DIY History | Transcribe | Hevelin Fanzines | Voice of the Imagination (VOM), whole no. 9, October 1940

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Voice of the Imagination (VOM), whole no. 9, October 1940

Page 8

[Mary A. Roberts?]
Enter the Faustralian, of 67 Thistle St, Lutwyche N7, Brisbane, Queensland, AUSTRALIA: 
"Just received the foam-speckled June issue (July 10) and am now solicitously hoping that more of your readers have contracted hydrophobia, apoplectic frenzy or St Vitus' dance. The old homestead quivered to its white-anted foundations as I read the more phrenetic comments, and when I spied the back cover a laughing jackass two miles away blushed in shame and hid its envious head behind a gumtree. Yes, that little lucifer in cutaway coat and bow tie really tickled my fancy. --and even more so when I suddenly noticed three humorous aspects that are entirely irrelevant here. But the family have had a trying three hours since the magazine arrived, you know. After I had found with some sense of shock that my previous conceptions of myself were merely outworn theories to be discarded, I, being a trusting, gullible chill, immediately started on a frantic endeavour to behave in accordance with the ideas of Messrs. Korshak, Knight, Fortier, etc. My sister restrained with comparative ease my hitching up of the flannels to make a pair of knickers, but when I grabbed a serviette for a diaper and asked where did babies come from....well, as I say, they've had a tough time. ~~ Then I read Taylor's letter and tut-tutted with annoyance as I saw that I was all wrong again. Now you may see me revealed in my true light, readers--picture me, picture me for what I am: - the thin face lit up with malice as I crouch in some underground cave or murky cellar and write....write....bitter hatred rankling in my soul and prussic acid dripping from the pen. Swiftly, furiously, the pen flies over the paper, ineradicable detestation of the entire human race motivating the angry bitter phrase and scornful syllable....Thank you, Mr. Taylor Humbly and from the bottom of my heart I thank you. From now on, I shall simply sneer and sneer and sneer. ~~ Seriously, I've been amazed at the way you-all have taken my comments. I can't recollect in all my letters saying one serious word in criticism of science-fiction- (Eh? Frinstance, we refer U to Vom #3 where one yr ago  U rote, quote: I have ceased reading the unblushing, Shameless, ghastly, setting-a-new-low, unadulterated, dear-at-a-dime trash, that I have enjoyed quite more than somewhat the last few years. ~~ So we part. I do hereby serve an injunction on science-fiction Friend, you've overstayed your welcome, despite Stuart, McClary, Weinbaum, Lovecraft, Taine & Manning; I formally present you with the Order of the Boot. As we say in the expressive German tongue, Scram, buddy! Unquote. & this was but the prelude to Strings to Come.) and, for that matter, pretty few serious words about anything at all. Yet you have answered me seriously, and judged me by those remarks! Someone soon will wake up with a jolt and announce brightly that my answers to criticism have been unfair, irrelevant and very, very cheap. Doubtless he will be greatly surprised when I agree with every word he's said and a lot more. How could I answer, when their opponent was an intense, fanatical moron who doesn't, I hope, exist? The only course was to give 'em back what they gave me; and so far (sorry, but it must be said) their criticisms have been unfair, irrelevant, and very, very cheap. There, friends, is for once the expression by me of an actual opinion. One's enough--I write these letters as stop-gaps and escape-mediums not as chronicles of my inner machinery. ~~ Loath as I am to sour my one friend in the arena, I must perforce rise to a point of order -- you misquote me, Mr Haggard, I do not object to puns as a general rule. In fact, I object to practically nothing, being a tolerant cuss and preferring instead to grin mockingly at everything, including that prize joke of all, myself. I am not one of those who bewail that culture died when the skirt left the ground, but nor can I think that the original amoeba did his quick-change-artist turn just so some inspired lunatic of a song-writer could screech the surprising fact that down in de meddy in de itty-bitty poo. Prominent among my favourite authors are Edgar Wallace, William Shakespeare, James Branch Cabell and Donn Byrnne, and my four chief ambitions right now are to write a better fantasy than Dunsany's 'Cave of Kai,' to act Danny in 'Night Must Fall' on the stage, to own a leather overcoat and to go three rounds as a preliminary at the local stadium. Any gig now referring loftily from in between a forest of whiskers to the dogmatic fervour of youth and the impulsive narrowness of the adolescent will be ejected violently by the hefty gentleman in shirtsleeves. And after his unrecognizable remains had been buttered over the pavement, I'll bet the blood running into the gutter would trickle out of the grand old tune, 'Only fifteen, boo, boo!' ~~ The advertisement of Mr Ralph Roosevelt Thomas opens up an entirely new field. By the Good Man Above, here's another letter to drop me dead in my tracks and slap on my

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[Mary A. Roberts?] Enter the Faustralian, of 67 Thistle St, Lutwyche N7, Brisbane, Queensland, AUSTRALIA: "Just received the foam-speckled June issue (July 10) and am now solicitously hoping that more of your readers have contracted hydrophobia, apoplectic frenzy or St Vitus' dance. The old homestead quivered to its white-anted foundations as I read the more phrenetic comments, and when I spied the back cover a laughing jackass two miles away blushed in shame and hid its envious head behind a gumtree. Yes, that little lucifer in cutaway coat and bow tie really tickled my fancy. --and even more so when I suddenly noticed three humorous aspects that are entirely irrelevant here. But the family have had a trying three hours since the magazine arrived, you know. After I had found with some sense of shock that my previous conceptions of myself were merely outworn theories to be discarded, I, being a trusting, gullible chill, immediately started on a frantic endeavour to behave in accordance with the ideas of Messrs. Korshak, Knight, Fortier, etc. My sister restrained with comparative ease my hitching up of the flannels to make a pair of knickers, but when I grabbed a serviette for a diaper and asked where did babies come from....well, as I say, they've had a tough time. ~~ Then I read Taylor's letter and tut-tutted with annoyance as I saw that I was all wrong again. Now you may see me revealed in my true light, readers--picture me, picture me for what I am: - the thin face lit up with malice as I crouch in some underground cave or murky cellar and write....write....bitter hatred rankling in my soul and prussic acid dripping from the pen. Swiftly, furiously, the pen flies over the paper, ineradicable detestation of the entire human race motivating the angry bitter phrase and scornful syllable....Thank you, Mr. Taylor Humbly and from the bottom of my heart I thank you. From now on, I shall simply sneer and sneer and sneer. ~~ Seriously, I've been amazed at the way you-all have taken my comments. I can't recollect in all my letters saying one serious word in criticism of science-fiction- (Eh? Frinstance, we refer U to Vom #3 where one yr ago U rote, quote: I have ceased reading the unblushing, Shameless, ghastly, setting-a-new-low, unadulterated, dear-at-a-dime trash, that I have enjoyed quite more than somewhat the last few years. ~~ So we part. I do hereby serve an injunction on science-fiction Friend, you've overstayed your welcome, despite Stuart, McClary, Weinbaum, Lovecraft, Taine & Manning; I formally present you with the Order of the Boot. As we say in the expressive German tongue, Scram, buddy! Unquote. & this was but the prelude to Strings to Come.) and, for that matter, pretty few serious words about anything at all. Yet you have answered me seriously, and judged me by those remarks! Someone soon will wake up with a jolt and announce brightly that my answers to criticism have been unfair, irrelevant and very, very cheap. Doubtless he will be greatly surprised when I agree with every word he's said and a lot more. How could I answer, when their opponent was an intense, fanatical moron who doesn't, I hope, exist? The only course was to give 'em back what they gave me; and so far (sorry, but it must be said) their criticisms have been unfair, irrelevant, and very, very cheap. There, friends, is for once the expression by me of an actual opinion. One's enough--I write these letters as stop-gaps and escape-mediums not as chronicles of my inner machinery. ~~ Loath as I am to sour my one friend in the arena, I must perforce rise to a point of order -- you misquote me, Mr Haggard, I do not object to puns as a general rule. In fact, I object to practically nothing, being a tolerant cuss and preferring instead to grin mockingly at everything, including that prize joke of all, myself. I am not one of those who bewail that culture died when the skirt left the ground, but nor can I think that the original amoeba did his quick-change-artist turn just so some inspired lunatic of a song-writer could screech the surprising fact that down in de meddy in de itty-bitty poo. Prominent among my favourite authors are Edgar Wallace, William Shakespeare, James Branch Cabell and Donn Byrnne, and my four chief ambitions right now are to write a better fantasy than Dunsany's 'Cave of Kai,' to act Danny in 'Night Must Fall' on the stage, to own a leather overcoat and to go three rounds as a preliminary at the local stadium. Any gig now referring loftily from in between a forest of whiskers to the dogmatic fervour of youth and the impulsive narrowness of the adolescent will be ejected violently by the hefty gentleman in shirtsleeves. And after his unrecognizable remains had been buttered over the pavement, I'll bet the blood running into the gutter would trickle out of the grand old tune, 'Only fifteen, boo, boo!' ~~ The advertisement of Mr Ralph Roosevelt Thomas opens up an entirely new field. By the Good Man Above, here's another letter to drop me dead in my tracks and slap on my