinks I’m crazy.” Cassidy assures Seth that he believes he isn’t crazy. The DA asks Enoch to come to him, in an attempt to mollify Seth and keep him quiet about his little buddy. Cassidy later returns later, begging to have him removed. Cassidy mutters, “Enoch—that thing of yours—I thought you were crazy—maybe I’m the crazy one—but take him off!” He locks himself in a cell to keep from killing for Enoch, scratching and tearing at the back of his head. As Cassidy slumps to the floor, we hear about “the big red hole . . . eaten in the back of his head.” 17 It isn’t until the end of the story that our ability to explain away Enoch as Seth’s psychosis is strained. Uncanniness is achieved through our inability to process noncredible narration. What we have are two dependent threads of narrative running through our heads. We understand what Seth is telling us, his version of reality, and we interpret that through what we know or believe we know. The disconnect comes with Cassidy’s conversion and death. In order to normalize these elements of the story we strain plausibility by believing Seth’s psychosis is somehow contagious and Cassidy has literally clawed a hole in his own head as a result, or that Enoch is indeed real. This is the pleasure of the horror tale written by Robert Bloch. Our own ability to filter “reality” is called into question. Further, Bloch shows his deft ability to handle these different threads of narrative convincingly. Like Enoch, he can get inside the head of a madman and of us as well. Our own perceptions of madness suggest that the imagination of an author and the mental state of a psychotic may be intertwined. As I noted earlier, we may suspect the sanity of artists like Bloch who come too close to realistically representing characters similar to lunatics like Ed Gein. Perceptions of reality, our tendency to normalize, and a reader’s trust of a narrative thread figure importantly in the popular weird tale “Yours Truly, Jack the Ripper.” “Yours Truly” opens with Sir Guy Hollis, of the British Psycho-ology 101 207 Embassy, meeting John Carmody, a psychiatrist, in Chicago, in 1945. Hollis wants to speak of Jack the Ripper. After describing the Whitechapel murders, he suggests something ostensibly crazy: that Jack the Ripper is alive and in Chicago. Carmody has already begun evaluating Hollis, noting, “He was so wrapped up in his obsession he even talked that way. Well—I was willing to listen. We psychiatrists get paid for listening.” 18 At this point in the story, we accept John Carmody at face value as a psychiatrist—we have no reason to doubt him. Hollis does sound like a madman and Carmody is a convincing psychiatrist. Again, Bloch capitalizes on the uncanniness of mental (in)stability, appearances and embodiments, and has complete control of his characters, while understanding his readers and their journey through the narrative arc. Many years later, Thomas Harris would introduce to the world another psychiatrist who would turn out to be a serial killer, Dr. Hannibal Lecter. When Carmody presses Hollis for evidence the killer could be alive after all these years, Hollis mentions following a trail of crimes across continents. Specifically, he cites some real killings, such as the Cleveland Torso Murders, which bespeaks Bloch’s knowledge of and influence by such events. Ironically, Hollis believes that the killer may be part of the “lunatic fringe” of intelligentsia and mentions “writers, painters, poets” as likely suspects. 19 Given the community of writers and the nature of the writing published in Weird Tales, it is hard not to imagine that Bloch was poking fun at his fellow writers in a conscious way. Again, Bloch settles on the uncanniness of mental disorder. Hollis tells Carmody that the Ripper is “perfectly normal. Except on certain nights. . . . Then he becomes an ageless pathological monster, crouching to kill.” 20 We are reminded of the tenuous nature of common reality and how narrow is the distinction between “perfectly normal” and the “pathological monster.” Like Hollis’s Ripper, artists such as Bloch are, most of the time, perfectly normal, only turning into pathological monsters when they get into the head of madmen via their imaginations and the stories they weave. Hollis attends the party with Carmody and is introduced to an odd assortment of artists of different kinds. As he eventually declares his mission, Carmody muses on the nature of concealment and the illusion of normalcy: “But for the first time I saw these people in a new light. I wondered about their lives—their secret lives beyond the scenes of parties. How many of them were playing a part, concealing something?” 21 He begins to suspect Hollis himself: “I wondered idly just what was really wrong with him. Why he had this odd fixation concerning Jack the Ripper. Maybe he was hiding secrets, too.” 22 While Carmody’s aside deflects our suspicion of him on the first read of the story, on a second reading it is likely to produce a frisson as we imagine the implications of this insight given his real identity. The fact that a seemingly deranged individual like Hollis is suspicious of everyone 208 Paul W. Shovlin isn’t remarkable. But the fact that a wolf in sheep’s clothing is experiencing a new kind of suspicious filter is intriguing. Bloch’s emphasis on the psychology of horror or the horror of psychology in his career has been successful because it touches one of humanity’s open wounds—that of the inscrutability and instability of the psyche. In the real world, time and again, until it becomes a parody of itself, we hear people describe killers, kidnappers, rapists as “just the quiet type.” Neighbors muse over their inability to detect anything was wrong in the past. A bloodied and naked captive escaped from Jeffrey Dahmer’s apartment of death and was returned to him by the police only to be subsequently murdered. It is not enough in Bloch’s stories that we may find out one of the characters may be mad; it is not enough that we may question the sanity of a writer who can imagine a functioning murderer. Bloch makes us doubt the world around us and, more importantly, suggests that we even begin suspecting ourselves. He is merely writing the tales—we are the avid readers who get pleasure from the form and content. At the end of the story, Carmody convinces Sir Guy to hand over his gun after he has had a few too many drinks. They wander down an alley and Sir Guy reveals the true motive behind his search, as Carmody listens. Again, the patient-psychiatrist exchange centers on Sir Guy’s mother, one of Jack’s original victims. Unfortunately for Sir Guy, as a trained psychiatrist Carmody knows all too well that a man’s relationship with his mother often leads to dogged obsessions and unstoppable drives. Bloch identifies John Carmody, as he approaches Sir Guy with the resonating line, “‘Never mind the “John,”’ I whispered, raising the knife. ‘Just call me . . . Jack.’” 23 When I read the story as a teenager, it was effective and I remember smiling at the end and the impression that Bloch had pulled one over on me. Like Ambrose Bierce’s “An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge,” this kind of twist ending 24 has been used many more times and in many other contexts. It can seem old hat in modern contexts. Bloch himself says, “[‘Yours Truly’ is] not my idea of a well-written story,” although I disagree. 25 I believe John Carmody is more interesting during a second read, in the context of the ending. In that context, the reader is kept attentive considering the perspective of the story from John Carmody, the lack of access to his internal state and musings, the piecemeal details he gives in the course of the story without revealing his true nature. A reader can see that it’s not just a neat trick that Bloch is pulling off, but that each comment, each response, each detail and its form has been thoughtfully crafted to depict Carmody as a rounded character who is only flattened by Sir Guy’s (and our) assumptions. In the phenomenon of serial killing, there is a trend known as the copycat killer. Like artists influence other artists, in deranged way a murderous act can influence other murderous acts. Critics have made much of the coincidences between the behavior and background of Norman Bates and the Psycho-ology 101 209 crimes of Ed Gein, which occurred in 1957, not far from where Bloch was living at the time. They look at the basis of Bloch’s novel as fundamentally informed by Gein’s ghoulish crimes. It’s absolutely true that Bloch was thoughtful of Gein when he produced Psycho. But rather than the eerie similarities between Gein’s murderous mental state and Bloch’s novel, what’s really strange is how “Enoch” and other stories published in Weird Tales ten years before Gein’s crimes coincide with depictions in the novel and coincidences with Gein’s odd brand of madness. Far from a copycat plagiarism of a real murderer, Psycho stands as a project Bloch had been working on in different forms through publications in pulps for many years. Readers can find other examples of early studies of perspective and madness by Bloch in Weird Tales, for example. “Floral Tribute” and “Sorcerer’s Apprentice” are two of them, although they function a bit differently than the two I’ve focused on here. Through an analysis of “Enoch” and “Yours Truly, Jack the Ripper” we can see Bloch getting into the head of madmen, murderers, and readers. He leverages our unease with the reliability of psychology and perspective. The horror of it all is not how the real world has affected the work of Robert Bloch, but how his work offers us insight on the real world, how much we really don’t know about others, how much we don’t know about ourselves, and, finally, how psychology will only offer us little help in understanding it all. NOTES 1. Sigmund Freud, The Psychopathology of Everyday Life, trans. A. A. Brill (London: T. Fisher Unwin, 1914). 2. Marshall McLuhan, Understanding Media: The Extensions of Man (New York: Signet, 1964). 3. Robert Bloch, “The Weird Tailor,” Weird Tales, July 1950, 3–17. The title itself, however, is notably a play on words. One can consider Bloch himself as a “weird taler,” someone who works at designing horror stories. The final line reads, “Only a connoisseur of horrors would have appreciated Erik Conrad’s window-dummy as it loomed over him, clad in the silver suit of enchanted Life—with its waxen fingers clamped in a grip of death about Erik Conrad’s throat” (17). Bloch, in all his meta-awareness, is specifically describing his audience reading the story that he tailored for them. In this case, the tailor’s dummy comes back to kill the tailor. We can see Bloch’s wry sense of dark humor at work in this example. “The Weird Tailor” features in Bloch’s script for the movie Asylum, a fitting repository for it, given the focus of this essay. 4. Robert Bloch, “Author’s Afterword,” in The Best of Robert Bloch, ed. Lester Del Rey (New York: Ballantine, 1977), 394. 5. For research on this, see Brian Stableford’s chapter “Science Fiction between the Wars: 1916–1939,” in Anatomy of Wonder, ed. Neil Barron (New Providence, NJ: R. R. Bowker, 1995); David M. Earle, Re-covering Modernism: Pulps, Paperbacks, and the Prejudice of Form (Farnham, UK: Ashgate, 2009); Paul Kinkaid, “On the Origins of Genre,” in Speculations on Speculation, ed. James Gunn and Matthew Candelaria (Lanham, MD: Scarecrow Press, 2005), and Farah Mendelsohn, Rhetorics of Fantasy (Middletown, CT: Wesleyan University Press, 2008). 210 Paul W. Shovlin 6. The reliance on dialogue in “Yours Truly, Jack the Ripper” has been noted by Randall D. Larson in “Ripping Good Yarns: Robert Bloch’s Partnership with Jack the Ripper” in Benjamin Szumskyj’s edited collection of critical essays on Bloch entitled The Man Who Collected Psychos (Jefferson, NC: McFarland, 2009). 7. Don Herron, The Dark Barbarian: The Writing of Robert E. Howard: A Critical Anthology (Westport, CT: Greenwood Press, 1984). 8. Bloch tells us “Enoch” “was written under pressure, at a single sitting.” See Robert Bloch, “Author’s Afterword,” in The Best of Robert Bloch, ed. Lester Del Rey (New York: Balantine, 1977), 395. 9. Robert Bloch, “Enoch,” Weird Tales, September 1946, 28. 10. Sigmund Freud, “The Uncanny,” in The Standard Edition of the Complete Works of Freud, Vol. 17, trans. James Strachey (London: Hogarth Press, 1955), 218–52. 11. Harold Schechter, Deviant: The Shocking True Story of Ed Gein the Original Psycho (New York: Pocket, 1989), 85. 12. Julia Kristeva, Powers of Horror: An Essay on Abjection, trans. Leon S. Roudiez (New York: Columbia University Press, 1982). 13. This is an oft-repeated quotation. According to the Wikipedia entry on Robert Bloch, Stephen King has opined it is one of his favorites and used it so many times it is often misattributed to him. Wikipedia, s.v. “Robert Bloch,” en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robert_Bloch. 14. Bloch, “Enoch,” 31. 15. Ibid. 16. Ibid. 17. Ibid., 35. 18. Robert Bloch, “Yours Truly, Jack the Ripper,” Weird Tales, July 1943, 95. 19. Ibid., 88. 20. Ibid. 21. Ibid., 90. 22. Ibid. 23. Ibid., 95. 24. I refer to these endings as “whoops endings.” For example, whoops, I’m a ghost (i.e., The Sixth Sense). Or, whoops, I’m dead. Or, another good one, whoops, I’m the devil. 25. Bloch, “Author’s Afterword,” 395. Chapter Fourteen “To Hell and Gone” Harold Lawlor’s Self-Effacing Pulp Metafiction Sidney Sondergard You see, I write fantastic stories, stories of free imagination, about ghosts and goblins and djinns and werewolves and other assorted horrors; and while I may be no beacon light in American letters, my friends are always careful to say they like my stories, or to lie like gentlemen if they don’t. —Harold Lawlor, “The Unknown Lady” 1 The twenty-nine short stories published by Harold Lawlor (1910–1992) in Weird Tales, spanning two of the three decades of the magazine’s hallmark run, are characterized by their self-conscious conflation of pulp conventions and mainstream literary techniques (most often parodying the former and quietly incorporating the latter), offering his readers an engaging synthesis of the urbane and the fantastic. Employing a narrative voice that melds wistful reflection on personal accomplishments with a yearning to escape the mundane, Lawlor modestly shuns the cosmic/eldritch resonance of Lovecraft’s fiction, the dynamics and passion of Howard’s horror fantasy, and the baroque, apocalyptic atmosphere of Clark Ashton Smith’s narratives to create an interface between supernatural/fantasy elements and the verisimilitude of the glossy monthlies’ literary fiction during the same period. His stories are frequently whimsical and self-deprecating, but also learned in their literary/cultural allusions, often narrated by middle-class characters whose intellectual aspirations considerably outstrip their material means, or by successful characters who still possess a bourgeois consumerist mentality. Either way, the figures were constructed to offer a range of appeal to readers, resulting in the sympathetic protagonists who first attracted an audience for his work in Fantastic Adventures (1942–1943). While Lawlor today is not as 211 212 Sidney Sondergard recognizably synonymous with the Weird Tales run of the 1940s and ’50s as Robert Bloch, Ray Bradbury, August Derleth, Edmond Hamilton, and Seabury Quinn, his name was featured on the cover of Weird Tales multiple times (beginning with the March 1945 issue and concluding with the July 1952 issue), 2 reflecting his popularity with readers. Popular magazines such as Collier’s, Redbook, Ladies’ Home Journal, and Saturday Evening Post sold copies in the millions. While sales of copies of all-fiction magazines from Argosy to Doc Savage, All-Story to The Shadow, numbered only in the hundreds of thousands, “the all-fiction magazines outnumbered their more polished cousins, and all told they probably had a far larger audience.” 3 The disparity between the mass market monthlies and a pulp such as Weird Tales was vast: circulation for the Saturday Evening Post by 1930, for example, was already 2,891,773, 4 whereas even at the height of Weird Tales’s popularity the periodical never topped 50,000 in circulation in the years prior to its September 1954 issue. 5 A writer like Lawlor, who wrote primarily for a single pulp, didn’t make a living from his published work; hence he was simply mirroring personal experience in creating characters who aspired to literary success but were resigned to the reality of unfulfilled ambitions. FANTASTIC ADVENTURES, WEIRD TALES, AND LAWLOR’S CONFLATION OF GENRES Lawlor’s stories for Weird Tales exhibit facility with a range of popular genres from romance to detective fiction and hence are quite eclectic in the narrative voices they portray. In the October–November 1953 issue of Fantastic Universe, 6 he was identified as one of the “stfantasy [i.e., scientifantasy] stand-bys” along with such authors as Theodore Sturgeon and Ray Bradbury—a testament to his ability to synthesize diverse genre elements. His specific entry into what Lovecraft had characterized as “imaginative fiction,” 7 with its interweaving of the mundane with the extraordinary, combining horror, fantasy, and science fiction elements, appears in the stories he published in Fantastic Adventures. “The Eternal Priestess” (April 1942), his first story for the pulps, reveals how Terry Leach, the nephew of a prominent Egyptologist, falls in love with an exotic woman named T’Risha, only to learn that for having stolen Nefertiti’s lover she has been cursed with an inversion of the myth of Tithonus: “My body ever young—my mind and my memory weighted, sickened with the evil of the world—appalled by the things I’ve witnessed!” 8 The male lover’s body has been perfectly preserved to resist decay for three millennia (specifically to torment T’Risha), but when Terry learns of it his only frame of reference for understanding such a phe- “To Hell and Gone” 213 nomenon is his boyhood memory of the public display of Enrico Caruso’s corpse. 9 While Mary F. Corey has noted the New Yorker’s penchant in the first half of the twentieth century for either exoticizing or lionizing ethnic others “while concurrently patronizing them,” 10 Lawlor’s early stories display a multiculturalism that is informed, respectful, and consciously resistant to stereotypes. “The Manchu Coffin” (December 1942), for example, features a character named Piet Van Druten (“not the stolid, phlegmatic Dutchman of fiction, but a man of great personal magnetism and immense nervous energy—a heritage, no doubt, from his Javanese mother” 11), who discovers the coffin that “first held the body of Kung Fu-tse, the philosopher” 12 (i.e., Confucius), and was reputed to bring back to life any body placed within it. Its operating principle, however, is derived from Jungian psychology: it only works on someone who “didn’t entirely lose his hold on his soul, his animus.” 13 Reflecting the wartime setting of the narrative, Van Druten hopes to use the coffin to resurrect scientist Frederic Robles, who died while perfecting a device (for amplifying high-frequency sound waves) that could have ended the war swiftly in favor of the allies. Quickly finding an audience with the readers of Fantastic Adventures and favor with editor Ray Palmer, Lawlor published two linked stories there that ran in concurrent issues: “Daughters of Darkness” (April 1943) and “The Irresistible Perfume” (May 1943). Their protagonist, feature-writing journalist Bill Mitchell, meets a former stripper named Maribel and falls in love with her just as she is being recruited to provide entertainment in Hell for its frustrated denizens. Satan (Maribel coyly refers to Lucifer as “Lucy”) has already recruited the most illustrious beauties of the ancient world, including Salome, the Queen of Sheba, and Cleopatra, to little avail, as the damned clamor for more exciting entertainment. Maribel uses iconic associations to belittle her iconic rivals (“No wonder Cleopatra takes the men out on a barge. That’s the only way she can keep ’em from running away”; “Poor Sheba. Can’t get to first-base with men unless she gives ’em presents” 14), and proves to be more than Satan and his captive audience can handle (“If that gave Herod a thrill,” exclaims Maribel, “my Red Garter number back on Earth would have sent him into convulsions!” 15). To his blend of historical and biblical narrative, Lawlor adds the world-weary tone of the noir detective, as Bill closes by allowing as how “there are times when I look back on Hell rather longingly” after three years of marriage to Maribel. 16 Bill and Maribel find Satan waiting for them in “The Irresistible Perfume,” returning home to find him drinking a highball and listening to Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony on their phonograph, taking the opportunity to relax: he has been harried by “the hordes of Nazis and Japs we’re receiving down here” and says that “a coal shortage is rumored, so [he’s] busy installing electric ovens to take care of the overflow.” 17 A villain named Golgoth 214 Sidney Sondergard (for the archetypal site of villainy, Golgotha) kidnaps a feisty waitress named Chotsy (cf. German schatzi, or darling), who has been soaked in an experimental perfume that no male can resist, and sabotages Allied factories supporting the war effort by drawing workers to pursue his feminine hostage. Bill is irresistibly drawn into the spy intrigue/science fiction conflict, employing the hard-boiled private investigator’s diction as he notes, “I may look like a gorilla, but I got a heart could be stirred with a spoon,” and recalling after being hit over the head, “I went out like a match in a high wind.” 18 The stories in Fantastic Adventures already display Lawlor’s pleasure in multilingual cultural allusions and in the conflation of popular genres. While the pulp was printed as a monthly during the span of the five stories he published there (1942–1943), its subsequent cutback to a bimonthly schedule likely helped to persuade Lawlor to continue submitting to Weird Tales, where his first story was published in May 1943. The proliferation of fiction subgenres in the pulps during Weird Tales’s first era of publication interestingly parallels what Tony Tanner has described as the “unusually strong tendency towards that schematic” in American literary fiction, the “attempt to evoke a personal stability and clarification as a result of a marked lack of confidence in the presence and pressures” of the wartime and post-wartime environment. 19 The period between the world wars gave rise in American literature to “every possible mood and trend of thought”: “Fright, pessimism, fortitude, exaltation, selfishness, altruism, corruption, idealism—all these could easily be found.” 20 The pulps reflected this simultaneity of moods and the desire for “a personal stability” by offering specific subgenre niches where readers could find the values, plots, and degree of realism or escapism that was personally rewarding. Weird Tales persisted in its support for supernatural/occult and fantasy stories, but increasingly also looked back nostalgically on the period when Lovecraft and Howard were first contributing to it. The magazine’s tradition of reprinting earlier stories, beginning in 1928, may have contributed in the later years of its run to readers turning to other entertainment sources. 21 Certainly, the magazine explicitly acknowledged its respect for well-developed narratives: in the March 1947 issue, for example, editor Dorothy McIlwraith defends “a slightly smaller total of stories” with the rationale that “we are bringing you three long novelettes,” including one by “Harold Lawlor who can always be counted on to shake a mean bit of horror and fantasy your way.” 22 With the exception of the occasional tale that displays a more conventionally formulaic approach to horror fiction, 23 Lawlor most often sets up surprising reversals of reader expectations. “The Dark Brothers” (September 1945), a horror variant on the Cain and Abel narrative of brothers as polar opposites, is given a classical turn when the two brothers are revealed to be “Night’s dusky children,” 24 literally, Sleep and Death. “The Unknown Lady” “To Hell and Gone” 215 (September 1950) inverts the ghost story: the thoroughly unlikable braggart Greg Leyden (“I never liked him, and always will,” remarks Al, the story’s writer protagonist, himself a writer of horror stories and accused of having “a diseased imagination” by Leyden 25) is told by all his acquaintances at a party that the most beautiful woman they have ever seen wants to meet him. After building his expectation, he is led to an empty chair, where the others pretend to speak to the nonexistent lady; Leyden, however, proceeds to fall in love with the woman, leading the others to conclude that he is either crazy or having them on. A final twist surprises even Al the author of weird tales, as the imaginary woman turns out to have been a genuine ghost. There is a pervasive element of self-parody in much of Lawlor’s work for Weird Tales, of the sort that Richard Poirier recognizes in the work of popular authors of literary fiction of that time. It supersedes “the mere questioning of the validity of any given invention by proposing the unimpeded opportunity for making new ones,” 26 particularly insofar as it complements the conflation of subject matter and genres so prevalent in Lawlor’s stories. As even the title of “Djinn and Bitters” (September 1950) suggests, there is a palpable degree of disaffection in narrator Pete Bartlett’s jealous conflict with a djinn over his new wife, Connie, and the author’s own frustrations intersect with his protagonist’s, arguing that the djinn has had the easier life by far (“You think you’ve got it tough? You should try living in the post-war world”) while enduring the djinn’s insinuations about Connie (who’s “one smart-type tomato”: “Married to her, I’d hang onto my gold teeth with both hands, if I were you”). 27 The romantic conflict, spiced with the sardonic humor of hardboiled mystery dialogue, is further enhanced by self-conscious allusion to the narrative he is writing (“To think that I thought then that the situation was grave! Had I but known, as they say in the mystery novels!”) and to his narrator’s self-awareness as a fictional construct (“Almost it will seem to you as if I’m stepping out of character,” Pete solemnly tells Connie). 28 This typifies Lawlor’s technique of creating rapport with his audience by foregrounding their mutual experience as readers and then revealing to them the mechanisms by which the narrative has been created. METAFICTION AS A BRIDGE FROM PULP TO POP Lawlor’s work reminds us that metafiction—fiction that depicts the very act of its creation, or that embeds the aesthetic process or decisions of the writer within the narrative—was not exclusively a product of John Barth and the post–World War II period. His stories regularly reference authors of literary fiction—Homer, Shakespeare, Pope, Edward FitzGerald, Poe, Yeats, even contemporary writers such as W. Somerset Maugham and E. Phillips Oppenheim 29—with his acknowledgment of them and of the act of writing func- 216 Sidney Sondergard tioning as a trope in his Weird Tales stories. His characters, frequently writers who are constrained by self-doubts or more tangible restrictions, nevertheless find ways to express their creative urges; even Kerry Murnane, consigned to “an institution for the mentally afflicted” in “Tatiana” (January 1945), successfully solicits from his attendant, Myles, “paper and ink to write,” though “not a letter, as Myles thought, but a story.” 30 Lawlor invests the sentences of his writers with rhetorical power that the characters sometimes find themselves obliged to autoexplicate: take, for example, the phrase, “Constance Emerson was agitated,” from “The Previous Incarnation” (July 1949): “That’s a simple declarative sentence to those of you who never knew her; but to others like myself, it’s a statement as startling as if I was to tell you, in all earnest, that the Wrigley Building had just gone for a short stroll down Michigan Boulevard.” 31 In addition to establishing the personalities of Constance and of the narrator here, Lawlor uses this commentary to cue the reader to imagine an image too absurd to exist—a creative analogue, perhaps, of Lovecraft’s inexpressible or unthinkable terror. Since metafiction emphasizes “the world as a construction or artifice,” 32 readers of metafiction are prompted “to question how their own worlds are similar textually” to the metafictional worlds they encounter. 33 Like every one of Lawlor’s readers, visual artist Byron Kane, the narrator of “The Cinnabar Redhead” (July 1946), is continually facing the pressures of one deadline or another (“There was that painting he was doing for Denta Toothpaste; there was the March cover for Metropolitan, still unfinished” 34). When he finds the title’s beauty at the site of an auto crash, she warns him not to take Canyon Road, then blurs and disappears; when the same thing recurs, Byron calls upon a lawyer friend to help him identify her and learns that the woman is Miss Fleury Lennon, a torch singer at the Cinnabar Café. Driving on Canyon Road to catch up with her, he finds Fleury dead at the scene of an accident, tries to flag down an oncoming car, but is also hit. Shifting into second-person narrative voice, Lawlor forces the reader to experience the scene just as Byron, the visual artist, might imagine it being depicted: “You lay there at the road’s edge, your limbs bent at crazy angles, jagged red streaks of pain etching themselves against the black of your waning consciousness.” 35 The language of the artist (“red streaks,” “etching”) reaffirms that this is a constructed world, a matter of artifice, yet it also connects us to the abstract threat of imagined experience that is at the heart of horror fiction’s emotional power. Lawlor’s narrative voice, when moving in a metafictional direction, continually vacillates between a serious authorial self-consciousness and a playful pop culture sensibility that enjoys mocking the seriousness of the writer’s self-image. “Djinn and Bitters” accomplishes this by linking the reader directly to popular culture. The djinn complains of his imprisonment, saying “To Hell and Gone” 217 that he was “[b]ottled up like a pickled onion” until he asks himself, “[A]m I working for Heinz?” A hotel dining room is dismissed as the kind of place that “Duncan Hines would certainly never recommend.” Connie wishes for the djinn to make hubby Pete the perfect man, combining “the charm of Charles Boyer, the physique of Victor Mature, and the looks of Tyrone Power,” but suddenly has a change of heart and commands the djinn to restore Pete’s former looks, “Before you could say Jack Robinson.” 36 Embedded in the familiar, and hence evoking a degree of verisimilitude, such references orient the reader while freeing Lawlor to explore his own unique approaches to the weird tale. Hence his description of antagonist Martin Cox in “Grotesquerie” (November 1950) resists the stereotypical pulp image by drawing attention to the crafting of it: “None of this obvious eyes-too-close-together business—that description so beloved of authors in delineating villainy.” 37 The effect is to encourage the reader, as an appreciative co-conspirator, to poke fun at the pulps themselves, a tactic subsequently perfected in 1952 under the editorship of Harvey Kurtzman at Mad magazine. Readers were also being progressively drawn away from the horror pulps to horror comics. 38 Under Bill Gaines, EC Comics’ International Crime Patrol (already retitled from International Comics in 1947) in 1948 began running horror stories, which were sufficiently successful that the comic was retitled The Crypt of Terror for its April–May 1950 issue (no. 17). Including additional titles The Haunt of Fear and The Vault of Horror, Gaines employed a series of creepy narrators—the Old Witch, the Vault-Keeper, and the Crypt-Keeper—to introduce each tale, with the kinds of prefatory taglines reminiscent of the opening illustrations and story excerpts in Weird Tales, further emphasizing the smorgasbord of horror subgenres on offer. 39 These tactics worked so well that by the advent of Atlas Comics’ Menace, Stan Lee, who was writing all four of the tales in each issue (from no. 1 [March 1953] to no. 4 [September 1953]), would include a similar range of subgenres plus a label in the opening panel of each story (like the later self-aggrandizement in 1960s Marvel comics) that read, “A Tale of Maddening Menace!” The weird comics market was on the rise, and unfortunately Weird Tales was already in decline by the time Lawlor was becoming recognized as a regular contributor to the pulp’s pages. PULP CONSUMPTION: THE EPHEMERAL AND THE TIMELESS Part of Lawlor’s strategy for constructing his tales is to embrace the transient nature of the pulp medium itself by offering his readers the chance to enjoy a taste of “the good life” while engaged in the act of devouring his narratives. The diction of his characters remains conversational and accessible even when he alludes to sophisticated concepts, to the lifestyles associated with 218 Sidney Sondergard financial success, or to high art. Just as in noir discourse, where a character’s world is often redefined after catalytic events “in terms of self-interest and personal possession,” 40 Lawlor’s characters can be damaged or enhanced by financial good fortune, depending upon their personal philosophies and essential moral compasses. In “Nemesis” (May 1948), George, a self-described “dull, prosy bachelor lawyer of forty-two years,” marries the popular actress Madeline Ames, and though they eat their meals at a “long mahogany table bearing its delicate litter of lace and silver and crystal” and lead a life of luxury, their idea of a before-bed treat is to “split a bottle of beer.” 41 And while “a copy of Van Gogh’s Sunflowers, its chrome yellows thick and vivid against the dark background of the wall,” hangs above their “mirror-fronted credenza,” 42 the many signs of their material success cannot disguise a guilty secret that eventually catches up with Madeline. The once-glamorous though now faded Hollywood heroine Sheila Sayre of “The Beasts That Tread the World” (September 1948), anticipating the similar portrait of Norma Desmond in Billy Wilder’s Sunset Boulevard by two years, offers another glimpse of a glamorous lifestyle, though without the self-deprecating, bourgeois sensibility of George, the narrator of “Nemesis,” as a balance. Sheila has staved off aging through “strict diet, rigid massage” and “careful beauty-parlor ministrations,” and while her eighthfloor luxury apartment is “quite a come-down” from “her Beverly Hills mansion, and Malibu Beach ‘cottage,’ and her pied-à-terre in New York,” she still sleeps on “sheets of palest pink crepe de chine” and attends a benefit dinner not to be charitable, but in order to show off “a bewildering creation of black net and sequins, with bird-of-paradise feathers in her high-piled hair.” 43 The tale’s narrator, Dr. John Derry, whose success has been hard earned (“I work long hours as a doctor”), realizes that Sheila has literally been trying to outrun “fear of old age,” and finally succumbs to a macabre end suggested by lines from W. B. Yeats’s play The Countess Cathleen (“The years like Great Black Oxen tread the world, / And God the herdsman goads them on behind!”). 44 Sheila’s desperate ephemerality is underscored by the figurative resonance of ageless poetry as Derry discovers her literally trampled corpse. Frequent referencing of classical music is another of Lawlor’s stylistic tropes, highlighting and complementing the cultural literacy of his characters, signifying the timelessness of art that often accompanies the ephemera of wealth. His first story for Weird Tales, “The Specter in the Steel” (May 1943), revolves around the central mystery of Cio-Cio-San’s sadly hopeful aria from Puccini’s opera, Madame Butterfly, “Un bel di vedremo” (“One fine day we’ll see”), issuing in a beautiful tenor voice from the walls of the Trevor Building where no singer is present. Though the building’s governing board pay Arthur Reynolds, the building manager, five hundred dollars a month, he is unable to solve the matter—and when he tries to suggest super- “To Hell and Gone” 219 natural causes behind it, “the board made it clear, they preferred reading fantastic mystery stories in books and magazines.” 45 Opera is cited again in “Mayaya’s Little Green Men” (November 1946), when Jay, the story’s soapopera-writing narrator, is caught in a meditative moment “at the piano, picking out with one finger” the “Méditation Religieuse” from act 2 of Massenet’s Thaïs. 46 These operatic pieces connote a melancholic beauty that cannily underscores the emotional conflict behind the mysteries in each of the stories. Even Lawlor’s entirely fictional references to classical music are contextualized with an intriguing foundation in reality. The duo pianists Marcatti and Ebsen, for example, who are playing at Orchestra Hall in “The Cinnabar Redhead,” may be figments of the author’s imagination, but the famed La Scala opera house, cited as one place where torch singer Fleury would never perform, is not. 47 But the most detailed of Lawlor’s fictitious classical music references appears in “The Terror in Teakwood” (March 1947), a variation on the Hands of Orlac story (most recently remade at the time as Mad Love in 1935, with Peter Lorre). Pianist Ondia Hurok announces that he intends to perform Czarnowitz’s Seventh Piano Concerto, despite the fact that Hurok refuses to rehearse the piece with the accompanying orchestra prior to performance (though demanding “a Mason and Hamlin for him to practice on”), and as the story’s mild-mannered narrator, Giles Welch, tells his beloved, “Czarnowitz had a phenomenal handspan. Abnormal, really. Nobody on God’s earth ever had a pair of hands like his. Those chords on the Seventh, Leonie! They’re impossible to anyone else.” 48 While the knowledge of music implied in these allusions undoubtedly says something significant about Lawlor himself, his incorporation of them plays a crucial role in the development of his narrator-protagonists as sensitive individuals. LAWLOR’S MILQUETOAST PROTAGONISTS: WHEN BASHFUL MEETS BIZARRE Caspar Milquetoast, the “soul” of H. T. Webster’s syndicated cartoon The Timid Soul and a recurring pop culture icon throughout the duration of Lawlor’s Weird Tales publication run, provides an aesthetic touchstone for Lawlor’s protagonists who are most typically lovable but lacking in confidence, earnest and hard working but unrecognized and underappreciated, honest but often scorned for it. Webster’s close friend, Philo Calhoun, recognizes that the cartoonist and his timorous creation share many of the same endearing qualities of self-deprecation: “an almost hypersensitive consideration for the other fellow’s feelings with an inherent distaste for rows,” resulting in “a cautious approach to many normal situations” 49 Unlike Webster’s Caspar Milquetoast, Lawlor’s milquetoast characters are prompted by fantastic cata- 220 Sidney Sondergard lysts into self-affirming action that rewards and empowers them, instead of simply leaving them bewildered. The very timidity and self-consciousness that predispose them toward nervousness and hence make them ideal for what John W. Campbell Jr., editor of Weird Tales’s fantasy rival Unknown/ Unknown Worlds (1939–1943), characterized as “the grim and ghardsley” story, 50 can, however, be recoded in Lawlor’s stories as appealing qualities. Hence Henry Hildreth, mild-mannered curator of the Forest Refuge Museum, is selected as the perfect man by the amorous Stinklyn, talking title character of “The Wayward Skunk” (September 1944), who articulates a reactionary aesthetic: “[Y]ou get tired of wide-shouldered, slim-hipped heroes. It’s a relief to meet a narrow-shouldered guy with a paunch.” 51 The initially unwanted attention from Stinklyn eventually boosts Henry’s self-esteem before the lady skunk finally concedes that the relationship must end. Indeed, the encounters with strange phenomena that are the trademarks of Weird Tales inevitably trigger significant changes in these reticent characters. Kerry Murnane, the “quiet twin—the shy one, overlooked in the background” of “Tatiana,” is typical of the milquetoast narrator in Lawlor’s fiction, expressing a deficiency of self-esteem that makes other characters all seem vastly more powerful, appealing, and successful. Tim, Kerry’s brother, has a way “of making my every word and action seem the ineffectual fumblings of a fool.” 52 Once the clairvoyance of the title character begins to manifest itself and she predicts that Kerry will “grow to hate Tim for coming between us,” he first becomes assertive, even dictating orders to his previously condescending brother, before his growing resentment escalates fatally. Affluent but timid Mr. Galloway, in “The Door Beyond” (May 1949), blames himself for his May–December marriage to Sylvia not working out as he wished: he was “a humble man, despite his wealth, and deemed it due to some lack in himself that he was unable to inspire love.” And like Lawlor’s other sympathetic protagonists, he “read a great deal and he had his library of recorded music.” 53 When he discovers that a particular painting in his collection has the power to draw viewers into it, Galloway maneuvers the unfaithful Sylvia and her lover into walking into it and through a door from which he ensures they will never return. George’s apologetic remark in “Nemesis,” that the “legal profession is hardly conducive to the exercise of imagination, but I tried my best to reconstruct the story I’d just heard, to interpret it according to my suspicions,” 54 reflects the kinds of self-doubts that Lawlor’s milquetoast characters routinely place upon themselves and their abilities. Kenny Wilcox, the ignominious “saloon reporter for a daily paper, covering the night club beat” in “The Girdle of Venus” (September 1947), takes no pleasure from the amorous advances of Baby or from her support for his professional work (figuring “he was probably awfully intelligent, nearly,” because, she asserts as proof, “You’re a reporter on a newspaper!”), until she dons the girdle that makes “To Hell and Gone” 221 her irresistible to all men. Then when she is gone one morning, he blames himself: “Love couldn’t feed on thin air. His indifference these past few months must have killed whatever love she’d felt for him.” 55 Press agent Pete Bartlett, in “Djinn and Bitters,” makes his pre-djinn criticisms of new wife, Connie, but not without including self-denigration as their complement: “You are please not to believe that I’m trying to set myself up here as her superior. I’ve had my bird-brained moments, too, and plenty of them.” 56 J. P. Telotte has argued that the lesson of horror narratives like John Carpenter’s Halloween is that “we must open our eyes more fully to our human surroundings, seeing more responsibly and staying more aware of our role in the world in which we dwell.” 57 For Lawlor’s docile and self-doubting protagonists, this seems to be precisely what they cannot do—until they are transformed by encountering the uncanny and the fantastic, no longer able to remain reticent and disengaged. “WRITERS WOULD LEAD HAPPIER LIVES”: THE AUTHOR AS FICTION In an interview, Lawlor reveals, “I wrote my first story at the age of nine,” in 1919, and enthusiastically read Weird Tales “and Poe and Sax Rohmer instead of homework,” but then “the Muse went into hiding for quite a while,” during which time he held the variety of jobs “which seems to be the common lot of all writers. (And incidentally is becoming as corny for publicity purposes as the erstwhile convent background of every actress.)” He notes that the desire to write returned to him during the Depression: for “escape, probably—increasing deafness made jobs hard for me to get.” Regarding his Weird Tales story “Specter in the Steel,” Lawlor notes that it “came from nowhere. One of those ‘blue moon’ stories. All of a sudden it was just there—plot, characters, background and all.” But this recollection also triggers a telling remark: “I don’t mind adding that if this sort of thing happened oftener writers would lead happier lives.” 58 Or as disgruntled writer Eddie Walsh, in Lawlor’s “The Peripatetic Corpse” (March 1945), puts it when he is afraid that he might be washed up, thanks to a dry spell: “I will be if I don’t write another story soon, before editors forget me. If I could only think of an opening.” 59 The opening section of “Tamara, the Georgian Queen” (July 1943) reveals that after eight “lean years of marriage,” Thorn and Eve Wallace “were at last on top of the world. For I’d written a best-seller. It was one of those phenomena of the publishing world that make critics tear their hair out by the roots. It wasn’t a good book. The critics panned it to hell and gone.” 60 But the book is “full of the good old corn,” so the “public loved it,” three film companies vie for the rights to it, and Olympic Productions wins the bidding 222 Sidney Sondergard war with “a sum running into six figures,” 61 at a time when an issue of Weird Tales cost fifteen cents. Here is both the fantasy of the author making it big and the frustration of writing for pay rather than for prestige. 62 In the Weird Tales interview, Lawlor revealed that he had to keep “writing, tearing up, throwing away” this story, “until at last the opening felt right and said what I wanted it to say. The rest of the story went along all right then.” 63 While Weird Tales persisted in its commitment to narratives of the supernatural and the fantastic, the market began to shift in favor of quasi-realistic new subgenres like the “weird menace” stories, introduced by Dime Mystery in 1933, that “excluded the supernatural, and featured elaborate scenes of sadistic and bizarre torture.” 64 The visceral impact of such narrative violence (which continues to resonate with audiences of contemporary horror film franchises) and their consequent popularity with readers looking for new thrills increasingly became a driving factor for pulp editors hiring writers “who could turn out stories based on a title idea supplied by an editor” or on “a cover illustration that had been commissioned before anyone had written anything to go with it.” 65 Artistically and aesthetically, this was antithetical to Lawlor’s wry, original approach to imaginative fiction. Despite working in a disposable medium and receiving surprisingly little attention from archivists and historians of the Weird Tales oeuvre, 66 Lawlor didn’t disappear entirely from the popular consciousness. In part because Weird Tales “was to become the most anthologized pulp of all time,” 67 Hollywood didn’t forget about Lawlor in the decades following the publication of his stories. The television program Thriller (hosted by Boris Karloff) purchased rights to four of his stories and filmed episodes adapting three of them, 68 while “What Beckoning Ghost?” was made into a feature-length film, Dominique (1978), directed by Michael Anderson. Employing an authorial voice that privileges irony and the use of supernatural/fantasy elements to amplify character development rather than to satisfy genre specifications or to exist for their own sake, Lawlor draws upon the exoticism of pulp romance, the canny world-weariness of noir fiction, and the fantasy/science fiction/horror composite that typifies early Weird Tales narratives, to invent stories that revel in their temporality (displaying a metafictional consciousness of the medium’s ephemerality). 69 All the while they remain accessible and engaging, modestly acknowledging that they share the smallest of spaces in the literary continuum with the world of high art to which they frequently allude. By daring to be as grounded in the mundane as he is in the extraordinary, Harold Lawlor models the kind of literary realism that anticipated later mainstream writers of speculative fiction, from Stephen King to J. K. Rowling. “To Hell and Gone” 223 NOTES 1. Weird Tales 42, no. 6 (September 1950): 55. 2. The November 1945 issue devotes the cover art to a Lawlor tale (with copy highlighting “A tale of awful amber doom . . . Harold Lawlor’s ‘The Cranberry Goblet’”). The March 1947 issue features an advertisement promising that the next Weird Tales, coming out March 1, would contain stories by Seabury Quinn and Harold Lawlor (“In the next Weird Tales,” Weird Tales 39, no. 10 [March 1947]: 68). Lawlor’s story title “The Peripatetic Corpse” appears on the March 1945 cover; “The Dark Brothers” appears on the cover of the September 1945 issue; Lawlor’s name appears on the covers of the September 1946 issue (which included the story “Xerxes’ Hut”), the May 1947 issue (including “The Black Madonna”), the September 1947 issue (including “The Girdle of Venus”), and the July 1948 issue (including “What Beckoning Ghost?”); the title “Which’s Witch?” is featured on the cover of the July 1952 issue. 3. Frank M. Robinson, Pulp Culture: The Art of Fiction Magazines (Portland, OR: Collectors Press, 1998), 8. At the same time, journals of political opinion, like the Nation and the New Republic, were even more dependent upon “a loyal readership,” as “neither had a circulation above 40,000.” Merrill D. Peterson, Coming of Age with the New Republic 1938–1950 (Columbia: University of Missouri Press, 1999), 6. 4. Jan Cohn, Creating America: George Horace Lorimer and the Saturday Evening Post (Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 1989), 307n18. 5. Peter Haining, “Weird Tales”: A Selection in Facsimile of the Best from the World’s Most Famous Fantasy Magazine (New York: Carroll & Graf, 1990), 11. 6. Jeff Prucher, Brave New Words: The Oxford Dictionary of Science Fiction (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007), 223. 7. Imaginative fiction for Lovecraft includes a “poetic element” that explicitly foregrounds “the imagination, which groups isolated impressions into gorgeous patterns and finds strange relations and associations among the objects of visible and invisible Nature.” H. P. Lovecraft, “In Defence of Dagon,” in Miscellaneous Writings, ed. S. T. Joshi (Sauk City, WI: Arkham House, 1995), 147. 8. Harold Lawlor, “The Eternal Priestess,” Fantastic Adventures 4, no. 4 (April 1942): 112. With Terry occupying the position of the genre detective here, Lawlor includes exchanges that might be heard in any pulp P.I.’s office: Terry notes that T’Risha is “an unusual name,” and she replies, “I’m—an unusual person” (111). 9. Ibid., 115. Caruso’s wife allowed morticians from Napoli who were renowned as mummifiers to preserve her husband’s body when he died in 1921: “For seven or eight years, opera lovers made their pilgrimages to the tomb” to pay tribute to the fallen idol. Heather Pringle, The Mummy Congress: Science, Obsession, and the Everlasting Dead (New York: Hyperion, 2001), 295. 10. Mary F. Corey, The World through a Monocle: The New Yorker at Midcentury (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1999), 122; see also 80–81, 123. 11. Harold Lawlor, “The Manchu Coffin,” Fantastic Adventures 4, no. 12 (December 1942): 206. Such references to non-Western cultures are regular features of Lawlor’s stories. He portrays similar multiethnicity in “The Black Madonna,” Weird Tales 39, no. 11 (May 1947): 68, where narrator Paul’s Aunt Bea lives on a California estate, “La Casa Encantada,” and proudly owns the painting of the story’s title, commissioned by “the archbishop of the Coptic Cathedral at Cairo” in “the fourteenth or fifteenth century.” The painting was once vandalized by Muslim pillagers of the church, “the painted cheek of the Madonna . . . scarred” by a “crescent”-shaped “sabre-thrust” (Lawlor, “The Black Madonna,” 71). As George Phelps and his wife watch a pair of pelicans behaving strangely like their friend, Carl, and his former beloved, Rose Morley, Nell remarks of the Hindus, “Aren’t they the ones who believe in the transmigration of souls?” “Lovers’ Meeting,” Weird Tales 44, no. 2 (January 1952): 61. 12. Lawlor, “The Manchu Coffin,” 208. 13. Ibid., 211. This is the tip of the iceberg in terms of pop psychology and its presence in Lawlor’s pulp fiction. The references permeate most of Lawlor’s stories; twenty-four years before Bruno Bettelheim’s The Uses of Enchantment: The Meaning and Importance of Fairy Tales, “Which’s Witch?” explains the effectiveness of a voodoo doll by noting that “there 224 Sidney Sondergard remains the subconscious, or unconscious mind to be reckoned with. Witness the way all of us believe, as children, in the grim horror of fairy tales” (Harold Lawlor, “Which’s Witch?” Weird Tales 44, no. 5 [July 1952]: 28). But he can also articulate the pop culture dismissal of psychiatrists: “He’d tell me I was seeing the girl because I hated my parents because I was frightened by a caterpillar at the age of three!” (Harold Lawlor, “The Cinnabar Redhead,” Weird Tales 39, no. 6 [July 1946], 68). 14. Harold Lawlor, “Daughters of Darkness,” Fantastic Adventures 5, no. 4 (April 1943): 96. 15. Ibid., 97. 16. Ibid., 98. 17. Harold Lawlor, “The Irresistible Perfume,” Fantastic Adventures 5, no. 5 (May 1943): 114. 18. Ibid., 106, 109. Cf. the calculatedly learned diction of George describing the pelicans in “Lovers’ Meeting”: “They’re like long-nosed, supercilious Puritans, pompous and solemn, and yet with an underlying and paradoxical rakishness” that “is somehow endearing” (60). 19. Tony Tanner, City of Words: American Fiction 1950–1970 (New York: Harper & Row, 1971), 48–49. 20. Robert E. Spiller et al., Literary History of the United States, 4th ed. (New York: Macmillan, 1978), 1254. 21. A letter from reader Dave Hammond, for example, supports the notion of reprints, “but wonder[s] if this is not making it harder for the new names in the field to get ahead,” a problem since reprints tended to be longer, more developed pieces: “Doesn’t seem to balance right somehow.” “The Eyrie,” Weird Tales 45, no. 1 (March 1953): 71. This “imbalance” of preference for the more literary work of the previous generation—generally shared by the readers who regularly write in to praise the reprint work of Lovecraft et al.—might have persuaded innovative novice writers to send their work elsewhere, perhaps contributing to the end of Weird Tales just eighteen months later. 22. “The Eyrie,” Weird Tales 39, no. 10 (March 1947): 94. 23. Lawlor demonstrates his familiarity and facility with the conventions of Lovecraftian horror in “The Legend of 228,” perhaps his most mainstream example of genre fiction (and hence his personally most atypical Weird Tales story), where the house referenced by the title is painted a “scabrous” gray and issues forth “strange guttural mutterings,” and the area’s inhabitants “have kept to themselves and inter-married as to be almost a race apart” (Weird Tales 38, no. 5 [May 1945]: 43). The monster inhabiting the house is characterized as “the hairless, furless, featherless monstrosity, its hideous body gleaming like slimy, wet red rubber, its opalescent eyes, glaring,” the only sound reaching the people in the street being “viscid bubbling” (50). Cf. the less formulaic but also less successful “Lover in Scarlet,” which fails to achieve Lawlor’s ordinarily smooth synthesis of pulp genres, featuring the ne’er-do-well gambler Fred “Lucky” Kolbey (“Hunches. He got ’em. He played ’em, he always won”), who is eventually approached by the skeletal figure of the title: “‘Sweetheart!’ it grated in a hideous travesty of a voice” (Weird Tales 41, no. 2 [January 1949]: 53–54). 24. Harold Lawlor, “The Dark Brothers,” Weird Tales 39, no. 1 (September 1945): 73. 25. Lawlor, “The Unknown Lady,” 54–55. In a turn of delightful self-reflexive irony, Lawlor has Al reply to Leyden’s question of whether he really believes in all the supernatural nonsense when he writes, “If I didn’t believe in it at least while I was writing it, how do you think I could ever convince my readers, if any, that it really happened?” (55). 26. Richard Poirier, “The Politics of Self-Parody,” Partisan Review 35, no. 3 (Summer 1968): 353. 27. Harold Lawlor, “Djinn and Bitters,” Weird Tales 42, no. 4 (May 1950): 25, 28. 28. Ibid., 29, 33. There’s a similar degree of self-conscious/self-parodic artifice in “Xerxes’ Hut,” where the narrator, Danny, alludes to the “grisly denouement” that lies ahead in his story. Like other boys who believe the local legends (ultimately proven false) of Xerxes Andreapolous being a murderer, Danny relates his suspicions to the reader, implicating himself as another author of the eerie myth of Xerxes: “I think we almost expected to see a thin river of blood—‘gore,’ we would have called it—flow suddenly from under the plank door of the cabin.” Harold Lawlor, “Xerxes’ Hut,” Weird Tales 39, no. 7 (September 1946): 84, 86. “To Hell and Gone” 225 29. Referenced, respectively (though not exclusively), in “The Diversions of Mme. Gamorra,” Weird Tales 39, no. 3 (January 1946): 74, 79; “Unknown Lady,” 56; “What Beckoning Ghost?” Weird Tales 40, no. 5 (July 1948): 26; “Nemesis,” Weird Tales 40, no. 4 (May 1948): 26; “Lovers’ Meeting,” Weird Tales 44, no. 2 (January 1952): 59; “The Beasts That Tread the World,” Weird Tales 40, no. 6 (September 1948), 55; “The Peripatetic Corpse,” Weird Tales 38, no. 4 (March 1945): 28; and “Grotesquerie,” Weird Tales 43, no. 1 (November 1950): 48. 30. Harold Lawlor, “Tatiana,” Weird Tales 38, no. 3 (January 1945): 82–83. 31. Harold Lawlor, “The Previous Incarnation,” Weird Tales 41, no. 5 (July 1949): 74. 32. Patricia Waugh, Metafiction: The Theory and Practice of Self-Conscious Fiction (New York: Methuen, 1984), 9. 33. Grant Stirling, “Neurotic Narrative: Metafiction and Object-Relations Theory,” College Literature 27, no. 2 (Spring 2000): 82. 34. Lawlor, “The Cinnabar Redhead,” 66. 35. Ibid., 71. 36. Lawlor, “Djinn and Bitters,” 25, 30–31. 37. Lawlor, “Grotesquerie,” 53. 38. Paul Lopes notes that the dominant tradition “of ‘realism’ in comic book illustration” ironically “came from illustration found in pulp magazines or pulp comic strips” (Demanding Respect: The Evolution of the American Comic Book [Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 2009], 4). An acknowledgment of the comics’ growing market power compared to the pulps’ appears in the November 1940 issue of Weird Tales, when it began offering its own illustrated section, Irwin J. Weill’s “Superstitions and Taboos” feature, combining cultural/historical information with comic book–like line drawings in page layout reminiscent of Ripley’s Believe It or Not (which had been running in syndication under that title since 1919). Capitalizing on the realistic elements of the pulp narratives, comic books also began bringing the “sexuality, violence, and gore of the pulps” to life (Lopes, Demanding Respect, 5). 39. In The Haunt of Fear, no. 17 (September–October 1950), for example, this included captions for the stories “Nightmare!” (“A Psychological Study,” 1), “Television Terror!” (“A Journey into the Supernatural,” 9), “Monster Maker!” (“A Scientific SuspenStory,” 17), and “Horror Beneath the Streets!” (“The Witch’s Cauldron!” 25). 40. J. P. Telotte, Voices in the Dark: The Narrative Patterns of Film Noir (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1989), 212. 41. Lawlor, “Nemesis,” 24. Inverting this formula, a Lawlor character might come from a comfortable background but choose to live in reduced circumstances in order to remain true to personal beliefs: Paul, for example, has been residing “in a trailer he’d rented in a camp on the Old Mill Road,” studying demonology, in hopes of summoning evil and then restraining it forever: “No more death, nor sickness, nor poverty! No more war, nor tragic accidents, nor cruelty! No more grief, nor fear, nor hatred!” Harold Lawlor, “Amok!” Weird Tales 43, no. 5 (July 1951)]: 88, 93. 42. Lawlor, “Nemesis,” 27. Cf. the description of “Van Gogh’s gloomy painting, The Potato-Eaters” in Lawlor, “Grotesquerie,” 54. 43. Lawlor, “The Beasts That Tread the World,” 49–52. 44. Ibid., 54–55. One of the most memorable artifacts of the wealthy in Lawlor’s narratives appears in “The Cranberry Goblet” (November 1945), a story notable both for the ornate goblet of the title, “[s]quare at the top, slightly convex at the sides, its bowl is the color of ripe cranberries—a live glowing scarlet, deepening sometimes to ruby; its stem and base are of rock crystal, clear and beautifully cut.” Weird Tales 39, no. 2 (November 1945), 32), and for its rare female narrator, Mrs. Ann Whittington. Lawlor’s eye for detail in such descriptions is consistently nuanced, encouraging the illusion of verisimilitude. 45. Harold Lawlor, “The Specter in the Steel,” Weird Tales 36, no. 11 (May 1943): 54. 46. Harold Lawlor, “Mayaya’s Little Green Men,” Weird Tales 39, no. 8 (November 1946): 38. 47. Lawlor, “The Cinnabar Redhead,” 66, 69. 48. Harold Lawlor, “The Terror in Teakwood,” Weird Tales 39, no. 10 (March 1947): 75. Linking Lawlor’s penchant for literary and musical allusions, “Djinn and Bitters” quotes from 226 Sidney Sondergard Bishop Reginald Heber’s hymn, “From Greenland’s Icy Mountains” (lyrics, 1819): “Every prospect pleases, and only man is vile” (Lawlor, “Djinn and Bitters,” 31). 49. Philo Calhoun, “A Biographical Sketch,” in The Best of H. T. Webster: A Memorial Collection (New York: Simon & Schuster, 1953), 12. 50. Stefan D. Dziemianowicz, The Annotated Guide to Unknown & Unknown Worlds (San Bernardino, CA: Borgo Press, 1991), 7. 51. Harold Lawlor, “The Wayward Skunk,” Weird Tales 38, no. 1 (September 1944): 69. Henry Hildreth, whom Stinklyn also praises by noting that “he’s full of the milk of human kindness—a quality rare in the male” (69), hence represents a continuation of William Makepeace Potts, Lawlor’s earliest explicit milquetoast character, from “The Irresistible Perfume” (Fantastic Adventures, May 1943). The human-beast interaction here is reminiscent of another of his Fantastic Adventures tales, “Dinky Winky Woo” (August 1943), in which Hubert Ransom, “an amiable nonentity” who “side-stepped trouble whenever possible,” a “civilized, peace-loving soul” who had “never yet found anything he wanted to fight for,” learns that he will receive a $3 million bequest from his Uncle Cyril if he cares for Dinky Winky Woo until the animal’s death. The catch is that the creature is a “sixty-five foot dinosaur, covered with scaly armor.” “Dinky Winky Woo,” Fantastic Adventures 5, no. 8 (August 1943): 168, 173. The adoring dinosaur emboldens Hubert to pursue Roxie, a former carnival snake charmer, and rewards him with an affectionate lick that reflects the opposite of Lovecraft’s “inexpressible horror”: “inexpressible tenderness” (173). 52. Lawlor, “Tatiana,” 83, 89. 53. Harold Lawlor, “The Door Beyond,” Weird Tales 41, no. 4 (May 1949): 32. 54. Lawlor, “Nemesis,” 32. 55. Harold Lawlor, “The Girdle of Venus,” Weird Tales 39, no. 12 (September 1947): 87–88, 92. This kind of self-loathing is frequently expressed—either sarcastically or seriously—by Lawlor’s introverted characters, like investment counselor Irving Burnett in “Grotesquerie,” who berates himself for temerity when he can’t bring himself to look at the face of his longtime client, Vera Witmack, mauled by a leopard, when she lifts her veil to show him: “I winced and hastily averted my glance. I hated myself for it. My face and neck grew red with shame” (49). 56. Lawlor, “Djinn and Bitters,” 25. 57. J. P. Telotte, “Through a Pumpkin’s Eye: The Reflexive Nature of Horror,” in American Horrors: Essays on the Modern American Horror Film, ed. Gregory A. Waller (Chicago: University of Illinois Press), 127. 58. “The Eyrie,” Weird Tales 36, no. 12 (July 1943): 107–8. 59. Lawlor, “The Peripatetic Corpse,” 39. 60. Cf. Donald “Donnie” Haines, who takes a job as a chauffeur-gardener to wealthy Ballard Powell in order “to work on the novel” he’d been trying to write, since “the job left [him] time enough to write.” However, he finds when “alone in [his] own apartment, that the book was far from [his] mind.” “What Beckoning Ghost?” Weird Tales 40, no. 5 (July 1948): 27, 31. Lawlor’s writers never have an easy time of it. 61. Harold Lawlor, “Tamara, the Georgian Queen,” Weird Tales 36, no. 12 (July 1943): 96–97. 62. Like Jay, the soap-opera-writing narrator of “Mayaya’s Little Green Men,” who asks, “[W]here would we be if I didn’t get an installment out every day” on “the fictional woes of Ma Costello and her brood”? When Scooter, his toddler son, interrupts him, Jay is forced to leave Ma Costello “in the middle of a garrulous, valiant speech, her head bloody but still unbowed as it were” (Lawlor, “Mayaya’s Little Green Men,” 37–38, 40). Al, the narrator of “The Unknown Lady,” is a writer of strange tales like Lawlor, who nevertheless has no illusions about the quality of his work or the literary talents of his ilk: “[F]iction writers are as hammy at heart as operatic divas” (Lawlor, “The Unknown Lady,” 55). Murray, narrator of “Which’s Witch?” and author of the daily newspaper feature The Jaundiced Eye, shares Lawlor’s sardonic, ironic attitude about writing: the “trouble with humorous writing” is that “it sometimes runs away with you,” causing one’s “critical facilities to go to sleep, and you treat your subject matter too irreverently, too flippantly” (Lawlor, “Which’s Witch?” 23–24). “To Hell and Gone” 227 63. “The Eyrie,” 108. Following his description of the writer’s fear upon finishing a story and sending it off, that there’s nothing left, Lawlor asks, “Who’d want to be a writer?” Then, he adds, another idea starts to form, and he’s off and running again: “Who wouldn’t want to be a writer?” (108, emphasis in original). 64. Lee Server, Encyclopedia of Pulp Fiction Writers (New York: Facts on File, 2002), 171. As early as 1939, Weird Tales “found its monopoly of the bizarre challenged. Having launched Startling Stories, Standard Magazines now issued Strange Stories. The first issue was dated February 1939 and featured all of Weird Tales’s popular authors: Robert Bloch, August Derleth, Mark Schorer, Otis Adelbert Kline, Henry Kuttner, and Manly Wade Wellman. Bloch, Derleth, and Kuttner in particular dominated the magazine under their own names and pseudonyms with stories in almost every issue.” Mike Ashley, The Time Machines: The Story of the Science-Fiction Pulp Magazines from the Beginning to 1950 (Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 2000), 139. 65. Server, Encyclopedia of Pulp Fiction Writers, 96–97. 66. Robert Weinberg’s history of Weird Tales is curiously devoid of any mention of Lawlor. Even when he reproduces a cover illustration for one of Lawlor’s stories, identifying it as a Lee Brown Coye cover (“Typical of his work during this period was his cover for ‘The Cranberry Goblet’ [Fig. 70]”), Weinberg fails to mention the fact that the story is one of Lawlor’s. Weinberg, The “Weird Tales” Story (West Linn, OR: FAX Collector’s Editions, 1977), 76–77. 67. Frank M. Robinson, Pulp Culture: The Art of Fiction Magazines (Portland, OR: Collectors Press, 1998), 159. 68. The stories that were filmed included “The Terror in Teakwood” (season 1, episode 33); “The Black Madonna,” retitled as “The Grim Reaper” (season 1, episode 37); and “What Beckoning Ghost?” (season 2, episode 1). The script for “Tamara, the Georgian Queen” was also purchased by Thriller, with Herschel Daugherty selected to direct, but never filmed. Alan Warren, This Is a Thriller: An Episode Guide, History and Analysis of the Classic 1960s Television Series (Jefferson, NC: McFarland, 1996), 21. 69. Lee Server outlines the full range of the pulp aesthetic that Lawlor clearly embraced: “[P]ulp as a genus of imaginative reading matter distinguished by mass production, affordability, an intended audience of common as opposed to elite readers, a dependence on formula and genre; and pulp as a literature aimed at the pleasure centers of the reader, primarily concerned with sensation and escape.” Encyclopedia of Pulp Fiction Writers, xi. Index 10 Story Book, 154 Abbot, Edwin, 85 abjection, 204 “The Abominations of Yondo” (Smith), 70, 154–155, 157 Abrams, M. H., 176 Ackerman, Forest J., 164–165 Acheron, 69 “Adept’s Gambit” (Leiber), 76 Adorno, Theodor W., 7 “An Adventure in Futurity” (Smith), 161 Afghanistan, 69 “Afterward” (Wharton), 154 Alfred, King, 75 Allen, E. A., 123 Allan Quatermain (novel), 63 Allison, James, 69 All-Story Magazine (periodical), x, 63–64, 78n11, 157, 212 Alpine (race), 121 Amazing Detective Stories (periodical), 161 Amazing Stories (periodical), ix, 71, 77, 158, 160–161, 162 American Mercury (periodical), 4 Anderson, Michael, 222 Anderson, Paul L., 64 Anderson, Poul, 77 Anderson, Sherwood, xii anthropocentrism, 84, 86, 87 anthropology, xvii, 121, 124, 125, 126, 127, 128 ape-men. See hominids Aquilonia, 69 Archer, Denis, 79n19 Argosy (periodical), x, 8, 64, 78n9, 78n11, 212 Argosy All-Story Weekly. See Argosy (periodical) “Arhl-a of the Caves”, 64 Arkham House, 167 Arthurian romance, 76 Aryan (race), 66, 69, 121, 124, 130n29, 134, 140 Aryara, 125 Ashley, Mike, 161 Asmodeus, 178 Asquinth, Lady Cynthia, 163 Assurah, 75 Assyria, 67 Astounding Stories (pulp magazine), ix, 77, 154, 160, 161, 164–165 Asylum (film), 209n3 At the Mountains of Madness (Lovecraft), 77, 95, 106–107, 164 atavism, 132, 135, 137 Athak, 73 Athelstane, 66 Atla, 120, 127–128 Atlantic Monthly (periodical), 153, 158, 159 229 230 Index Atlantis, 65–66, 67, 71, 73, 75, 78n12. See also Lemuria Atlas Comics, 217 atomic, 20, 20–21 Australoid (race), 121 Author & Journalist (periodical), 55 Averoigne, 70, 73, 173 Babbitt, Irving, 155–156 Babel, 178 Baird, Edwin, xi, xii, xii–xiii, xviii, 4, 7, 8, 20, 70 Ball, Clifford, 77, 79n22 Baring-Gould, Sabine, 122, 123 Barlow, Robert H., 106, 111, 112, 166 Barker, Clive, xv Barsoom, 78n11 Basques, 121, 124 Bates, Harry, 160, 162 Bates, Norman, xiv, 201, 205, 208 Barth, John, 215 Baudelaire, Charles, 70 “The Beast of Averoigne” (Smith), 70 Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony, 213 Belit, 69 Bender, Albert M., 157 Benediktsson, Thomas, 159 Benét, William Rose, 167 Bennett, Sylvia, 68 Benson, E. F., 163 “Beyond the Black River” (Howard), xvii, 69, 70, 137–146 “Beyond the Phoenix” (Kuttner), 75 Bible, 175, 176, 178 Bierce, Ambrose, x, xii, 176, 208 Biography of the Life of Manuel (Cabell), 155 Bishop, Zealia Brown Reed, 108 Bitzer, Lloyd, xi “The Black Abbott of Puthuum” (Smith), 72 The Black Cat (periodical), x, 70, 154 “The Black God’s Kiss” (Moore), xvii, 72, 187, 191, 192–196, 197, 198 “Black God’s Shadow” (Moore), 73 Black Mask (periodical), 68, 190 Black Mass, 24–26 Black Stone, 120 Blackwood, Algernon, 163 Bloch, Robert, x, xiii, xiv, xviii, 47n6, 74–75, 77, 153, 158, 201–208, 209n3, 210n8, 210n13, 211, 227n64. See also Bates, Norman Blue Book Magazine (periodical), x, 8 Boas, Franz, 136 Boucher, Anthony, 167 Bourdieu, Pierre, 6 Boyer, Charles, 216 Brackett, Leigh, 77 Bradbury, Ray, xiii, 158, 167, 174, 211, 212 Bran Mak Morn, 66, 67, 119–120, 124, 126, 127–128, 136–139 Brenryk, Wladislaw, 78n8 Britain, 66, 120, 121, 124, 125, 127; Britons, 123, 125; Romano-Britons, 76 Bronze Age, 66, 121, 123, 125–126, 127 Bruffee, Kenneth, 53, 60 Brule the Spear-slayer, 65 Brundage, Margaret, xiii, xvii, 187, 188–189, 191, 192–194 Buchan, John, 122 Bulwer-Lytton, Edward, x Burke, Rusty, 128n1 Burks, Arthur J., 18–19, 24, 27n14, 28n22 Burroughs, Edgar Rice, x, 63, 65, 78n11, 126, 157, 165. See also Carter, John (of Mars); Tarzan “By This Axe, I Rule!” (Howard), 67 Cabell, James Branch, 155, 165, 168n16 Cain and Abel, 214 “The Call of Cthulhu” (Lovecraft), 84 Cannon, Peter, 111 Campbell, John W., Jr., xiii, 76, 166, 219 Campbell, Ramsey, xv “The Caravan” (Smith), 70 Carney, Jason Ray, xi, xvi, 32, 47n3, 47n8, 47n14 Carpenter, John, 220 Carter, John (of Mars), 63, 69, 78n11 Carter, Lin, xiii, xv Carter, Randolph, 86, 88, 90, 91–93, 94, 96, 97–98 Caruso, Enrico, 212, 223n9 The Case of Charles Dexter Ward (Lovecraft), 108 Caucasian (race), 121 Index Cavalier (periodical), 157 cave men. See prehistoric fiction Celts, 121, 123, 124, 125, 127 censorship, 159, 169n39 “The Centaur” (Smith), 153 Century Magazine (periodical), 154 “The Challenge from Beyond” (Moore et al.), 61 Chandler, Raymond, 158 Chappell, Fred, 167, 177, 179–180 “The Charnal God” (Smith), 72, 181 Chaugnar Faugn, 68 Children of the Night (creatures). See Worms of the Earth (creatures) “The Children of the Night” (Howard), 66, 124–125, 127, 134–135 “The City of Spiders” (Munn), 23 Clayton, William, 160, 163, 164 Cleopatra, 213 Cleveland Torso Murders, 207 Clore, Dan, 178, 179 Cobb, Irvin S., 157 collaboration, 51, 53, 54, 55, 58, 61 collaborative writing practices, 51, 52, 53 College Humor (periodical), x, 157 Collier’s Weekly (periodical), 154, 212 colonialism, xv, 16–17, 18, 26, 121, 127, 128. See also empire “The Colour out of Space” (Lovecraft), 77, 106 “The Coming of the White Worm” (Smith), 76 Commoriom, 71 Conan (the Reaver), 125 Conan the Cimmerian, xv, 50n71, 58, 59, 67–69, 70, 77, 130n31, 144–146 Confucius, 213 Connors, Scott, xvii, 186 Conrad, 130n29 Continental Op, 68 “Corkscrew” (Hammett), 79n17 cosmic consciousness. See cosmicism cosmic horror (genre). See horror (genre) cosmicism, 177, 179 Coye, Lee Brown, 227n66 Crane, Hart, 111 Crawford, F. Marion, xii, 154 Crone, Randall, 73 Crusades, 70, 79n16 231 The Crypt of Terror (comic book), 217 Csicsery-Ronay, Istvan, xiv, 35, 128 Cthulhu, 89, 106, 107; Cthulhu Mythos, 119, 202 Cthulhu (film), 116 Cummings, Ray, 63 Cyrene, 75 Dahmer, Jeffrey, 208 “The Dark Eidolon” (Smith), 181 The Dark Eidolon and Other Fantasies (Smith), 168 “The Dark Isle” (Bloch), 74 “The Dark Land” (Moore), 73 “The Dark Man” (Howard), 66 “The Dart of Rasasfa” (Smith), 167 Darwin, Charles, 22–23, 119, 126, 128, 130n35, 131 Davenport, Charles, 136 Davin, Eric Leif, 161 “Dawn of Discord” (Smith), 166 Day, Rhoda, 73 De Grandin, Jules, 70, 74 “The Death of Malygris” (Smith), 71, 182 Deep Ones, 75 defamiliarization, 35, 48n27 Delaney, Samuel, xv Delaney, Willam J., 166 Deleuze, Gilles, xvii, 86, 87, 93–99 “The Demon of the Flower” (Smith), 164 DeMontour, 64 Derleth, August, xiii, 106, 157, 158, 160, 167, 171n90, 211, 227n64 Derrie, Bobby, xvii Detective Story Weekly (periodical), 157 “The Devil in Iron” (Howard), 69 “The Devotee of Evil” (Smith), 160, 169n42 Dialectic of Enlightenment (Horkheimer and Adorno), 7 “The Diamond Lens” (O’Brien), 158 Dickens, Charles, xii Dime Mystery Magazine (periodical), 153, 165, 222 “The Dimension of Chance” (Smith), 161 Dirda, Michael, 168 discourse community, ix, xi, xii, xvi, xvii, xviii, 51, 52–53, 54, 55, 57, 58, 60, 61; in Weird Tales, 53, 55–56, 57, 58, 232 Index 60–61 Doc Savage (periodical), 212 Dominique (film), 222 “The Door to Saturn” (Smith), 160, 162 “The Double Shadow” (Smith), 71, 165, 181 Doyle, Arthur Conan, x, 112, 126, 154 “Dragon Moon” (Kuttner), 75, 79n25 The Dream-Quest of Unknown Kadath (Lovecraft), 106 “The Dreams in the Witch House” (Lovecraft), 110 Dreiser, Theodore, 155 “Duar the Accursed” (Ball), 79n22 Dumas, Alexandre, 64 “The Dunwich Horror” (Lovecraft), 49n45, 85, 106, 109, 158 “The Dweller in the Gulf” (Smith), 159, 162, 163–164 “The Dweller in the Martian Depths” (Smith). See “The Dweller in the Gulf” (Smith) Dyalhis, Nictzin, 73–74, 77 Eadie, Arlton, 69 Earle, David M., 6, 32–33 Ebony and Crystal (Smith), 70, 154 EC Comics, 217 Eddy, Clifford M. (C. M.), Jr., 64, 112, 159 Egypt, 67 Elak of Atlantis, 75, 79n24 Eliot, T. S., 12, 15, 21, 23, 24, 155 Ellis, Havelock, 111 Ellis, Novalyne Price, 68 Ellison, Harlan, 174 Emmelhainz, Nicole, xvi empire, 16–18. See also colonialism “The Empire of the Necromancers” (Smith), 72, 181 “The Enchantress of Sylaire” (Smith), 185 “The End of the Story” (Smith), 70 Enoch, 203–204, 205, 206 “Enoch” (Bloch), 203–206, 209, 210n8 Eric Bright-Eyes (Haggard), 63 Ernst, Paul, 69 Esquire (periodical), 153, 165 Essara, 75 “The Eternal World” (Smith), 161, 162 ethics, 174–176, 181–182 eugenics, xvii, 131–132, 133, 136; asylums and, 138; racial degeneration in, 131–136, 137, 138, 139, 144; sterilization in, 136. See also Aryan; atavism; Grant, Madison Everett, Justin, xvii evil, 84 evolution, xvii, 119, 122, 126, 127, 128; devolution, 122, 125, 126, 127, 128 “The Eye and the Finger” (Wandrei), 165 “The Eyrie” (letter column). See Weird Tales “Facts Concerning the Late Arthur Jermyn and His Family” (Lovecraft), 108 Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser, 76 fairies. See Little People (folklore) fandom, ix, xiv, 46n2, 77, 106, 162, 164, 165 Fantastic (periodical), 167 Fantastic Adventures (periodical), 76, 211, 213 Fantastic Universe (periodical), 212 fantasy (genre), ix, x, xiv, xv–xvi, xvii, xviii, 154, 155, 164; heroic, 78n4; intrusion, xv; science, 72; sword-andsorcery, xv, xvi, xvii, 59–60, 63–64, 65, 66, 70, 70–77, 79n22, 202 Fantasy Fan (periodical), 47n10, 164, 170n75; “The Boiling Point” (letter column), 164, 170n75 Fantasy Magazine (periodical), 61 fanzines, xvi, 47n10, 61, 156, 164 Farber, Marjorie, 167 Farmer, W. C., 175 Farnese, Harold S., 47n5 femininity, xvii, 73 Fians, Fairies, and Picts (MacRitchie), 121 Finlay, Virgil, 75 Finn, Mark,8n1 Finns, 121 “Fishhead”, 157 FitzGerald, Edward, 215 Fitzgerald, F. Scott, 155 Flatland (Abbot), 85 Flaubert, Gustave, 70 “Floral Tribute” (Bloch), 209 “The Flower-Women” (Smith), 182 Index Flynn, Errol, 75, 79n24 Foley, Jack, 168 “The Footfalls Within” (Howard), 67 “For Blood is the Life” (Crawford), 154 Fox, Gardner F., xv, 77 France, 70, 72 Frankenstein (Shelley), 107; film adaptation, 159 French, Nora May, 176 French symbolists, 177, 178, 183 Freud, Sigmund, 85, 128, 201, 203–204, 206 “The Frost Giant’s Daughter” (Howard), 69 Fulbra, King, 72 Gaels, 125 Gaiman, Neil, xv Gaines, Bill, 217 Galpin, Alfred, 111 Galton, Francis, 131 Gein, Ed, 201, 204, 206, 209 Genius Loci and Other Tales (Smith), 167 Gernsback, Hugo, 161, 163–164, 170n66 Gesti, 75 Ghost Stories (periodical), 163 “The Ghoul” (Smith), 163 Giesy, J. U., 63 Gingrich, Arnold, 165 “The Globe of Memories” (Quinn), 74 “The Goddess Awakes” (Ball), 74 “The Gods of Bal-Sagoth” (Howard), 66, 78n15 “Golden Blood” (Williamson), 63 Goldsmith, Cele, 167 Golgotha, 213 Gothic, xi, xii, xv, 64–65, 69, 70, 72, 73, 75, 77, 78, 165 “Gotterdaemmurung” (Quinn), 64 Grand Guignol Theatre, 165 Grant, Madison, 136, 140, 141, 142. See also The Passing of the Great Race “The Graveyard Rats” (Kuttner), 75 “The Great Brain of Kaldar” (Hamilton), 63 Greene, Sonia Haft. See Lovecraft, Sonia Greenland, 71 the grotesque, science-fictional, xiv, 128 Guattari, Félix, 87, 93–98, 99 233 Guillaume (the Conqueror), 72–73 Gunnar, Hugo, 64 H. P. Lovecraft: Tales (Lovecraft), 167 Haggard, H. Rider, x, 63, 65, 126 Haiti, 17, 18–19, 26 Halloween (film), 220 Hamilton, Edmond, xiii, 21, 63, 76, 161, 211 Hammett, Dashiell, 68, 158, 190 Hammond, H. R., 192–194, 196 Hands of Orloc (film), 219 hard-boiled detective (genre), 202 Harman, Graham, 85, 89, 90 Harper’s Bazaar (periodical), 157 Harper’s Magazine (periodical), 153, 167 Harris, Thomas, 207 “The Hashish-Eater; or The Apocalypse of Evil” (Smith), 177–179, 182 hate, 84 Hatfield, Gordon, 111 The Haunt of Fear (comic book), 217, 225n39 Hawthorne, Nathaniel, x Hayonwontha, 76 “The Heart of Atlantan” (Dyalhis), 74 Heber, Bishop Reginald, 225n48 Hecht, Ben, 6, 63, 155 Helland, Jonathon, xvii “Hellsgarde” (Moore), 73 Hemingway, Ernest, 155 Hemken, Gertrude, 33, 47n4 Henneberger, J. C. (Jacob Clark), x, xi, xii, xiii, 5–6, 8, 32, 63, 157 “Herbert West—Reanimator” (Lovecraft), 107 Herod, 213 Herron, Don, 63 Hersey, Harold, 8, 54–56, 61, 163 Hess, Aaron, xi Hilger, Ron, 186 “The Hills of the Dead” (Howard), 66 historical fiction, xv–xvi, 64, 78 Hitz, John Kipling, 176 “The Holiness of Azédarac” (Smith), 185 Holmes, Morgan, xvi, 128n1 Home Brew (periodical), 122 “The Homecoming” (Bradbury), 167 Homer, 173 234 Index hominids, 126, 127. See also prehistoric fiction Hooten, Earnest, 139 Horkheimer, Max, 7 Hornig, Charles D., 164 horror (genre), ix, x, xii, xiv–xvi, xvii, xviii, 165, 202, 204; cosmic, x, xiv–xv, xvi, 77, 203; nameless, 83–84, 87, 88, 90, 91, 95, 97, 98 “The Horror at Red Hook” (Lovecraft), 39–40 “The Horror from the Hills” (Long), 68 Horror Stories (periodical), 153 Houellebecq, Michel, 5 Hough, Emerson, 63, 64 “The Hound” (Lovecraft), 113 The Hour of the Dragon (Howard), 69 “The House of the Monoceros” (Smith), 166 Howard, Robert E., x, xiii–xvii, xviii, 13, 15–16, 24, 42–45, 51, 53, 58–61, 64–67, 68, 69–71, 72, 73, 75, 77, 78n11, 78n14, 79n16, 79n19, 79n22, 119–120, 121–126, 127, 128, 129n15, 129n17, 129n19, 130n31, 133–135, 140–145, 167, 202, 203, 211, 214; civilization-barbarism debate, 140–146; correspondence with H. P. Lovecraft, 124, 133–135, 140–144; life of, 42; on race, 124, 134–135, 137, 139, 140–141, 144. See also Bran Mak Morn; Conan the Cimmerian; Hyborian Age; Kane, Solomon; Kull; Worms of the Earth (creatures) human experience, limits of, 84, 85, 86, 87, 90, 92, 95, 98–99, 155 humanist movement, 155 Huxley, Thomas Henry, 121, 126 Huyssen, Andreas, 3 Hyborian Age, 67, 68, 69, 72, 73, 74 Hyne, C. Cutliffe, 78n12 Hyperborea, 71, 173 Illustrated Detective Magazine (periodical), 169n42 “The Immeasurable Horror” (Smith), 160 “The Immortals of Mercury” (Smith), 160 imperialism. See empire “In Kashla’s Garden” (Schisgall), 17–18 “In the Forest of Villefere” (Howard), 64 International Comics (comic book), 217 International Crime Patrol (comic book), 217 “The Invisible City” (Smith), 160 Ireland, 124 Iron Age, 125–126 Irving, Washington, x The Island of Lost Souls (film), 159 Isle of Mona, 74 “The Isle of the Torturers” (Smith), 72 Ixtlil, 73 Jack the Ripper, 207–208 Jacobi, Carl, 158 Jacobs, W. W., 154 Jakes, John, xv James, M. R., 204 Japanese, 213 Jeffers, Robinson, 176 “Jirel Meets Magic” (Moore), 73, 197 Jirel of Joiry, 72–73, 77, 193, 194 Joshi, S. T., 58–59, 61, 84, 108, 109, 111, 114, 115, 128n1, 129n17, 154, 157, 158, 168, 177 Jove. See Jupiter (god) Joyce, James, 12, 15, 21, 23, 159 Jupiter (god), 180 Jungian psychology, 213 Kairos , xi, xii, xviii Kane, Solomon, 65, 66, 67 Kant, Immanuel, xiv, 89 Karan, King, 73 Karkora, 75 Karloff, Boris, 222 Kaye, Marvin, xiii Kenyon Review, 167 Ketrick, 125, 127 King, Stephen, xv, 210n13, 222 King Arthur, 76, 128 King of the World’s Edge (Munn), 76 King Solomon’s Mines (Haggard), 63 “Kings of the Night”, 66, 78n15 Kipling, Rudyard, 70, 126, 154 Kiriath, 75 Kline, Otis Adelbert, x, xii, xiii, 63, 173, 227n64 Kristeva, Julia, 204 Index Kull, 43–45, 65, 66, 71, 78n13 Kurtzman, Harvey, 217 Kuttner, Henry, xv, 73, 74–75, 75, 77, 79n25, 165, 191, 227n64 La Paree Stories (periodical), 163 La Scala opera house, 219 Ladies’ Home Journal (periodical), 212 lamia, 70 language, limits of, 84, 86, 87, 89, 91, 93, 98–99 Lansinger, J. M., x Lapps, 121, 124 Larson, Randall D., 168n1 Lasser, David, 161, 162, 164 “The Last Atlantide” (MacIsaac), 78n12 “The Last Hieroglyph” (Smith), 182–183, 186 “The Last Incantation” (Smith), 71, 156, 182 Lawlor, Harold, xviii, 211–222, 223n2, 223n8, 223n11, 223n13, 224n23, 224n25, 225n41, 225n44, 225n48, 226n51, 226n55, 226n60, 226n62–227n63, 227n66, 227n69 Lawrence, D. H., 21, 22, 23, 24, 157 Le Loup, 65 Lechter, Hannibal, 207 Leiber, Fritz, xiii, xv, 63, 76 Lemer, Marshall, 33 Lemuria, 65. See also Atlantis Library of America, 167 Ligotti, Thomas, xv Literature after Darwin (Richter), 126 little magazines, 10 Little People (folklore), xvii, 120, 121, 122, 123, 124, 125, 127, 128, 129n17, 129n26, 130n29, 134 “The Little People” (Howard), 123 The Little Review (periodical), 4, 9 Loeb, Jacques, 21 logic, limits of, 83, 84, 85, 86, 87, 88–89, 91, 93, 98–99 Lombroso, Cesare, 131, 135, 137 London, Jack, 70 Long, Frank Belknap, xiii, 12, 61, 68, 111 Lord, Bruce, 107 Lord Dunsany, x, 56, 155 The Lost Continent (Hyne), 78n12 235 “Lost Elysium” (Hamilton), 76–77 “The Lost Race” (Howard), 65, 123, 124, 125 lost races, 63, 76 Lost Worlds (Smith), 167 Louinet, Patrice, 58, 128n1 Lovecraft, H. P., x, xii–xvi, xvi–xvii, xviii, 3, 9, 12–13, 15, 16, 27n2, 30, 36, 37–41, 51, 56, 57, 58–59, 60–61, 64, 66–67, 69, 70, 71, 74–75, 77, 78n7, 83–99, 105–116, 119, 121, 122, 124–125, 128, 129n16–129n17, 129n26, 130n29, 154, 155, 156, 157, 158–159, 163–164, 165, 166, 167, 173, 177, 180, 191, 202, 203; life of, 37, 39; Lovecraft Circle, xvi, 29–30, 31, 32, 33, 35, 45–46, 46n2, 47n9, 71, 73. See also Carter, Randolph; Cthulhu; Cthulhu Mythos; Deep Ones Lovecraft, Sonia, 106, 109, 113, 114–115, 116 “The Loved Dead” (Eddy and Lovecraft), 112, 159 Loveman, Samuel, 3, 12, 111 Lowndes, Robert A. W., 164, 166 “The Lurking Fear” (Lovecraft), 113, 122–123, 129n15–129n17 lycanthropy, 78n8. See also werewolf Lycon, 75 MacDonald, George, xvii, 174–175, 183 MacFadden, Bernarr, 163 Machen, Arthur, x, 112, 122, 123, 128, 129n16–129n17, 134, 155 MacIsaac, Fred, 78n12 MacRitchie, David, 121–122, 123, 124, 128, 128n8, 129n26 Mademoiselle (periodical), 167 madness. See mental illness Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction (periodical), 167 Magic Carpet (periodical), 158. See also Oriental Stories (periodical) “The Maker of Gargoyles”, 180 Malygris, 71 “The Man of Stone” (Heald and Lovecraft), 109–110 “The Man Upstairs” (Bradbury), 167 Manton, Joel, 88, 90 236 Index Margulies, Leo, 166 “Marooned in Andromeda” (Smith), 161 Martin, George R. R., xvi Marzoni, Pettersen, 20 masculinity, xv the Master, 78n8 Maupassant, Guy de, xii “The Maze of Maal Dweb” (Smith), 185 “The Maze of the Enchanter” (Smith), 165, 182, 185 McHenry, F. Douglas, 22 McIlwraith, Dorothy, xiii, 76, 166 McLuhan, Marshall, 202 Mediterranean (race), 121, 122–125, 127 “Medusa” (Smith), 163 “Medusa’s Coil” (Bishop and Lovecraft), 109–110 Menace (comic book), 217 Mencken, H. L., 155, 190 Mendlesohn, Farah, xv mental illness, 83, 84, 85, 87, 98–99, 201–202, 203, 204, 205, 206, 207 “Mephistopheles and Company Ltd.” (Quinn), 25, 26 Merritt, Abraham, x, 61, 73 “The Metal Giants” (Hamilton), 21 Miéville, China, xv, 168 “The Mirrors of Tuzun Thune” (Howard), 65 miscegenation, 121, 126, 127–128, 137, 139 modernism (literary), xi, xii, xvi, 3, 15–16, 20, 21, 22–23, 24, 25, 26, 28n38, 126, 128, 159; high modernism, 12; periodical culture of, 4, 10 Mongoloid (race). See Turanian (race) Mongoloid dwarves. See Worms of the Earth (creatures) Monroe, Harriet, 155 “The Moon of Skulls” (Howard), 66 Moorcock, Michael, xv, 63 Moore, Catherine L. (C. L.), x, xiii, xiv, xv, xvi, xvii, xviii, 13, 72–73, 77, 187, 189, 191, 192–198. See also Jirel of Joiry; Smith, Northwest morality. See ethics Morand, Christophe, 70 Morgan, Bassett, 25–26 Morgan le Fay, 128 Morris, William, x, 122 Moskowitz, Sam, 159 “Mother of Toads” (Smith), 165 “The Mound” (Bishop and Lovecraft), 108, 109–110, 112 Mound Builders, 76 multiplicity, 83 mummy, 72 Munn, H. Warner, 23, 64, 72, 76, 78n8 Munsey, Frank A. “A Murder in the Fourth Dimension” (Smith), 161 Murray, Margaret, 129n26 Murray, Will, 163 Myrdhinn, 76 “The Nameless Offspring” (Smith), 162 “Necromancy in Naat” (Smith), 185, 186 Negroid (race), 121 Nelson, Victoria, 105 Neolithic period, xvii, 120, 121–124, 125, 127 Nero, 74, 180 “Nero” (Smith), 180 New Orleans Times–Picayune (periodical), 160 New York Times (periodical), 5, 11, 167 Nietzsche, Friedrich, 22, 23 Niord, 69 Nordic (race). See Aryan (race) “Novel of the Black Seal” (Machen), 122 Nyikos, Daniel, xvi “The Oath of Hul Jok” (Dyalhis), 74 O’Brien, Fitz-James, xii, 158 O’Brien, Turlogh, 66 “An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge” (Bierce), 208 Ompallios, Tirouv, 71 “On Fantasy” (Smith), 174 “Ooze” (Rud), x Orander, King, 75 Oriental Stories (periodical), 70, 79n16, 158. See also Magic Carpet (periodical) The Outline of History (Wells), 124 “The Outsider” (Lovecraft), 116 Overland Monthly (periodical), 154, 155, 157, 158 Index The Passing of the Great Race (Grant), 136 Peckham, Morse, 176 Penguin Classics, 168 “The People of the Black Circle” (Howard), 69 “People of the Dark” (Howard), 66, 124, 125, 135–136 Phariom, 72 Philippine Magazine (periodical), 163 “The Phoenix on the Sword”, 67 Phrygior, King, 75 “Pickman’s Model” (Lovecraft), 106 Picts, 65, 66, 67, 69, 78n14, 119–120, 121, 123–124, 125, 127, 128, 129n19, 130n29 Pikhts, 75 “The Pit and the Pendulum” (Poe), 153 “The Planet of the Dead” (Smith), 180 Planet Stories (periodical), 77 planetary romance. See science fiction Plato, 65 Plunkett, Edward John Moreton Drax. See Lord Dusany “The Plutonian Drug” (Smith), 160 Poe, Edgar Allan, x, xii, 30, 64, 105, 126, 153, 173, 204 Poetry (periodical), 4 popular culture, xvi, xviii, 9 Porter, James, 52 Poseidonis, 71, 173, 181 postmodernism, xvii, 86, 87, 93 poststructuralism, 86, 87, 93 Pound, Ezra, 12 The Powers of Horror: An Essay on Abjection (Kristeva), 204 prehistoric fiction, 63, 64 The Prehistoric World, or Vanished Races (Allen), 123 Price, E. Hoffman, xiii, 55, 163, 165, 166 Price, Novalyne. See Ellis, Novalyne Price Price, Robert M., 118n45 Prida, Jonas, xvi primary world. See subcreation “The Princess Almeena” (Smith), 70 A Princess of Mars (Burroughs), 63 Prydwen (Munn), 76 Psycho (Bloch), xviii, 74, 153, 202–203, 205, 209 psychology, 201, 202–204, 205, 208, 209 237 pulp magazines, ix, x, xi, xii, xvi, 153, 154, 156, 157, 158, 159, 162, 169n39, 201–202; advertising, 10; as lowbrow culture, 154; marketplace, 13 pygmies, xvii, 121–122, 123, 124, 125, 127, 128, 129n26. See also Little People (folklore) Quatermain, Allan, 63 “Queen of the Black Coast” (Howard), 50n71, 69, 70 “The Quest of the Gazolba” (Smith), 185 “Quest of the Starstone” (Moore), 73 Quinn, Seabury, x, xiii, 22, 23, 25–26, 70, 73, 188, 192 The Races of Europe (Ripley), 121 racial memory, 66, 134–135. See also reincarnation Radcliffe, Ann, 165 Rat Man, 201. See also Freud, Sigmund “The Rats in the Walls”, xii “Rattle of Bones” (Howard), 65 The Raven (film), 159 Real Detective Tales (periodical), x, xiii reality, 84, 89, 91–92, 95 Re-covering Modernism (Earle), 32–33 “Red Ether” (Marzoni), 20–21 “The Red Hand” (Machen), 112, 122 “Red Nails” (Howard), 69–70, 77 “Red Shadows” (Howard), 65, 78n9 “The Red Witch” (Dyalhis), 73 “The Red World of Polaris” (Smith), 161 reincarnation, 125 Reiter, Geoffrey, xvii “A Rendezvous in Averoigne” (Smith), 70 “The Return of the Sorcerer” (Smith), 159, 160, 162, 165 Reynolds, B. M., 34 Richardson, Deuce, 128n1 Richter, Virginia, 126 Ripley, William, 121 “Roads” (Quinn), 74 “The Rocking-Horse Winner” (Lawrence), 157 The Romance of Early British Life (Scott Elliot), 123, 129n19 Romans, 119–120, 125, 127 238 Index romanticism, 176, 178, 183; California romantics, 176–177 Rud, Anthony, x Rulers of the Future (Ernst), 69 Rural Publications, Inc., x, xiii Sabatini, Rafael, 64 Salem Witch Trials, 78n8 “The Sapphire Goddess” (Dyalhis), 74 Sargent, Stanley C., 117n19 Sarhaddon, 75 “Satan Unrepentant” (Smith), 175 Saturday Evening Post (periodical), 153 “The Satyr” (Smith), 163 Saucy Movie Tales, 188 Saunders, Charles, xv “The Scarlet Citadel” (Howard), 68, 69 Schisgall, Oscar, 17, 24 Schultz, David E., 112 Schwartz, Julius, 61 Schweitzer, Darrell, xiii science fiction (genre), ix–x, x, xii, xiv, 72, 77, 160–165; planetary romance, 63, 65; space opera, 63, 73 scientifiction. See science ficiton Scott Elliot, G. F., 123 “The Sea Witch”, 74 secondary worlds. See subcreation sensation, 83, 88, 89 serpent-men, 65 Set (god), 178 Seth, 203–206 The Seven Beauties of Science Fiction (Csicsery-Ronay), 35 “The Seven Geases” (Smith), 181, 185 “The Seventh Devil” (McHenry), 22, 23 Sexual Inversions (Ellis and Symonds), 111 sexuality, xvii; asexuality, 106–108; bisexuality, 115; homosexuality, 110–113, 115; transsexuality, 113–115, 205 “The Shadow Kingdom” (Howard), 43–45, 65, 78n9 “The Shadow out of Time” (Lovecraft), 77, 106, 107, 164 “The Shadow over Innsmouth” (Lovecraft), 108, 112, 116, 118n45 “Shambleau” (Moore), 187, 191, 197 Shanks, Jeffrey, xvii, 59, 60 Shea, J. Vernon, 106, 111 Shelley, Mary, x, 107 Sherlock Holmes, 112 “The Shining Land” (Hamilton), 76 “The Shining Pyramid” (Machen), 112, 122, 123, 134 Short Stories (periodical), xiii, 76, 166 Shovlin, Paul, xviii Sidney-Fryer, Donald, 175, 176 Silver Death, 72 “The Silver Key” (Lovecraft), 91 “Skulls in the Stars” (Howard), 65 “The Slithering Shadow” (Howard), 69 Sloane, T. O’Conor, 160 Smith, Clancy, xvii Smith, Clark Ashton, x, xiii, xiv, xv, xvi, xvii, 13, 51, 53, 56–57, 58, 69–72, 72, 73, 74, 75, 76–77, 77, 106, 153, 154–168, 169n42, 170n66, 171n90, 173–184, 184, 185, 186; correspondence of, 157; language, use of, 173, 177, 179, 180–182; poetry of, 154, 163, 167; sculpture by, 167; world building, 173–174, 176, 180–183, 185. See also Averoigne; Hyperborea; Malygris; Poseidonis; Zothique Smith, Northwest, 72, 73, 77 Sondergard, Sidney, xviii A Song of Ice and Fire (Martin), xvi sorcerer, 181–183, 185 “Sorcerer’s Apprentice” (Bloch), 209 “Spawn of Dagon” (Kuttner), 75 “Spear and Fang” (Howard), 64 Spencer, Herbert, 22, 23, 131, 132 Spicy Adventure Stories (periodical), 188 Sprenger, William, 188 St. Bartholomew’s Day Massacre, 78n8 Standard Publications, 166 “A Star-Change” (Smith), 161 Starrett, Vincent, 155 The Star-Treader and Other Poems (Smith), 70, 176 Sterling, George, 70, 154–156, 176 Stilson, Charles B., 63 Stirring Science Stories (periodical), 71 Stoker, Bram, 66 Strand Magazine (periodical), 154 Index Strange Stories (periodical, Rural Publications), 66, 76, 78n15 Strange Stories (periodical, Standard Publications), xiii, 166 Strange Tales of Mystery and Terror (periodical), 66, 71, 125, 154, 160, 162–163, 164 Straub, Peter, xv Street & Smith Publications, 164 subcreation, xvii; primary worlds, 174; secondary worlds, 174, 176, 177 the sublime: mathematical, xiv; sciencefictional, xiv Sully, Genevieve K., 156 “Supernatural Horror in Literature” (Lovecraft), 36–37, 48n31 surrealists, 167 Swales, John, ix, xi Swanwick, Michael, 168n16 Sweetser, Wesley D., 155 sword-and-planet (genre). See planetary romance sword-and-sorcery (genre). See fantasy (genre) Symonds, J. A., 111 “The Tale of Satampra Zeiros” (Smith), 71, 160 “Tales of the Werewolf Clan” (Munn), 78n8 Tarzan, 63, 69, 77, 78n11 Taveral, 130n29 taxonomy, 83, 86–87, 91, 96 technology, xv, 17, 20, 21, 28n22 Tekala, 74 “The Tell-Tale Heart” (Poe), 204 Terror Tales (periodical), 153, 165 “The Testament of Atthammaus” (Smith), 71 The Testimony of Tradition (MacRitchie), 121 Teutonic (race). See Aryan (race) Thacker, Eugene, 95, 98 Thackeray, William, xii “The Thief of Forthe” (Ball), 79n22 “The Thing on the Doorstep” (Lovecraft), 106, 107, 112, 113–115 Thirty Years’ War, 78n8 Thingmaker, Lance, 170n75 239 “This King Business” (Hammett), 79n17 The Three Impostors (Machen), 112, 122 A Thousand Plateaus (Deleuze and Guattari), 87, 96 Thrill Book (periodical), x, 163 Thrilling Mystery (periodical), 153 “Through the Gates of the Silver Key” (Lovecraft and Price), 86, 93, 94, 96 “Thunder in the Dawn” (Kuttner), 75 “To Hell and Gone” (Lawlor), xviii Tolkien, J. R. R., xv–xvi, xvii, 174, 174–175, 177, 183 Topinard, Paul, 121 “Tower of the Elephant” (Howard), 68 The Trail of the Cloven Hoof (Eadie), 69 “The Trap” (Lovecraft and Whitehead), 113 Tremaine, F. Orlin, 164 Tsathoggua, 71 Tuatha de Danann, 76 Turanian (race), 121–124, 125, 127, 130n29 “Twilight of the Gods” (Hamilton), 77 Tyr, 76 Uccastrog, 72 the uncanny (Das Unheimliche), 85, 201, 204, 205. See also Freud, Sigmund “The Uncharted Isle” (Smith), 158 understanding, 83, 88, 89 Understanding Media: The Extensions of Man (McLuhan), 202 “Under the Moons of Mars” (Burroughs), 63, 157 Unknown (periodical), xiii, 76, 166 “The Unnameable” (Lovecraft), 38–39, 88 “The Valley of the Worm” (Howard), 69 The Vault of Horror (comic book), 217 Valusia, 65 vampire, 86 Van Vechten, Carl, 155 Vance, Jack, xv VanderMeer, Ann, xiii VanderMeer, Jeff, 168 Varro, Ventidius, 76 Verne, Jules, x vikings, 66, 73, 75 Vincius the Reaper, 74 240 Index Vinson, Truett, 133 “A Vision of Lucifer” (Smith), 175 “The Visitors from Mlok”. See “A StarChange” “The Voyage of King Euvoran” (Smith), 181, 185 Wagner, Karl Edward, xv Walton, Bryce, 77 Walton, Mélanie, 88 The Wanderer’s Necklace (Haggard), 63 Wandrei, Donald, xiii, 157, 158, 164, 165, 167, 171n90 The Waste Land (Eliot), 12 The Watcher at the Threshold (Buchan), 122 “The Weaver in the Vault” (Smith), 72 weird fiction (genre), x, xi, xii, xii–xiii, xvi, xvii, xviii, 88, 153–154, 156, 159, 162, 167, 205; the new weird, xviii, 168 “The Weird of Avoosl Wuthoqquan” (Smith), 181 weird menace (genre), 165. See also Dime Mystery Magazine; Horror Stories; Terror Tales; Thrilling Mystery “The Weird Tailor” (Bloch), 202, 205, 209n3 Weird Tales (periodical), ix–xi, xii, xiii–xvi, xvii–xviii, 51, 54–57, 63–67, 68, 69, 70, 71, 72–75, 76–77, 77, 78n2, 79n16, 79n19, 79n22, 84, 87, 119, 122–123, 124, 125, 130n35, 153–154, 156, 157–160, 162–163, 165–167, 169n39, 173, 184, 185, 187–189, 190–198, 202–205, 207, 209; circulation, 8; “The Eyrie” (letter column), ix, xi, xii, 10–11, 12, 16, 24, 33, 34, 47n4–47n6, 48n23–48n24, 65, 68, 74, 77, 188, 190–191; woman authors of, 191–192. See also Baird, Edwin; Delany, William J.; Henneberger, J. C.; McIlwraith, Dorothy; Wright, Farnsworth Weisenger, Mort, xiii Wellman, Manly Wade, xiii Wells, H. G., x, 124, 126, 132, 173 werewolf, 64, 86 “The Werewolf of Ponkert” (Munn), 64 “The Werewolf’s Daughter” (Munn), 64 Whale, James, 159 Wharton, Edith, 154 Whately, Wilbur, 85 “When the Green Star Waned” (Dyalhis), 73–74 “The White Sybil” (Smith), 180 Whitehead, Henry S., 113, 153, 168n3 “Why Weird Tales?” (Kline), xii–xiii Williams, Tennessee, xiii, 158, 202 Williamson, Jack, 63, 68 “The Willow Landscape” (Smith), 163, 180 Wilson, Edmund, 154 Wilson, G. M., 34, 48n23 “A Wine of Wizardry” (Sterling), 155 “Wings in the Night” (Howard), 67 “The Witchcraft of Ulua” (Smith), 181 The Witch-Cult in Western Europe (Murray), 124 “With Weapons of Stone” (Eddy), 64 wizard. See sorcerer “Wolfshead” (Howard), 64 Wolverson, Eric, 76 Wonder Stories (periodical), 77, 154, 158, 161, 162–163, 164, 170n66 The Wood beyond the World (Morris) “World of the Dark Dwellers” (Hamilton), 63 world-building. See subcreation Worms of the Earth (creatures), 66, 67, 120, 122, 124–126, 127–128, 137, 138, 139 “Worms of the Earth” (Howard), xvii, 67, 119–120, 121, 123, 124, 125–126, 127, 128, 129n17, 136–139 Worthy, Peter, 117n19 Wright, Farnsworth, x, xiii–xiv, xviii, 10–11, 12, 20, 33, 35, 51, 53, 55–57, 58, 59–60, 66, 69, 70, 71, 74, 74–75, 76, 78n2, 78n13, 84, 155, 156, 158–159, 162, 164, 165–166, 184, 187, 188–189, 194 writer: amateur, 55; professional, 55, 202; solitary writing genius, 52–53 Writer’s Digest (periodical), 6–7, 153, 159, 170n66 Wyn, A. A., 11–12 Xandar, 75 Index Yag-Kosha, 68 Yeats, William Butler, 23, 24 yellow peril, 63 Yoros, 72 “Yours Truly, Jack the Ripper” (Bloch), 202–203, 205, 206–208, 210n6 Zeiros, Satampra, 71 Zend, 75 Zeulas, Prince, 75 zombie, 66 Zothique, 72, 173, 181, 182, 183, 186 241 About the Editors and Contributors Justin Everett is associate professor and director of writing programs at the University of the Sciences in Philadelphia. His research is focused in two very different areas: writing program administration, where he has written on assessment and the evolution of independent writing programs and popular culture, with a particular focus on speculative fiction. He created the pulp studies area for the Popular Culture Association. Jeffrey H. Shanks is an archaeologist with the National Park Service whose research interests include the use of anthropological and sociological themes in early twentieth-century pulp fiction. In addition to his archaeological publications, he has authored a number of popular and scholarly articles on Robert E. Howard, including recent essays in Conan Meets the Academy, Critical Insights: Pulp Fiction of the ’20s and ’30s, and Undead in the West II. He currently serves as cochair of the pulp studies area for the Popular Culture Association. *** Jason Ray Carney received his PhD from Case Western Reserve University. His doctoral thesis treats the relationship between literary modernism and interwar pulp fiction. He teaches in the English Department at Christopher Newport University. Scott Connors is an independent scholar with degrees in English, history, and nursing. He was the editor of the five-volume Collected Fantasies of Clark Ashton Smith, considered to be the definitive versions of those texts. He was also the editor of the Selected Letters of Clark Ashton Smith and The 243 244 About the Editors and Contributors Freedom of Fantastic Things: Selected Criticism on Clark Ashton Smith. He has contributed numerous essays on Smith, H. P. Lovecraft, Robert E. Howard, Arthur Machen, M. R. James, and other topics to a wide variety of publications. Bobby Derie is a weird fiction scholar and the author of Sex and the Cthulhu Mythos (2014) and The Collected Letters of Robert E. Howard—Index and Addenda (2015). Nicole Emmelhainz is assistant professor of rhetoric and composition at Christopher Newport University. Her research interests include collaboration and writing as a community as well as feminism and weird literature. Jonathan Helland lives and works in Vermont where he’s currently completing his MFA in creative writing at the Vermont College of Fine Arts. He also has an MA in English literature from the University of Wisconsin Eau Claire. His MA thesis was an exploration of feminist themes in C. L. Moore’s contributions to Weird Tales. Morgan Holmes is an independent scholar and pulp historian. He has contributed numerous popular and scholarly articles on Robert E. Howard to a variety of publications, including the journals The Dark Man, The Cimmerian, and several essay collections. Dániel Nyikos received his PhD in English from the University of Nebraska at Lincoln. He is a creative writer whose interest in weird fiction was kindled by reading the stories of Conan as a boy. His other literary interests include science fiction and American and British fiction in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. He is currently teaching at the University of Szeged in Hungary. Jonas Prida is an associate professor of English and division chair of arts and sciences at the College of St. Joseph, located in Rutland, Vermont. In addition to his work on Weird Tales, he has published articles on H. P. Lovecraft and the American popular writer George Lippard for the American Writers series. He also edited Conan Meets the Academy, a collection of multidisciplinary essays on Conan the Barbarian. Geoffrey Reiter received his PhD in English from Baylor University and is assistant professor of English at the Baptist College of Florida and associate editor at the website Christ and Pop Culture. He has previously published essays on such authors as Arthur Machen, George MacDonald, William Peter Blatty, and Peter S. Beagle. About the Editors and Contributors 245 Paul Shovlin is director of the Writing Center at Binghamton University (State University of New York). His research spans from labor issues related to writing program administrators, practices with technology in the writing classroom from the standpoint of critical pedagogy and pulp studies. He lives in Binghamton, New York, with his wife, two sons, and two cats. Clancy Smith is a professor of philosophy at Duquesne University. He specializes in philosophical themes in popular culture and has published a number of articles and essays in this area. His recent research has focused on philosophy and the works of H. P. Lovecraft. Sidney Sondergard is the Piskor Professor of English at St. Lawrence University. He is the author of nine books and numerous articles of literary criticism and explorations of popular culture. His published work on speculative fiction includes recent articles on H. P. Lovecraft, Chuck Palahniuk, and Mary Shelly.