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Post by deuce on Oct 2, 2016 14:01:34 GMT -5
H. P. Lovecraft's letter of October 4, 1930 to Robert E. Howard:
"It is the night-black Massachusetts legendry which packs the really macabre 'kick', Here is the material for a really profound study in group neuroticism; for certainly, no one can deny the existence of a profoundly morbid streak in the Puritan imagination....The very pre-ponderance of passionately pious men in the colony was virtually an assurance of unnatural crime; insomuch as psychology now proves the religious instinct to be a form of transmuted eroticism precisely parallel to the transmutations in other directions which respectively produce such things as sadism, hallucination, melancholia, and other mental morbidities. Bunch together a group of people deliberately chosen for strong religious feelings, and you have a practical guarantee of dark morbidities expressed in crime, perversion, and insanity. This was aggravated, of course, by the Puritan policy of rigorously suppressing all the natural outlets of excuberant feeling--music, laughter, colour, pageantry, and so on. To observe Christmas Day was once a prison offence...."
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Post by bobbyderie on Oct 11, 2016 16:59:42 GMT -5
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Post by deuce on Oct 14, 2016 7:57:20 GMT -5
Sounds cool. The Merritt essay by Levi also caught my eye.
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Post by deuce on Oct 22, 2016 17:34:37 GMT -5
"The Battle That Ended the Century" is a spoof written by HPL and RH Barlow (who also corresponded with REH). It recounts a prize fight in 2001 (over 60yrs in the future, at that point). "Two-Gun Bob" is one of the boxers. There's an in-joke involving one of the Lovecraft Circle or someone connected to Weird Tales at least every other sentence. This is not a satirical attack on Howard. Both HPL and Barlow were devastated by REH's death two years later. Anyone curious about the in-jokes, ask away. www.hplovecraft.com/writings/texts/fiction/bec.aspx
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Post by deuce on Nov 7, 2016 10:21:03 GMT -5
"You ask me why I do not use Texas settings more in my stories. I really should, since Texas is the only region I know by first hand experience. Three of my yarns in Weird Tales have been laid in Texas: “The Horror From the Mound”, “The Man on the Ground” and “Old Garfield’s Heart”. Sometimes too thorough a knowledge of a subject is a handicap (not that I claim to be an authority on the Southwest, or anything like that; but I was born here and have lived here all my life.) for fiction writing."
-- Robert E. Howard to H. P. Lovecraft, Summer 1934, CL3.245-246
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Post by deuce on Nov 12, 2016 10:32:54 GMT -5
And speaking of mountain-dew, again we have big business devouring the small-scale producer. Why did the revenue men go into the hills and hunt down men who were merely seeking to augment their fearfully barren lives with a little hard money on the side? To protect the big liquor corporations! Why, the white liquor made by Southern mountaineers was generally far superior to anything the bar-keep shoved across the bar, but the makers seldom had the money to buy any sort of license to manufacture or sell whiskey. Not infrequently the best customers the moonshiners had were owners of the saloons. The mountain-men would raft their produce down to the river towns -- corn, a little cotton maybe, coon and possum and wolf and bear skins -- an innocent looking cargo, and certainly no room on a flat raft to conceal contraband.
But beneath the raft, fastened firmly to the bottom, were kegs and barrels of good white corn liquor. By day the “upper” cargo was unloaded and sold, and late that night the “lower” cargo was slipped ashore to the saloons on the river bank. The liquor was carefully concealed, allowed to age a few months, colored, bottled and sold across the bar as labeled Bourbon, Haig & Haig, Scotch, or what have you! And at about three hundred percent profit for the saloon man. But the customers weren’t cheated; it was good, pure whiskey, not to be compared for an instant with the muck modern bootleggers make.-- Robert E. Howard to H. P. Lovecraft, October 1930 (CLREH 2.135)
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Post by deuce on Nov 15, 2016 9:41:39 GMT -5
Glad you enjoyed the dream write-up I sent you. Long narrative dreams are fairly common with me, and sometimes my dream personality is in no way connected with my actual personality. I have been a 16th Century Englishman, a prehistoric man, a blue-coated United States cavalryman campaigning against the Sioux in the years following the Civil War, a yellow-haired Italian of the Renaissance, a Norman nobleman of the 11th Century, a weird-eyed flowing-bearded Gothic fighting-man, a bare-footed Irish kern of the 17th Century, an Indian, a Serb in baggy trousers fighting Turks with a curved saber, a prize-fighter, and I’ve wandered all up and down the 19th Century as a trapper, a westward-bound emigrant, a bar-tender, a hunter, an Indianfighter, a trail-driver, cowboy — once I was John Wesley Hardin! I remember very well indeed the Roman dream of yours which Long used in his story. As I told you then it was an imaginative and poetic masterpiece.
-- Robert E. Howard to H. P. Lovecraft, 11 Feb 1936, CL3. p.406-407
The "Roman dream" that REH refers to was a dream HPL wrote down. A very nice piece featuring Romans in the Basque Country. Howard could've knocked it outta the park. Unfortunately, REH wasn't corresponding with Lovecraft in 1928. HPL gave the dream fragment to Frank Bellknap Long who used it to create the subpar The Horror from the Hills.
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Post by Ningauble on Dec 9, 2016 2:24:44 GMT -5
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Post by deuce on Jan 4, 2017 12:25:01 GMT -5
"A materialistic resignation to unalterable laws is sensible but repellant to me. I will freely admit the necessity and desirability of such a resignation which is no more than recognizing natural laws — if such things be. A man who does not resign himself is like a caged wolf who breaks his heart and beats his brains out against the bars of his cage. Yet I must admit that such a course appeals to me more than that of calm submission. Foredoomed to failure, a man can still snarl and tear. Many and many a time, when one is reeling and dizzy and sick at heart and soul, broken and tossed by the blows of fate or destiny or whatever it is that makes life a hell on earth, one may wish for the ability of philosophic resignation; but with a slight renewal of strength the old blind fighting lust comes surging back and makes him break his fangs on the iron bars anew.
"I’m no philosopher, but resignation isn’t in my blood. I wish it was. It isn’t necessarily a hope to win that makes a man rebel against the infamies of life, vainly. Defeat is the lot of all men, and I come of a breed that never won a war. Men and women too, of my line have fought for hopeless lost causes for a thousand years. Defeat waits for us all, but some of us, worse luck, can’t accept it quietly.
"Life reminds me of a fight I had, when a kid, with a heavyweight prize fighter. Round after round I rushed savagely and futilely, mad to come to grips and smash his ribs in, but hitting only the naked air. It was like fighting a shadow that wielded clubs; at the end of the fight I was swaying on the ropes groggy and dizzy, with my nose broken and my face cut and bruised, sick with a feeling of utterly helpless futility. That’s Life— it’s full of things that punish you fiercely and that you can’t come to grips with. Punishment isn’t so bad if you’re handing it out at the same time. The other fellow may be strangling the life out of you, or ripping your ear off with his teeth, but if you’re driving your knee to his groin, sinking your fists in his belly or have your thumb in his eye, you can stand the punishment. The hell of it comes when you’re up against a battler you can’t hit, or are licked and down in the muck with the other fellow stamping your guts out or grinding your face in with his hob-nails. That’s Life — fighting shadows; taking lickings that you can’t return."
-- Robert E. Howard to H. P. Lovecraft, December 1930, Collected Letters Vol.2, p.138-139
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Post by deuce on Jan 20, 2017 20:19:05 GMT -5
"The Battle That Ended the Century" is a spoof written by HPL and RH Barlow (who also corresponded with REH). It recounts a prize fight in 2001 (over 60yrs in the future, at that point). "Two-Gun Bob" is one of the boxers. There's an in-joke involving one of the Lovecraft Circle or someone connected to Weird Tales at least every other sentence. This is not a satirical attack on Howard. Both HPL and Barlow were devastated by REH's death two years later. Anyone curious about the in-jokes, ask away. www.hplovecraft.com/writings/texts/fiction/bec.aspxNotes explaining the in-jokes: Two-Gun Bob—Robert E. Howard Knockout Bernie, the Wild Wolf of West Shokan—Bernard Austin Dwyer, of West Shokan, N.Y. Bill Lum Li—William Lumley Wladislaw Brenryk—H. Warner Munn D. H. Killer—David H. Keller M. Gin Brewery—Miles G. Breuer A. Hijacked Barrell—A. Hyatt Verrill G. A. Scotland—George Allan England Frank Chimesleep Short, Jr—Frank Belknap Long, Jr. The Effjoy of Akkamin—Forrest J. Ackerman Mrs. M. Blunderage—Margaret Brundage (artist for Weird Tales) Mr. C. Half-Cent—C. C. Senf (artist for Weird Tales) Mr. Goofy Hooey—Hugh Rankin (artist for Weird Tales) W. Lablache Talcum—Wilfred Blanch Talman Horse Power Hateart—Howard Phillips Lovecraft M. le Comte d’Erlette—August Derleth (author of Evening in Spring) J. Caesar Warts—Julius Schwartz H. Kanebrake—H. C. Koenig (employed by the Electrical Testing Laboratories) H. Wanderer—Howard Wandrei Robertieff Essovitch Karovsky—Robert S. Carr Teaberry Quince—Seabury Quinn Malik Taus, the Peacock Sultan—E. Hoffmann Price Sing Lee Bawledout—F. Lee Baldwin Ivor K. Rodent—Hugo Gernsback Rev. D. Vest Wind—Unknown Klarkash-Ton—Clark Ashton Smith Windy City Grab-Bag—Weird Tales W. Peter Chef—W. Paul Cook Smearum & Weep—Dauber & Pine Samuelus Philanthropus—Samuel Loveman Mr. De Merit—A. Merritt (author of The Dwellers in the Mirage and editor of American Weekly) Wurst’s Weakly Americana—Hearst’s American Weekly]
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Post by deuce on Mar 30, 2017 17:39:46 GMT -5
"I remember 'The Silver Key' — yet remember is hardly the word to use. I have constantly referred to that story in my meditations ever since I read it, years ago — have probably thought of it more than any other story that ever appeared in Weird Tales. There was something about it that struck deep. I read it aloud to Tevis Clyde Smith, some years ago, and he agreed with me as to its cosmic sweep."-- Robert E. Howard to H. P. Lovecraft, Aug 1933, Collected Letters Volume 3 p.100 We see similar sentiments expressed below about an unnamed story. Rusty Burke and others believe that REH is referring to 'The Silver Key'. One Who Walked Alone, pp. 150-151: [Novalyne Price quoting Howard] "Now, a friend of mine wrote a yarn a few years ago. It was one of the greatest yarns I ever read. I think about it a lot. Sometimes when I finish a yarn and am getting another one ready, I think about that yarn of his, and why I think it was good. Sometimes I sit at my typewriter and think about it. I think about it on my way to and from the post office. Why, girl, I even think about that yarn when I go out to milk the cow. As I think about it, I begin to have my own thoughts and ideas. Maybe there was something I believe about life that he didn't say." [She then notes that he began telling her about the story, "and I was sure he was repeating it word for word!"]
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Post by deuce on Mar 31, 2017 17:43:32 GMT -5
"We could divide a porker between us with great justice and satisfaction--although I do like good boiled (never fried) ham."
-- H. P. Lovecraft to Robert E. Howard, 21 Jan 1933, A Means to Freedom Volume 2 p.525
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Post by deuce on May 3, 2017 9:28:14 GMT -5
Some people get confused when reading some of the most heated parts of the REH-HPL debates and think that Lovecraft had little regard for Howard. That simply is not the case. It becomes obvious when reading letters HPL sent to other people in the "Lovecraft Circle":
"Yes—”Solomon Kane” [Robert E. Howard] surely is a husky bozo! I think—recalling his early letters—that he has fought in the ring, though I don’t know how professionally. I judge he has also participated in shooting & stabbing affrays in connexion with cattle & boundary warfare—still a live reality in western Texas. He is a living compendium of the sanguinary annals of the southwest—which he re-tells with all the fresh gusto of a primitive epic poet. In truth, his milieu quite exactly reproduces that early & untrammelled Aryan world which evolved such bardic productions as the Iliad, Beowulf, & the Norse Sagas."
- - H. P. Lovecraft to J. Vernon Shea, 23 Oct 1931, Letters to J.Vernon Shea p.70
Lovecraft referring to REH as "Solomon Kane" later changed to "Conan" or "King Conan" after those yarns began to see print.
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Post by deuce on Jun 19, 2017 17:44:53 GMT -5
"Let me again express my admiration for your drawing ability; your pictures of the Roman and the cavalier are strikingly vivid, and I share your dissatisfaction with drab modern mode of dress. I think I’d feel more at home in a suit of chain mail and a surcoat myself! Men’s styles have certainly come upon colorless and uninteresting ways. "
-- Robert E. Howard to H. P. Lovecraft, Feb 1931
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Post by deuce on Jun 23, 2017 10:28:53 GMT -5
There is a lot going on in this passage. Not just in relation to REH's personal life, but probable influences on his fiction as well.
The fightingest son-of-a-gun that ever came into the Callahan oil-fields was a full-blooded Irishman from the Pennsylvania hill-country. He wasn’t an unusually big man, as they go, but he was built up like a brick-house. He was steel cords and lightning — strong as a bull, with a blinding, steel-trap coordination that made him supreme among the general run of lumbering, slow-witted sluggers. He used to wrap his wrists and arms half-way up to the elbows with adhesive tape — to keep them from shattering under his terrific blows — and then invade the toughest joint he could find and go to the mat with the entire attendance. I’ve heard he licked eleven men in one day, but can’t verify that statement. But he would have been a champion, if he’d gone into the ring. He fought for the sheer fun of it, and laughed all the time he fought. He wasn’t a bully, in the accepted sense of the word; he never picked a fight with a peaceable man; his meat was the swaggering brawlers who thought they were tough. It’s a wonder somebody didn’t kill him. But he lived to die young, in a natural manner. At least, in a manner so common to oil field workers that it might be considered natural, since it was syphilis that mowed him down. It affected his mind long before it touched his magnificent body, and he lost the use of his vocal cords. He used to come into the drugstore where I worked, quite often, and he always wanted me to wait on him, since I was the only one who seemed to have sense enough, or was sober enough, to understand his signs. He couldn’t speak articulately, but made noises like an infant, though he never entirely lost his sanity. And this is strange — long after he lost the power to speak ordinary simple words, he could still pronounce oaths and profane phrases. At last he died, and for months before death came, he was like a skeleton, with a hairless, parchment-like yellowish skin stretched over his skull like a death-mask.
-- Robert E. Howard to H. P. Lovecraft, 24 May 1932
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