A reprint of a defence of Lovecraft, as found in The Science Fiction Fan for January 1940 (not online), and reprinted in a 1970 fanzine. It’s also reprinted in A Weird Writer in Our Midst.
The author is anonymous as ‘Autolycus’ but his statements date him as of Lovecraft’s generation. He thus seems unlikely to have been ‘Derleth under a pen name’, but I suppose that’s a possibility and others may known more about that. Autolycus was “a successful robber who had even the power of metamorphosing both the stolen goods and himself”, which some might think would fit Derleth.
WHAT OF H.P LOVECRAFT?
Reprinted from “THE SCIENCE FICTION FAN” No. 42, Jan 1940.
I, too, never knew Lovecraft. Though I have read his masterpieces of darkling fantasy, abhorrent evil and loath some cults, though I have followed his gigantic strides toward the goal he finally reached genius, though I have been a humble admirer since his works first appeared in Weird Tales some fifteen years ago, (I had already been through the First World War and three other campaigns when the first issue of Weird startled a realism weary world – and that should date me as one of the oldest fans), yet I admired from afar and could not summon up courage even to write to one of the most amazing literary phenomena ever to enter American literary history.
Perhaps it was best that way. At times I deeply regret not having met Lovecraft face to face or to have had the honour of receiving one of his in estimable letters, yet perhaps it is best that I can view his writings dispassionately, as literature, without being dazzled by the aura of his personality. In this way, I can tilt a lance with J.B. Michel without a feeling of personal rancour. I am no sycophant, no Boswell.
To what does Michel object in his article on Lovecraft, appearing in the November [1939] ‘FAN’? Let me quote part of it:
“Lovecraft was the deadly enemy of all that to me is everything – gazing with suppressed hate upon a great new world which placed more value upon the sanitary condition of a bathing fixture than all the greasy gold and jewels etc…”
As I read it, Michel is disturbed and angered not by Lovecraft the master of fantasy and horror, not by Lovecraft the alchemist who made words glow with a supernal light, but by a Lovecraft whose interest was in the past, in the imagination, rather than in the present or the (we hope) glories of the future.
In other words, Michel condemns Lovecraft for not taking his place in the hurly-burly of today, and thus we are brought face-to-face with the most discussed, most troublesome problem of modern literature. Shall all writing be class conscious, or shall the occasional man of letters be permitted to remain in his ivory tower and send out to the world below words of beauty and glamour? Shall all feel toward the recluse what Auden does towards Housman in his famous (or in famous) poem beginning :-
“No-one – not even Cambridge – was to blame”.
Or shall we permit the poet, the wizard of words, a leeway not granted other mortals?
There are two answers. The first is obvious, that is, the man of genius will write what his inmost being gene rates and impel outward his deepest thoughts, without regard to the clamour or disdain of the crowd. Villon from the dunghill sang of purity and truth. (Of course he sang of other things too). Poe, from madness, gave forth unsurpassed words of mystery and terror. Cervantes from prison sent forth his romance of the simple but loveable knight. Yes, the man of genius will write as he chooses; neither contempt nor fear will persuade him to be false to his urge.
The second answer, though not so obvious, seems to me to be equally true. I maintain that no reader should attempt to influence the course of a writer’s thought or output. We can criticise a writer’s ability, we can condemn his failure to preserve high artistic and aesthetic standards, but we cannot be permitted to dictate what he writes, his topic, his subject, his mode of treatment. We can depreciate his use of tools, but not the object he is trying to make. As well criticise grass for being green, the stars for twinkling. Those are in the nature of things, and so is a writer’s creative urge. He must say certain things.
If they are expressions of class consciousness, well and good. If they are imagery, illusion or hallucination, equally well and good. I emphasise, we can criticise how an author uses words but not why he uses them.
As a matter of fact, if all writing were to become class conscious, we would lose a universe of beauty, of grandeur, of exquisite aesthetic satisfaction. The same is true of music.
Heaven knows, Handel and Brahms, Palesrtrina and Bach, (who were other worldly conscious), Ravel and Stravinsky were not, in their music, class conscious. We would, if differences of opinion were allowed, (and this is hardly likely in a totalitarian state), have an unending quarrel, an everlasting polemic that would weary and bore to stupefaction the unlucky reader. God forbid that literature should ever be restricted to one subject. On the other hand, if (as is most likely in a totalitarian state) no differences were allowed, we would be driven insane by the iteration and reiteration of one topic. I like a clarinet, but I don’t want to hear only one note on it ad infinitum and ad nauseam.
To repeat, writers of the highest skill will write exactly what they please (unless restrained by force, and that, of course, would spell the end of genuine literature), and we, as readers, should be grateful at the bounteous repast set before us – not a one-dish diet, not a Barmecide feast, but a sumptuous banquet of diverse dishes. Who would dine on ice-cream only… or tripe?
Lovecraft was a man of genius – I daresay no-one will dispute that statement. In his ivory tower (though it was but a couple of rooms in a Providence house) he sat dreaming. His mind travelled immeasurable distances in time and space, he saw vistas of magnificence as well as of horror which are forever beyond the visions of most of us. We see reflected in words – magic words though they be – what he saw in dazzling brilliance. Who would deny him the right to dream and to record his dreams in imperishable pages? Who would stultify his skill by diverting it into unwanted channels? Who would dare demand an earthly class consciousness of one who, in spirit, was not of this earth? Who would insist that Cthulhu speak the language of Karl Marx – or of the Union League Club? [An elite private club of New York and Chicago, of members interested in the fine arts].
I have no quarrel with Michel or with the class conscious writers. A Steinbeck, a Dos Passon, a Spender, they are invaluable in these days of travail and searching query when clouds darken the earth, and the future is bleak. We need writers to clang their hammer of words on the anvils of our minds, to drive home the dire necessity of setting our house in order so that civilisation will not perish. Yes, we need such men to send out glowing, angry words in order to goad us to peace, security and happiness for all and not only for the few.
But we need others as well. We need a Robert Frost who sings quietly of a New England countryside as well as we need a Robinson Jeffers whose lighting illuminates – and cleanses – dark places. We need the gentle humour of a John Holmes, the historical aloofness of a Neil Swanson, or the detachment of a Santayana, just as much as we need the biting, fiery language of the reformer or radical. Balance sustains sanity. Variety means richness.
And we need Lovecraft just as he is. He lived in a world of his own, a world of past and future, a world of other dimensions, an alien, unreal world where unhuman entities prowled. He was set aside from the hustle of today, from our social and economic problems.
He took no part in present struggles. Why not? Surely to fight in the cause of justice and righteousness there are enough warriors in this world to permit an occasional faery mind to roam as it will in time and space. We need “bathroom fixtures in sanitary condition”, yes, we need a thousand things to better the unhappy lot, the desperate plight of countless millions who are now downtrodden or outcasts. You and I, all of us, can strive to improve the world, to provide the ‘freedom’ and ‘equality’ which our founding forefathers wrote into the most match less social document ever produced.
But I for one – and I am confident that the majority of fans are with me – will not agree that the magic, the glamour, the fantastic genius of a man like Lovecraft should be distorted or diverted into strange channels. We have too few human beings who can penetrate the unknown realm of unreality and faery. Let us cherish and preserve them.
