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Acolyte, v. 3, issue 1, whole no. 9, Winter 1945
Page 14
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I went into the fiction writing business in 1932, and often told him so. Our first correspondence arose of our having simultaneously written the editor of W.T. a fan letter, each about the other's story--- neither suspecting that the other was doing the same. That hearty, gusty, salty, high invective and prodigious oaths with which he garnished the higher moments of our conversations, when we savagely assailed some of the more effeminate and less virile seeming members of the writing tribe and their foibles. An intolerant, rabid, extreme sort of fellow, Howard, with mighty likes and dislikes--- whether reasonable or not, makes no difference. And that hospitality and cordiality and brotherliness of the reception one gets--- though if one were disliked, I fancy one would be greeted with great blocks of cord wood hurled at one's chin, would be mightily kicked in the stomach, dragged through fresh dung newly dropped by Delhi, the Brahma-Jersey cow, keel hauled, and hurled into a cactus patch! All of these impressions, reminiscences, pictures, recollections of the Howard personality would sound a bit odd in print, would they not? But I can't write his obituary in any other vein than his own--- gusty, profane, sweaty, vulgar, boisterous, whimsical, gargantuan, fanciful, exaggerated---- And one of the best things he ever wrote appeared under the name of "Sam Walser" in "Spicy Adventure", a bawdy yarn of high hearted breeziness, saltiness, which--- oddly enough--- was utterly free of the forced, cheap smut that characterizes the book. Maybe that last bit gives you another angle on that complex Howard I'll never again try to outdo in prodigious oaths and extravagant invective and more extravagant conceits. Now, write all that into the eyrie! What he wrote was a joy that lingers, and I have many a time re-read many of his tales--- but what he wrote was so god damn insignificant compared to the man himself that I can't be bothered with any appreciations of his writings. In fact, I feel very much robbed, and I can't waste any emotions on the loss to "literature"--- I'm too god damn concerned with how beastly dreary it will be the next time I cross 1100 miles of Texas without swilling mighty flagons of beer and buttermilk with Bob Howard. If you have any hints on how to write it, how I ought to write, what I ought to write, how to say my say without becoming stereotyped, and yet saying it in a way than an editor could put into print--- sound off, and I'll welcome it. And is there any chance that the rumor may be incorrect? I'd hate to waste an obituary like this unpublishable one of today, on any living man. E. HOFFMAN PRICE'S FURTHER REMINISCENCES OF ROBERT E. HOWARD From a letter to Francis T. Laney July 22nd 1944 I have the clippings from the Cross Plains paper which state unequivocally that RLH died from a self-inflicted pistol wound, and that the probable motive was the knowledge that his mother's illness was fatal, and beyond any hope; and that for three days and nights he had been sitting up, until he got the doctor's decision in terms which overwhelmed any possible hope. He stepped out the back door--I picture it all; I remember the gate through which he must have gone to get to his Chevvie, which was probably parked alongside the fence, his father's car being in the garage--took the pistol from the side pocket--another -- 14 --
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I went into the fiction writing business in 1932, and often told him so. Our first correspondence arose of our having simultaneously written the editor of W.T. a fan letter, each about the other's story--- neither suspecting that the other was doing the same. That hearty, gusty, salty, high invective and prodigious oaths with which he garnished the higher moments of our conversations, when we savagely assailed some of the more effeminate and less virile seeming members of the writing tribe and their foibles. An intolerant, rabid, extreme sort of fellow, Howard, with mighty likes and dislikes--- whether reasonable or not, makes no difference. And that hospitality and cordiality and brotherliness of the reception one gets--- though if one were disliked, I fancy one would be greeted with great blocks of cord wood hurled at one's chin, would be mightily kicked in the stomach, dragged through fresh dung newly dropped by Delhi, the Brahma-Jersey cow, keel hauled, and hurled into a cactus patch! All of these impressions, reminiscences, pictures, recollections of the Howard personality would sound a bit odd in print, would they not? But I can't write his obituary in any other vein than his own--- gusty, profane, sweaty, vulgar, boisterous, whimsical, gargantuan, fanciful, exaggerated---- And one of the best things he ever wrote appeared under the name of "Sam Walser" in "Spicy Adventure", a bawdy yarn of high hearted breeziness, saltiness, which--- oddly enough--- was utterly free of the forced, cheap smut that characterizes the book. Maybe that last bit gives you another angle on that complex Howard I'll never again try to outdo in prodigious oaths and extravagant invective and more extravagant conceits. Now, write all that into the eyrie! What he wrote was a joy that lingers, and I have many a time re-read many of his tales--- but what he wrote was so god damn insignificant compared to the man himself that I can't be bothered with any appreciations of his writings. In fact, I feel very much robbed, and I can't waste any emotions on the loss to "literature"--- I'm too god damn concerned with how beastly dreary it will be the next time I cross 1100 miles of Texas without swilling mighty flagons of beer and buttermilk with Bob Howard. If you have any hints on how to write it, how I ought to write, what I ought to write, how to say my say without becoming stereotyped, and yet saying it in a way than an editor could put into print--- sound off, and I'll welcome it. And is there any chance that the rumor may be incorrect? I'd hate to waste an obituary like this unpublishable one of today, on any living man. E. HOFFMAN PRICE'S FURTHER REMINISCENCES OF ROBERT E. HOWARD From a letter to Francis T. Laney July 22nd 1944 I have the clippings from the Cross Plains paper which state unequivocally that RLH died from a self-inflicted pistol wound, and that the probable motive was the knowledge that his mother's illness was fatal, and beyond any hope; and that for three days and nights he had been sitting up, until he got the doctor's decision in terms which overwhelmed any possible hope. He stepped out the back door--I picture it all; I remember the gate through which he must have gone to get to his Chevvie, which was probably parked alongside the fence, his father's car being in the garage--took the pistol from the side pocket--another -- 14 --
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