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Fantasy Fan, v. 2, issue 5, whole no. 17, January 1935
Page 78
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78 THE FANTASY FAN, January, 1935 A WEIRD BOOK by P. J. Searles "Lost Horizon" by Hilton. Weird stories are so often bloody and gruesome that it is a delight to find one written in an urbane and restrained style. "Lost Horizon" tells of the stealing of a plane and its four passengers (two British consular agents, an American absconding banker, and an American missionary) during a tribal outbreak north of India and their intentional removal to a remote vallay in Tibet where they find a semi-Christian and semi-Buddhist monastery, inhabited by a group of serene men and women who have achieved an indefinitely prolonged life. The main portion of the story concerns life in the monastery and the attempt by its head to persuade the few prisoners to remain there, exchanging a hurried, confused, and short life in so-called civilization for calm, peace, and longevity in Tibet. Naturally, and inevitably, the denouement is a tragedy, indirect, but poignant. Mr. Hilton is an urbane satirist (if that is not a contradiction of terms) who has produced a beautiful story, weird and unusual, but without the so-frequent sccompaniment of vampires, ghosts, or the like. He writes delicately in a style reminiscent of Owens' "The Wind that Tramps the World." "Lost Horizon" is not for the blood-and-thunder reader; it has no "crashing suns," no "supernatural," no "unseen presences," no incredible "brain surgeons," no "werewolves," TRILOGY OF DEATH by Robert Nelson Death is a wheel... Death is a wheel, grinding, rending, crushing. The little boy skipped gayly to the grocery store for his mother. Crossing the street, he did not seen an oncoming truck. It was too late and- Death is a wheel, grinding, rending, crushing. Death is a wheel... Death is a dollar bill... Death is a dollar bill. A gust of wind swept a vagrant dollar bill into the gutter. It sped onward thru the streets. Onward to a jutting pier. Onward it went. A man espied it. He ran for it. Stumbled. Ran on. He came to the end of the pier. Fell into the water. But he grasped the dollar bill. "I've got it!" he cried. And then he sank beneath the waves. Death is a dollar bill... Death is a dream... Death is a dream. "Death, too, must be a dream," said the man in his dream. "Petty hills. Endless. Light all about. Light...gladness... music...voices of women. But my throat. How tight. I am choking... Breath, breath. My breath. Pretty hills. Endless. My breath. God, my breath. Light...breath...hills...music ...voices of women. Breath..." Death is a dream... but it does have an usual plot, weird in a faint and beautiful manner. For the not-too-hardened it will be a pleasure.
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78 THE FANTASY FAN, January, 1935 A WEIRD BOOK by P. J. Searles "Lost Horizon" by Hilton. Weird stories are so often bloody and gruesome that it is a delight to find one written in an urbane and restrained style. "Lost Horizon" tells of the stealing of a plane and its four passengers (two British consular agents, an American absconding banker, and an American missionary) during a tribal outbreak north of India and their intentional removal to a remote vallay in Tibet where they find a semi-Christian and semi-Buddhist monastery, inhabited by a group of serene men and women who have achieved an indefinitely prolonged life. The main portion of the story concerns life in the monastery and the attempt by its head to persuade the few prisoners to remain there, exchanging a hurried, confused, and short life in so-called civilization for calm, peace, and longevity in Tibet. Naturally, and inevitably, the denouement is a tragedy, indirect, but poignant. Mr. Hilton is an urbane satirist (if that is not a contradiction of terms) who has produced a beautiful story, weird and unusual, but without the so-frequent sccompaniment of vampires, ghosts, or the like. He writes delicately in a style reminiscent of Owens' "The Wind that Tramps the World." "Lost Horizon" is not for the blood-and-thunder reader; it has no "crashing suns," no "supernatural," no "unseen presences," no incredible "brain surgeons," no "werewolves," TRILOGY OF DEATH by Robert Nelson Death is a wheel... Death is a wheel, grinding, rending, crushing. The little boy skipped gayly to the grocery store for his mother. Crossing the street, he did not seen an oncoming truck. It was too late and- Death is a wheel, grinding, rending, crushing. Death is a wheel... Death is a dollar bill... Death is a dollar bill. A gust of wind swept a vagrant dollar bill into the gutter. It sped onward thru the streets. Onward to a jutting pier. Onward it went. A man espied it. He ran for it. Stumbled. Ran on. He came to the end of the pier. Fell into the water. But he grasped the dollar bill. "I've got it!" he cried. And then he sank beneath the waves. Death is a dollar bill... Death is a dream... Death is a dream. "Death, too, must be a dream," said the man in his dream. "Petty hills. Endless. Light all about. Light...gladness... music...voices of women. But my throat. How tight. I am choking... Breath, breath. My breath. Pretty hills. Endless. My breath. God, my breath. Light...breath...hills...music ...voices of women. Breath..." Death is a dream... but it does have an usual plot, weird in a faint and beautiful manner. For the not-too-hardened it will be a pleasure.
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