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Snide, issue 1, May 1940
Page 15
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After '39, This? Walter Sullivan [image of bearded man sitting on rock] Over and over again I ask myself why? Why? What did I ever do to deserve a fate such as this? How did I know when I became interested in science fiction that I would become a hunted fugitive, an outcast forever? However, I cannot escape it, I am branded forever as a full fledged scientifictionist. I wonder if I can be the last of my queer kind? The years have passed in quick succession since that fateful year of 1939. Perhaps I need not hide here alone. It has been years since I went out among men. It may be that in all those lonely years things have changed. Maybe we have been forgiven, and science fiction has been revived. I might be able to answer these questions if I left these monstrous mountains, but I dare not risk capture and possible torture. Forty years is a long time to spend alone, but I have my science fiction mags to keep me company until I am called. However, in spite of all the privations and tortures I have suffered, I can still cherish those happy, joyful years before the great science fiction convention of 1939 which turned out to be a Frankenstein. If any old science fiction fan should read this manuscript (which I am tattooing on my chest for want of paper) he will remember the carefree days before the convention. However, he will remember also the dark aspects of the convention itself and the 15
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After '39, This? Walter Sullivan [image of bearded man sitting on rock] Over and over again I ask myself why? Why? What did I ever do to deserve a fate such as this? How did I know when I became interested in science fiction that I would become a hunted fugitive, an outcast forever? However, I cannot escape it, I am branded forever as a full fledged scientifictionist. I wonder if I can be the last of my queer kind? The years have passed in quick succession since that fateful year of 1939. Perhaps I need not hide here alone. It has been years since I went out among men. It may be that in all those lonely years things have changed. Maybe we have been forgiven, and science fiction has been revived. I might be able to answer these questions if I left these monstrous mountains, but I dare not risk capture and possible torture. Forty years is a long time to spend alone, but I have my science fiction mags to keep me company until I am called. However, in spite of all the privations and tortures I have suffered, I can still cherish those happy, joyful years before the great science fiction convention of 1939 which turned out to be a Frankenstein. If any old science fiction fan should read this manuscript (which I am tattooing on my chest for want of paper) he will remember the carefree days before the convention. However, he will remember also the dark aspects of the convention itself and the 15
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