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Phantagraph, v. 6, issue 4, August 1937
Page 2
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THE PHANTAGRAPH THE PHANTAGRAPH Donald A. Wollheim, 801 West End Ave., New York City Editor and Publisher --Affiliated with the Amateur Press Groups-- Picture of a Young Man With a Vision by Donald A. Wollheim The young man put down the science-fiction magazine he had been reading and looked out the window. His mind was filled with the story he had read, his heart was beating fast and his imagination, stirred to heights by the tale, was still flaming on through the sky. The sun beat in the window, outside he could see blue sky with one or two lacy white clouds idly floating; on the river front, a block over and below, a few nondescript boats steamed along; the New Jersey shore far away stood out clear and green and the little houses perched on top of the verdant cliffs all trim and peaceful. Yet his thoughts were not of them, nor of these things. They were away, far away in time and space, hurtling like the wind. Shooting through the blackness and silences of outer space, tearing soundlessly like the flight of a solitary meteor through the void between the distant and lonely stars. He stood, in his thoughts, alone in the tiny control of a small glistening space-ship, staring out into the black black star-strewn universe. Ahead lay worlds, distant tiny worlds, worlds of great strangeness, yet spheres to which his soul felt a keen affinity. Those worlds were to be his, his for conquest, his for adventure, his for use. He was the space-
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THE PHANTAGRAPH THE PHANTAGRAPH Donald A. Wollheim, 801 West End Ave., New York City Editor and Publisher --Affiliated with the Amateur Press Groups-- Picture of a Young Man With a Vision by Donald A. Wollheim The young man put down the science-fiction magazine he had been reading and looked out the window. His mind was filled with the story he had read, his heart was beating fast and his imagination, stirred to heights by the tale, was still flaming on through the sky. The sun beat in the window, outside he could see blue sky with one or two lacy white clouds idly floating; on the river front, a block over and below, a few nondescript boats steamed along; the New Jersey shore far away stood out clear and green and the little houses perched on top of the verdant cliffs all trim and peaceful. Yet his thoughts were not of them, nor of these things. They were away, far away in time and space, hurtling like the wind. Shooting through the blackness and silences of outer space, tearing soundlessly like the flight of a solitary meteor through the void between the distant and lonely stars. He stood, in his thoughts, alone in the tiny control of a small glistening space-ship, staring out into the black black star-strewn universe. Ahead lay worlds, distant tiny worlds, worlds of great strangeness, yet spheres to which his soul felt a keen affinity. Those worlds were to be his, his for conquest, his for adventure, his for use. He was the space-
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