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Voice of the Imagination, whole no. 8, August 1940

Page 10

speak. Although entirely prostrated by the pverwhelming sarcastic force of his titan intelligence (which I am glad to see, by the tone of his comments, he fully appreciates), I will endeavour to bear up manfully under the awful strain, Mr. Warner, and behave like one of those Pukka Sahibs, who Grit Their Teeth and Put Their Backs Into It and Shoulder the White Man's Burden....And now, with much exuberant rattle-swinging and general infantility, I totter with little childish steps to Miss Hemken's letter (being possessed of too much proper respect for my elders to call her 'Trudy'). I gasp with ill-concealed horror as I realize that she has ferreted out my shameful secret. In Miss Henken's own expressive, well-chosen words, I am fifteen-year-old-brat, a superior wise-guy who ain't nacherl, and science fiction is out of my mental scope, Yes, gentlemen, well may you shudder! as you realize that upon my pueril mind are lost -- ante porcos -- the exquisite subtleries of Binder, the involved scientific theories of Schachner and the intangible air of fantasy pervading Hamilton's weird tales; my intellect blunted by constant reading of such bludengaw, whodunit authors as Wells, Dunsany, stapledon and Bierce, has become too dull, too puerile, too entirely degraded an instrument for the appreciation of such classics as are published by fantasy magazines to-day...Miss Hemken, let me add a stray volt or two to feed the electric furnace of your wrath, by reminding you of the beautiful thought so touchingly expressed, and with such true artistic feeling, by the Poet in the inspired lines,  'He drew this cloak about his ears, an old, grey man in all but years.' (From the poem you all know and love, which I am sure needs no introduction from me.) However, though I will admit that Miss H's letter caused me momentarily to pale beneath the tan, I will now resume my innocent game of marbles with the usual boyish glee and juvenile ebullition. ~~ On eggsamination, the hen-tire CHICKON seems rather a fowl idea, but if you all pollard for this bran-d new cornception you may be able to pullet through the maize of conflicting views., as the army boys reverently whisper, 'Lone brawls do not a Prevost male, nor medal bars a Maje.'? ('Roberts forgot the all-important fact: The pun is mightier than the sword!' why, I can make 'em up as I go along, you whipper-snapper you. Crack another pun at me and I'll churn out a whole page of this sort of stuff and personally break it over your skull. Ackerman, you have been warned!) ~~ Let me tell you a little bed-time story, brethern. There was a guy once just a fella like you an' me an' he useta laugh at all ads geez they dont mean me i'm okay sure i am yeah sure an' he just wentalong the same old way (. . . . Quick flash to end :) an' so he lay there in the muck of the gutter an' the guys that throw him out came over and slugged him there ya doity rat ya louse ya sonuvabich an' keep outa our dance-hall in future an he lay there with his guts aching an' thought why didn't someone tell me why wasn't i told about listerine why want i told why wasnt i told ~~ Yes, reader, that is the end-the stark, grim, terrible end- of a story that might have been pennedby William Saroyan himself, or by Milton A. Rothman if he is as zealous a student of Mr. S. --or is it Hemingway?--as his April article seems to indicate. But cork the vials of wrath, Mr. R., I too in my time have done the same, cribbing sich diverse authors as Michael Gold, H.P. Lovecraft, James Branch Cabell and Edfar Wallace. Ah, the vanities of our hot youth, ere we learned the dangers lurking at every turn for our poor MSS!--and that falls, it falls like Lucifer, Never to rise again.'(Shakespeare) ~~ Well, even in the haloyon days we never wasted return postage. ~~ Said a friend on reading my letter in April VOM, 'Know what you're doing in this?' Said I, wincing but warned by the wicked gleam in her eye,' Sure, I'm just showing off. 'She admitted I'd taken the words right out of her mouth, and so I preserved my reputation do omniscience at the negligible cost of my modesty. There should be a moral in this, but I'm damned if I can find it. ~~ Having now insulted myself, I seem to have exhausted the list of eligible insultes. However, doubtless I have already laid up considerable treasure in heaven for myself, and my only chance of escaping unscathed and sans bloodshed seems to lie in the forlorn hope that your more savage adherents have sprained their wrists and Miss Hemken habitually bites her nails. Even then, I'll bet she weilds a wicked pair of canines." (U mention a her. "She & Alan"?! Are all your teeth wisdoms? Speaking of teeth, I'll bite! Dr. Ackula.)

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speak. Although entirely prostrated by the pverwhelming sarcastic force of his titan intelligence (which I am glad to see, by the tone of his comments, he fully appreciates), I will endeavour to bear up manfully under the awful strain, Mr. Warner, and behave like one of those Pukka Sahibs, who Grit Their Teeth and Put Their Backs Into It and Shoulder the White Man's Burden....And now, with much exuberant rattle-swinging and general infantility, I totter with little childish steps to Miss Hemken's letter (being possessed of too much proper respect for my elders to call her 'Trudy'). I gasp with ill-concealed horror as I realize that she has ferreted out my shameful secret. In Miss Henken's own expressive, well-chosen words, I am fifteen-year-old-brat, a superior wise-guy who ain't nacherl, and science fiction is out of my mental scope, Yes, gentlemen, well may you shudder! as you realize that upon my pueril mind are lost -- ante porcos -- the exquisite subtleries of Binder, the involved scientific theories of Schachner and the intangible air of fantasy pervading Hamilton's weird tales; my intellect blunted by constant reading of such bludengaw, whodunit authors as Wells, Dunsany, stapledon and Bierce, has become too dull, too puerile, too entirely degraded an instrument for the appreciation of such classics as are published by fantasy magazines to-day...Miss Hemken, let me add a stray volt or two to feed the electric furnace of your wrath, by reminding you of the beautiful thought so touchingly expressed, and with such true artistic feeling, by the Poet in the inspired lines, 'He drew this cloak about his ears, an old, grey man in all but years.' (From the poem you all know and love, which I am sure needs no introduction from me.) However, though I will admit that Miss H's letter caused me momentarily to pale beneath the tan, I will now resume my innocent game of marbles with the usual boyish glee and juvenile ebullition. ~~ On eggsamination, the hen-tire CHICKON seems rather a fowl idea, but if you all pollard for this bran-d new cornception you may be able to pullet through the maize of conflicting views., as the army boys reverently whisper, 'Lone brawls do not a Prevost male, nor medal bars a Maje.'? ('Roberts forgot the all-important fact: The pun is mightier than the sword!' why, I can make 'em up as I go along, you whipper-snapper you. Crack another pun at me and I'll churn out a whole page of this sort of stuff and personally break it over your skull. Ackerman, you have been warned!) ~~ Let me tell you a little bed-time story, brethern. There was a guy once just a fella like you an' me an' he useta laugh at all ads geez they dont mean me i'm okay sure i am yeah sure an' he just wentalong the same old way (. . . . Quick flash to end :) an' so he lay there in the muck of the gutter an' the guys that throw him out came over and slugged him there ya doity rat ya louse ya sonuvabich an' keep outa our dance-hall in future an he lay there with his guts aching an' thought why didn't someone tell me why wasn't i told about listerine why want i told why wasnt i told ~~ Yes, reader, that is the end-the stark, grim, terrible end- of a story that might have been pennedby William Saroyan himself, or by Milton A. Rothman if he is as zealous a student of Mr. S. --or is it Hemingway?--as his April article seems to indicate. But cork the vials of wrath, Mr. R., I too in my time have done the same, cribbing sich diverse authors as Michael Gold, H.P. Lovecraft, James Branch Cabell and Edfar Wallace. Ah, the vanities of our hot youth, ere we learned the dangers lurking at every turn for our poor MSS!--and that falls, it falls like Lucifer, Never to rise again.'(Shakespeare) ~~ Well, even in the haloyon days we never wasted return postage. ~~ Said a friend on reading my letter in April VOM, 'Know what you're doing in this?' Said I, wincing but warned by the wicked gleam in her eye,' Sure, I'm just showing off. 'She admitted I'd taken the words right out of her mouth, and so I preserved my reputation do omniscience at the negligible cost of my modesty. There should be a moral in this, but I'm damned if I can find it. ~~ Having now insulted myself, I seem to have exhausted the list of eligible insultes. However, doubtless I have already laid up considerable treasure in heaven for myself, and my only chance of escaping unscathed and sans bloodshed seems to lie in the forlorn hope that your more savage adherents have sprained their wrists and Miss Hemken habitually bites her nails. Even then, I'll bet she weilds a wicked pair of canines." (U mention a her. "She & Alan"?! Are all your teeth wisdoms? Speaking of teeth, I'll bite! Dr. Ackula.)