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Fantasite, v. 2, issue 5, whole 11, May-June 1943
Page 9
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THE FANTASITE ...9 assumptions. One: That Boggs has not read Ark of Fire, and that if he had he would certainly pronounce it the great S.F.N. Two: That R.W.'s judgment of novels is infallible. God knows, if it is, a lot of good S.F. writers might as well quit the field, because no matter how well they may write in the future, their best efforts will already have been surpassed. Quote 2: "I presume he was referring to me, Shaw, McNutt and Ludowitz (some drivel is interjected at this point by Phil). If he was, I beg of the gentleman (note the formality) to drop me a postcard, letting me know more in detail." Asking for a postcard was a tactical error. Samples of Sam's minute writing have led me to believe that a postage stamp would have been more adequate. Drop us a postcard, Ray, and let us know what you think of us. This is adding insult to injury, Phil; now page 35-36 has just come off. What do you mean by "too tragically true" Miller? Don't tell me something like that happened to you and you let a little matter of literary taste outweigh the natural advantages of the situation. We are intrigued--with an accent on the "I"--by this guy Ribinson. What is he, and if so, why? From "Via StfNash" and other sources we get the idea that he is a very nice little guy who gets hung up in the closet inside his coat by hurried hosts whenever he goes visiting. Once in the open, however, he talks straight from Webster and with an accent that defies imitation. His durability, however, is amazing. He is reported as having been: 1. Trampled underfoot in the rush--p.14 2. Squashed against the wall of an elevator--p.15 3. Squeezed tightly in between two husky fans--p.15 4. Discovered hanging out a window--p.16 5. Crowded in between two husky fans (again)--p.17 6. Flattened behind a kitchen door--p.17 Now look here, fellas, we realize that fun's fun, but what the hell--After all he is human. Pipe the cover illustration for the January Astounding--a spaceship with nicely ornamented ground feature camouflage. Our last column aroused signs of life in two fans, to wit, Sheldon Araas, and The Fortier. You will find their opinions stumblingly expressed in the accompanying letter section of this issue. It's our custom to leave the iceing to the last when we eat a piece of cake, so we'll devote ourselves to S.A. first. I am in a position to state that the motivating force behind Shel's ill-naure is class hatred. Shel, mes amis, is a stinkin' engineer at the U. of Minn. and we are an Arts College man. The war between Institute and Arts is an old one and in Shel's and our's the case is further complicated by the fact that we are a writer of long standing on the Technolog, the Institute's official mag, while Shel, in spite of his 2.87 average and being a bona-fide engineer hasn't been able to get so much as a punctuation mark of his printed in that monthly. Shel has been under the silly delusion that he can write. Poor Shel, not even his best friends will tell him that even the most prettily-written lab reports will not sell to the editor of a sf mag. He keeps pounding them out: Object: To prove that a Plutonian Pirate has no chance against an Earth Patrolman. Theory: The Patrolman is twice as strong, twice as good-looking, and twice as smart as the pirate. Calculations: 2x=x Conclusions: The Patrolman wins and gets the girl; who hasn't been mentioned up until now but was there all the time. Vive Shel! Long may he wave. And now for Joe. Bless your little heart, Fortier, we can't help loving you even if you have had your mind poisoned by Raym. Washington. Any guy who can tangle up a sentence the way you do is priceless in this world where laughs have become only too few; and that sentence of yours is Hell Fire (MFS Bulletin No. 14), which begins "the mark of the
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THE FANTASITE ...9 assumptions. One: That Boggs has not read Ark of Fire, and that if he had he would certainly pronounce it the great S.F.N. Two: That R.W.'s judgment of novels is infallible. God knows, if it is, a lot of good S.F. writers might as well quit the field, because no matter how well they may write in the future, their best efforts will already have been surpassed. Quote 2: "I presume he was referring to me, Shaw, McNutt and Ludowitz (some drivel is interjected at this point by Phil). If he was, I beg of the gentleman (note the formality) to drop me a postcard, letting me know more in detail." Asking for a postcard was a tactical error. Samples of Sam's minute writing have led me to believe that a postage stamp would have been more adequate. Drop us a postcard, Ray, and let us know what you think of us. This is adding insult to injury, Phil; now page 35-36 has just come off. What do you mean by "too tragically true" Miller? Don't tell me something like that happened to you and you let a little matter of literary taste outweigh the natural advantages of the situation. We are intrigued--with an accent on the "I"--by this guy Ribinson. What is he, and if so, why? From "Via StfNash" and other sources we get the idea that he is a very nice little guy who gets hung up in the closet inside his coat by hurried hosts whenever he goes visiting. Once in the open, however, he talks straight from Webster and with an accent that defies imitation. His durability, however, is amazing. He is reported as having been: 1. Trampled underfoot in the rush--p.14 2. Squashed against the wall of an elevator--p.15 3. Squeezed tightly in between two husky fans--p.15 4. Discovered hanging out a window--p.16 5. Crowded in between two husky fans (again)--p.17 6. Flattened behind a kitchen door--p.17 Now look here, fellas, we realize that fun's fun, but what the hell--After all he is human. Pipe the cover illustration for the January Astounding--a spaceship with nicely ornamented ground feature camouflage. Our last column aroused signs of life in two fans, to wit, Sheldon Araas, and The Fortier. You will find their opinions stumblingly expressed in the accompanying letter section of this issue. It's our custom to leave the iceing to the last when we eat a piece of cake, so we'll devote ourselves to S.A. first. I am in a position to state that the motivating force behind Shel's ill-naure is class hatred. Shel, mes amis, is a stinkin' engineer at the U. of Minn. and we are an Arts College man. The war between Institute and Arts is an old one and in Shel's and our's the case is further complicated by the fact that we are a writer of long standing on the Technolog, the Institute's official mag, while Shel, in spite of his 2.87 average and being a bona-fide engineer hasn't been able to get so much as a punctuation mark of his printed in that monthly. Shel has been under the silly delusion that he can write. Poor Shel, not even his best friends will tell him that even the most prettily-written lab reports will not sell to the editor of a sf mag. He keeps pounding them out: Object: To prove that a Plutonian Pirate has no chance against an Earth Patrolman. Theory: The Patrolman is twice as strong, twice as good-looking, and twice as smart as the pirate. Calculations: 2x=x Conclusions: The Patrolman wins and gets the girl; who hasn't been mentioned up until now but was there all the time. Vive Shel! Long may he wave. And now for Joe. Bless your little heart, Fortier, we can't help loving you even if you have had your mind poisoned by Raym. Washington. Any guy who can tangle up a sentence the way you do is priceless in this world where laughs have become only too few; and that sentence of yours is Hell Fire (MFS Bulletin No. 14), which begins "the mark of the
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