DIY History | Transcribe | Hevelin Fanzines | Spaceways, v. 4, issue 5, whole no. 28, June 1942

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Spaceways, v. 4, issue 5, whole no. 28, June 1942

Page 7

SPACEWAYS     7

AVE ATQUE VALE!

quick to grasp. He quickly penetrated beneath the surface of facts and comprehended principles and truths. He assimilated rapidly, and he retained ready hold of an astounding amount of detail. His memory was crowded with the minutiae of whatever he had studied or experienced. For years he pursued astronomy, made frequent use of an observatory near his home, and wrote a column for a Providence newspaper. He ranged the hills, the fields, and the shores of Rhode Island to gather geological and biological specimens, many of which he assembled in his room. He read extensively in a tremendous variety of fields; his personal library was truly vast and contained not only the most ponderous tomes of learned writers but also fiction of ephemeral nature. His knowledge of authors was surprising; a book, to him, was something to be assimilated, or, at least, perused. He delved into detective stories; his researches into mystery tales and morbid literature as a background for his own writing made him a master of a type in the production of which he attained distinction.
In argument he was devastating, as I learned shortly after I became acquainted with him. I had chanced the remark that the Roman occupation of Britain had left little traces in the language of the natives; that the Latin influences dated from the later missionary sources and from the Norman Conquest. Shortly afterward he wrote me a bulky letter assembling unassailable authority from an overwhelming variety of sources that demolished my arguments. I never forgot the episode, and later I often had occasion to marvel at his limitless capacity for assembling information and his masterfulness in hurling it at any one who ventured to enter into debate.
The driving force of his mind, too, gave to his otherwise somewhat somber countenance an animation, a positive luminousness, when he was launched upon a subject in which he was truly interested. His manner became thoroughly vitalized; his voice grew vibrant; his words poured forth in a nervous, high-pitched torrent so turbulent that often he almost stuttered because his tongue could not keep pace with his swift thought.
His capacity for retaining fact extended to the smallest matters of life. Once when we were driving from Leominister to Fitchburg he recalled the exact hour on which horsecars were withdrawn from the line. He recalled dates with a precision that was amazing. His last letter to me contains exact references to incidents in our relations years previous. He often entered into conversation with Mrs. Cole about the ingredients of delightful recipes he had run across from time to time.
His most intense exaltation and contagious enthusiasm, however, was for Georgian architecture and for relics of the eighteenth century. On those matters he became an authority and could speak hours on end about the variants of architectural devices and the shifting styles of dress of the period, to say nothing of the inexhaustible subjects of utensils, manners, literature,---in short, everything. To run down a Georgian house he had not previously seen was the joy of his life. He saved penuriously to make trips to Marblehead and Salem and Portsmouth and in his later years to the Carolinas to revel in the mansions of the eighteenth century. He wrote of them glamorously; he dragged me, not unwilling, whenever we were in the vicinity.
With Lovecraft's passing there went from the lives of those who shared his friendship an influence irreplaceable. Howard was unique and anachronistic. He brought into this age of hurry and unrest the manners of an age of leisure and the outlook of a polished gentleman of intellectual attainments. To his world he admitted a few who found therein new appreciations and respite from the tedium of their own lives and, above all, an enthusiastic decent to reveal surprising pleasures to their eyes. He gave them, too, the inspiration of a noble soul that had struggled through deep disappointment and despair to the contentment and happiness of a world of his own making.
Today those who, as I have done, wend their way through the peaceful paths of Swan Point Cemetery to the Phillips lot will find upon the granite shaft the
(concluded on page 13)

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SPACEWAYS 7 AVE ATQUE VALE! quick to grasp. He quickly penetrated beneath the surface of facts and comprehended principles and truths. He assimilated rapidly, and he retained ready hold of an astounding amount of detail. His memory was crowded with the minutiae of whatever he had studied or experienced. For years he pursued astronomy, made frequent use of an observatory near his home, and wrote a column for a Providence newspaper. He ranged the hills, the fields, and the shores of Rhode Island to gather geological and biological specimens, many of which he assembled in his room. He read extensively in a tremendous variety of fields; his personal library was truly vast and contained not only the most ponderous tomes of learned writers but also fiction of ephemeral nature. His knowledge of authors was surprising; a book, to him, was something to be assimilated, or, at least, perused. He delved into detective stories; his researches into mystery tales and morbid literature as a background for his own writing made him a master of a type in the production of which he attained distinction. In argument he was devastating, as I learned shortly after I became acquainted with him. I had chanced the remark that the Roman occupation of Britain had left little traces in the language of the natives; that the Latin influences dated from the later missionary sources and from the Norman Conquest. Shortly afterward he wrote me a bulky letter assembling unassailable authority from an overwhelming variety of sources that demolished my arguments. I never forgot the episode, and later I often had occasion to marvel at his limitless capacity for assembling information and his masterfulness in hurling it at any one who ventured to enter into debate. The driving force of his mind, too, gave to his otherwise somewhat somber countenance an animation, a positive luminousness, when he was launched upon a subject in which he was truly interested. His manner became thoroughly vitalized; his voice grew vibrant; his words poured forth in a nervous, high-pitched torrent so turbulent that often he almost stuttered because his tongue could not keep pace with his swift thought. His capacity for retaining fact extended to the smallest matters of life. Once when we were driving from Leominister to Fitchburg he recalled the exact hour on which horsecars were withdrawn from the line. He recalled dates with a precision that was amazing. His last letter to me contains exact references to incidents in our relations years previous. He often entered into conversation with Mrs. Cole about the ingredients of delightful recipes he had run across from time to time. His most intense exaltation and contagious enthusiasm, however, was for Georgian architecture and for relics of the eighteenth century. On those matters he became an authority and could speak hours on end about the variants of architectural devices and the shifting styles of dress of the period, to say nothing of the inexhaustible subjects of utensils, manners, literature,---in short, everything. To run down a Georgian house he had not previously seen was the joy of his life. He saved penuriously to make trips to Marblehead and Salem and Portsmouth and in his later years to the Carolinas to revel in the mansions of the eighteenth century. He wrote of them glamorously; he dragged me, not unwilling, whenever we were in the vicinity. With Lovecraft's passing there went from the lives of those who shared his friendship an influence irreplaceable. Howard was unique and anachronistic. He brought into this age of hurry and unrest the manners of an age of leisure and the outlook of a polished gentleman of intellectual attainments. To his world he admitted a few who found therein new appreciations and respite from the tedium of their own lives and, above all, an enthusiastic decent to reveal surprising pleasures to their eyes. He gave them, too, the inspiration of a noble soul that had struggled through deep disappointment and despair to the contentment and happiness of a world of his own making. Today those who, as I have done, wend their way through the peaceful paths of Swan Point Cemetery to the Phillips lot will find upon the granite shaft the (concluded on page 13)