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Science Fiction Forward, v. 1, issue 1, September 1940

Page 4

Page 4      SCIENCE FICTION FORWARD

THE ILLUSTRIOUS MR. FORD

The mass of colloids---and it was a mass, so they tell us---which at one time moved about under the label of Charles Fort has bee dead for some time now. The echoes of his beefy tread have long ceased to bounce about between the window-cliffs on 14th Street; the pickle-puss divines in that section only vaguely remember now how he used to mortifyingly wave the red flag of the Higer Criticism in their faces; the dust on the files of the Illustrated News of the World has begun to accumulate again, and, indeed, insofar as the low physical world is concerned, everything seems to have returned to what he himself dexcrited as "nauseous, noxious normality".
     But let's not kid ourselves. You know and we know that Charles Fort is really not dead, any more than William Shakespeare or Allesandro Cagloistro is dead. In his place has arised the series A, B, C, D, ---n, and each integer is a fanatical science-hater just as he was. They thrive in all places and at all times, working, ever working, to undermine and destroy the mighty structure that science has built for itself. Every time Darwin is found wrong in some detail or other, they come swarming out of a million crannies, yammering calumny on his name. Let an eclipse prediction be off a fifth of a second, and up they pop, squalling loudly about the general unreliability of our present theories of light, gravitation, lunar velocity, space, time, the crossing of a species with its own mongrel offspring, and anything else modish and pertinent to nothing in particular. Science, in truth, finds it difficult to take a step in any direction without out of these gentlemen getting underfoot and howling that Einstein is a bum, Newton a fraud, and Kepler a moron. No, fat Mr. Fort is as hale and hearty as he ever was, and from all indications, his vital forces are on the wax instead of the wane.

                            I.

     We said in our "WHITE PAPER" that many of the people who make a business of viewing science with alarm are famous, and able to make a considerable stink by merely expressing an opinion. Here is a selected list of versed men who endorse the FORTEAN SOCIETY, most of whom will be entirely familiar to you:
J. David Stern                    Tiffany Thayer.
Ben Hecht.                    Booth Tarkington.
Alexander Woolcott.         Burton Rascoe.
              John Cowper Powys.

     J. David Stern is the former publisher of the NEW YORK POST. Tiffany Thayer is a novelist noted for his preoccupation with sex. Ben Hecht makes money Hoff Hollywood writing "scenarios". The NEW YORK TIMES recently published an interview with Mr. Tarkington in which he expressed the opinion that modern American youth (where have we heard that one before?) is the nastiest, dirtiest bunch of hoodlums he had ever encountered. "They should be severely chastized and spanked," said he, "particularly the American Youth Congress." Alexander Woolcott is chubby, wears glasses, and practices all day looking wistfully ironic for his publicity agent. Burton Rascoe is one of those things called "literary critics". At present, he is attached to the AMERICAN MERCURY. John Cowper Powys grinds out very bad, and very well-liked, "mystical" novels.
     So you see, fans, the infection is not so localized as most of you seem to thin. The FORTEANS are everywhere, simply because the tremend-

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Page 4 SCIENCE FICTION FORWARD THE ILLUSTRIOUS MR. FORD The mass of colloids---and it was a mass, so they tell us---which at one time moved about under the label of Charles Fort has bee dead for some time now. The echoes of his beefy tread have long ceased to bounce about between the window-cliffs on 14th Street; the pickle-puss divines in that section only vaguely remember now how he used to mortifyingly wave the red flag of the Higer Criticism in their faces; the dust on the files of the Illustrated News of the World has begun to accumulate again, and, indeed, insofar as the low physical world is concerned, everything seems to have returned to what he himself dexcrited as "nauseous, noxious normality". But let's not kid ourselves. You know and we know that Charles Fort is really not dead, any more than William Shakespeare or Allesandro Cagloistro is dead. In his place has arised the series A, B, C, D, ---n, and each integer is a fanatical science-hater just as he was. They thrive in all places and at all times, working, ever working, to undermine and destroy the mighty structure that science has built for itself. Every time Darwin is found wrong in some detail or other, they come swarming out of a million crannies, yammering calumny on his name. Let an eclipse prediction be off a fifth of a second, and up they pop, squalling loudly about the general unreliability of our present theories of light, gravitation, lunar velocity, space, time, the crossing of a species with its own mongrel offspring, and anything else modish and pertinent to nothing in particular. Science, in truth, finds it difficult to take a step in any direction without out of these gentlemen getting underfoot and howling that Einstein is a bum, Newton a fraud, and Kepler a moron. No, fat Mr. Fort is as hale and hearty as he ever was, and from all indications, his vital forces are on the wax instead of the wane. I. We said in our "WHITE PAPER" that many of the people who make a business of viewing science with alarm are famous, and able to make a considerable stink by merely expressing an opinion. Here is a selected list of versed men who endorse the FORTEAN SOCIETY, most of whom will be entirely familiar to you: J. David Stern Tiffany Thayer. Ben Hecht. Booth Tarkington. Alexander Woolcott. Burton Rascoe. John Cowper Powys. J. David Stern is the former publisher of the NEW YORK POST. Tiffany Thayer is a novelist noted for his preoccupation with sex. Ben Hecht makes money Hoff Hollywood writing "scenarios". The NEW YORK TIMES recently published an interview with Mr. Tarkington in which he expressed the opinion that modern American youth (where have we heard that one before?) is the nastiest, dirtiest bunch of hoodlums he had ever encountered. "They should be severely chastized and spanked," said he, "particularly the American Youth Congress." Alexander Woolcott is chubby, wears glasses, and practices all day looking wistfully ironic for his publicity agent. Burton Rascoe is one of those things called "literary critics". At present, he is attached to the AMERICAN MERCURY. John Cowper Powys grinds out very bad, and very well-liked, "mystical" novels. So you see, fans, the infection is not so localized as most of you seem to thin. The FORTEANS are everywhere, simply because the tremend-