Author Archives: Eric Williams

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i live on the lithified remains of a cretaceous seaway in austin texas

A Specter is Haunting the Pulps #47: “The Incredible Formula” by Paul Ernst, Amazing Stories, v. 6, n. 3, June 1931

Getting to be nearly that Best of All Seasons (Hallowe’en), so I want to get back into the ol’ pulp strainer world and talk about some neat weird horror…BUT, the previous post about Automata and weird fiction has me still thinkin’ ’bout those ‘bots, and a story I’ve wanted to tackle for a while! Luckily, there’s a real horror element to today’s story, and I think it’ll actually bridge nicely the discussion of automata in weird fiction and the upcoming spook-em-up binge I want to do for October. Plus, as you may have gleaned from the title of this particular post, it’s a good chance to talk labor and Marx in the pulps! So, without further ado: “The Incredible Formula” by Paul Ernst, from the June 1931 issue of Amazing Stories!

Paul Ernst (1899-1985) was, simply put, a workhorse, first in the pulps and then, when that particular world faded away, in the slicks, writing stories well into the 70s for magazines as varied as Redbook, The Saturday Evening Post, Woman’s Home Companion, and Cosmopolitan. As a pulp writer, he was prolific – he published thirty-eight stories in Weird Tales, including a big five-part serial “The Black Monarch” in the 1930s issues of The Unique Magazine. His real specialty, though, was in creating extremely pulpy characters and writing their recurring adventures; he wrote eight “Dr. Satan” stories for Weird Tales (classic “weird menace” style tales from ’35 – ’36), and even more famously went on to create and write, between 1939 and 1944, the twenty four “Avenger” novels (under the house name of Kenneth Robeson) for Street & Smith. “The Avenger” is interesting because, despite being a blatant cash grab by the publishers to bottle the Doc Savage lightning twice, Ernst was a good enough writer to actually make ’em interesting and entertaining. For instance, Ernst gives his weird avenger an actually tragic and compelling backstory – a “child of the depression,” Richard Benson has made a fortune as a globetrotting adventurer, but one day his wife and daughter are murdered by criminals, and the horror of the event transforms Benson, literally. His hair turns white, his eyes become pale and staring, his skin becomes dead and grey, and his facial muscles become paralyzed in a unique fashion, allowing Benson to literally mold his face into any disguise he needs. He vows revenge on all crime, everywhere, and the proceeds to fuck shit up for ne’er-do-wells the world over. (Eventually, his weird appearance and squishy face power gets “fixed” and he returns to normal, though he keeps being a master of disguise albeit of a more mundane variety). Anyway, like I said, Ernst is a good enough writer they’re much better stories than they have any right to be, and if you’re into extremely pulpy adventures in the style of Doc Savage, then they’re worth a read!

But we’re here today for a different story from the vaunted pages of Amazing Stories!

A gorgeous cover this issue – I love that big ass moth! Amazing Stories is one of giants of the pulp era, the first sci-fi pulp and, in many ways, the first real competition that Weird Tales faced, the fallout of which led to the eventual ossification of “science fiction” and “weird tales” as two distinct genres. We’re in 1931, a couple years after founder and titan Hugo Gernsback has bought out and sent off into the wilderness – for now, Amazing Stories is being published by Teck, a MacFadden subsidiary, and overseen by longtime editor T. O’Connor Sloane. Spiritually, though, this is still a strongly Gernsbackian magazine, including an emphasis on sci-fi as an educative or at least “improving” literature. You can see this is the science education editorials they include with every issue; these were (under Gernsback) originally used to justify the magazines existence, a way to show how all these ray-guns and bug-eyed menaces from the stars were, ACTUALLY, instructive literature for the science-minded. This issue’s editorial, written as always by Sloane, is a very strange mishmash of physical geography and extremely poorly reasoned reductive geomorphology about the earth:

As a geologist I felt the need to the include it in this little essay, but it turns out to be mostly a waste of time. What is odd, and what I wanted to throw out to the wider world, is Sloane’s statement in the first paragraph there, about someone “well known to fame” who recently claimed the world is a disc, not round. Anybody know who the fuck he’s talking about? For a minute I thought he might be talkin’ Auguste Piccard, a Swiss physicist who went up in a balloon in 1930 (and in ’31, actually), and famously described the earth’s curvature as a “disc,” but a) he’s not THAT famous, b) he’s not a flat-(or disc-) earther, and c) he went up in a balloon, not on an “extensive trip about the earth.” Anybody know who Sloane is talking about here?

Anyway, let’s dig into the story!

The summary paragraph included in the story is kind of funny; it centers the crux of the tale around a scientist failing to consider the social/political ramifications of his work, which fair enough that is a *part* of what happens here, but in fact there’s a much larger target of Ernst’s ire in this story, as we’ll soon see. I reckon the framing of the paragraph comes out of the the editorial ethos that Amazing Stories is providing not mere escapism but actual important scientific content.

Our story proper begins with a kind of fun framing device:

This is a kind of historical essay, narrated from the distant world of 2514 A.D. where a nameless nation on the Mediterranean is examining its own origins. I like the way they cut Vansom down immediately – he’s important, but not in the sense of having been a Great Man; rather, he was just the fulcrum around which history turned, almost by accident. Apparently, some recently discovered papers written by Vansom are going to shed some light on this “most overwhelming catastrophe.” We begin in the hoary, ancient age of the barbaric 1980s:

Vansom had, per these newly unearthed documents, received a summons to Vienna from his ol’ teacher, Prof. Weinghold. This letter, among the papers, tells us why:

The bell is tolling for ol’ Prof W., and he wants to entrust his last, greatest work in the hands of someone he feels can protect this most incredible of formulae. Unfortunately, the guy he picks is Vansom (as we’ll soon find out). But, anyway, Vansom, after some hemming-and-hawing, realizes he must attend to his former teacher’s (and friend’s) last wishes, and so he zips on over to Vienna, where he meets Weinghold’s factotum/major domo, Rudolph…

…but this Rudolph is strangely changed.

And he doesn’t just look weird…he’s acting odd, too!

Vansom describes how he notices that Rudolph is wearing a small steel-band around his head, which holds a set of headphones; these headphones must’ve been cranked all the way up to 11, because Vansom can hear the loud blast of Weinghold’s voice, ordering Rudolph to bring his guest up immediately. Helluva illness in ol’ Rudy, thinks Vansom, and he’s gone deaf to boot! The order engages Rudolph though, who bows like “a mechanical doll” and leads Vansom up to the study, where we meet ol’ Doc W:

Sounds like somebody needs a ginger ale and some saltines!

Weinghold, speaking into a transmitter, orders the weirdly stiff, slate-faced, utterly silent Rudolph to bring lunch for Vansom, and some egg and milk for himself. Vansom comments on how sad it is to see Rudolph lookin’ like shit and all, which leads Weinghold to make some very gnomic utterances about that indeed. After the meal it’s on with business. Prof W explains that he’s dying of intestinal cancer, and there’s nothing to be done about it; in fact, he’s going to kill himself after this little meeting! And what does he want Vansom for?

It turns out Prof W has discovered a compound (which, in a footnote from the future, out 26th century friends refer to as “ephedrine-X”) that can keep the human heart beating well beyond death! Originally, Weinghold thought that this was the secret to immortality; with a beating heart as the motor, the rest of the bits of the body should be able to function too. But, it turns out:

In a somewhat Herbert West-ian fashion, this injection makes, basically, a zombie – a walking corpse that can move, that obeys commands, but is devoid of intellect or will of its own. Weinghold feels like he’s CLOSE to cracking the problem, that his ephedrine-X is something that, perfected, might be the thing that does, in fact, lead to immortality, but it’s too late for him. He needs Vansom to safeguard it, because it’d be dangerous otherwise. Vansom, honored, agrees, and so he learns, via oral recitation, the secret of the incredible formula.

But then, just as they’re finishing up:

Turns out that zombie-lookin’ motherfucker was a goddamn zombie! This is the inspiration for the single piece of art for this story:

It’s a haunting image; I like the framing of the cadaverous Rudolph against the stark white expanse of the window. It’s also interesting that Rudolph is portrayed as noticeably dark here – in the story, he’s described as slate-colored, very much the pallor of death, but you can dissect this image in a different way, particularly given what we’ve learned. Rudolph could be said to be strangely racialized here, presented as a black servant in his livery; given the fact that we’ve just learned that he’s been effectively enslaved after death, that doesn’t really seem like an accident. Given the year of this story’s publication – 1931 – that seems very possible; the Caribbean voodoo (and zombie) stories of Henry S. Whitehead were beloved fixtures in the pages of Weird Tales by then, in fact he was almost single-handedly responsible for their entry into horror literature. It might be that the artist here, Leo Morey, had internalized that representation. Anyway, it’s worth keeping in mind!

Back to the story: Vansom spends the evening learning more about the details and techniques of ephedrine-X. It has to be administered quickly, within the first seven minutes of death, and it requires continuous reapplication in ever increasing quantities to continue the revivification process. The resultant zombies are mobile, feel no pain, and are capable of work, but totally unintelligent and machine-like; they also have much reduced senses, which is why Rudolph had to be fitted with a set of headphones to scream the transmitted orders into his skull.

And then, Doc W dies, having taken his poison during supper.

Vansom jets back to the states, taking with him a bottle of ephedrine-X, the knowledge of its manufacture and usage, and also Rudolph, which seems quite creepy, actually. It’s here that the far-future narrators cut in, hilariously:

Up to now, we’ve been reading transcripts from Vansom’s papers, unedited and as he wrote them. But now, as we enter the grim and cataclysmic phase of the story, the future narrators cut him off, explaining that he’s unreliable beyond here. What follows then is to be considered the objective history, as best as they could reconstruct it, derived from reading against the grain of Vansom’s own self-serving (and self-absolving) narrative. It’s a fun bit of verisimilitude here, reminding us that we’re reading an interpretation of history based on recently discovered historical material.

Vansom, the historians state, was not as discrete as he should’ve been. Somehow, hints and rumors begin to trickle out, and people begin to believe that Vansom has come into a secret formula that will extend life. The media, more concerned with sales and circulation, begin publishing crazy-ass stories about how ephedrine-X was a miracle drug that had cured hopeless cases, that Vansom’s servant Rudolph was a 104-year old man kept hale and hearty by the drug; they make up quotes that Vansom has claimed that he could live a thousand years if he wanted to.

The country goes bonkers! They want ephedrine X! The scientific community demands answers, fanatics threaten his life, mothers of dying children beg him for his miracle drug. Vansom remains resolute in his promise, however.

That is, until the billionaires get involved:

Vansom meets the devil, and signs the hell up. At first, for a cool ten mil, he sells a description of the effects of ephedrine-X to this twice-over billionaire. And when this billionaire comes back a week later:

I really love that first paragraph – the intoxication of money, and they way its possession has changed Vansom irrevocably is really great, and something that has largely entered the popular consciousness today, the idea of money as this poison that warps a person. It’s fun to think about the fact that again, in this story, we’re now reading the analysis of the primary document of Vansom’s account – you can imagine the twisty, defensive logic Vansom, writing this account after the fact, engages in to try and exculpate himself, and the way the historians have extracted this judgement from that text here for us.

Anyway, this billionaire and his other billionaire friends have formed a Syndicate, and they’re willing to buy the incredible formula from Vansom for a big ol’ sack of fifty millions of dollars.

Boo to Vansom, huh? That line, about how he’d never have been offered a payment like that if it wasn’t worth so much is a pretty great one, a nice indictment of dumb ol’ Vansom. And now the Syndicate has the zombie potion.

At this point, the narrative voice of the historian underlines the fact that we’re about to be presented with the highlights of a well known history:

Ernst very interestingly introduces the then relatively new development in industry from his own time, the rigorous and scientifically-informed advertising:

The Syndicate creates a several floor models of the undead, dispatching the revivified corpses to the cities of the world as part of a public exhibition At first, this seems to be a disastrous PR move; as the story states, the ages-old prejudice against seeing and interacting the dead produced a visceral repugnance at all levels of society. Newspapers, politicians, preachers – everyone condemns these zombies being paraded before them.

That’s an important point – Ernst is still keeping us, alongside the whole world of his story, in the dark as to what the Syndicate’s purpose is with these corpses, exactly. This is by design – the psychologists in the employ of the Syndicate are methodically breaking down what they know to be the kneejerk horror at these zombies piece by piece.

And what, exactly, is the promise of these marvelous, liberatory “Livies?” Why, nothing less than the freedom from work:

The billionaires of the Syndicate KNOW that the Livies represent a total breakdown of what Marx called the social reproduction of labor – they are fundamentally overthrowing the relationship between labor and productivity, the same way that industrialization and modern machinery had overthrown the social and class relationships of the 18th and 19th centuries. Because, obviously, if you’re talking about replacing workers across a huge variety of industries and businesses, then what, exactly is to become of the living workers?

Well, the Syndicate has a deeply sinister answer to this. First, in the section excerpted above, the Syndicate plays that ol’ chestnut of industry – increased automation will mean more leisure for the common man, a freedom from toil and drudgery both in the office and at home! But, of course, the question becomes: if Livies are going to take all of the jobs, what’ll people do to make a living? Oh, the Syndicate has an answer there too:

It’s a good ol’ fashioned buy out! Lose a job to a Livie? No worries, you’re now going to receive half-wages gratis, for no work, for the rest of your life! But wait, there’s more:

There ya go – let’s say you get laid off from the dingus factory because they’re replacing you with a Livy. Well, no worries, because while you’re off the job, you’ll receive, from the Syndicate, half-wages in perpetuity. And what’s that? Your wife is sick, and a kid of yours dies suddenly? Sell those useless bodies to the Syndicate, and get a royalty on those fresh Livies too! Now you’re living on easy street!

Pretty horrific, and at first is seems like everybody agrees. But the Syndicate knows its business:

The Syndicate swarps up a bunch of corpses from the lowest lumpenproles they can find, and use them in their own factories; sure, they pay a premium for the corpses up front at first, but they’re labor costs become negligible, which means they can sell their dinguses for cheaper than the competition. People are mad, there’s all sorts of anger and demonstrations, but the toe is in the door now; labor has been broken.

Supply chains based on cheap goods become dominated by those using Livies, because their goods are the cheapest. Thus, industries became reliant on the Livies, and those that refused to use them faltered or went under; workers, seeing unemployment spreading, demanded their bosses replace them with Livies, as a half-wage for life was better than no wage. By controlling production via their unnatural labor supply, the Syndicate basically takes over.

The Livies become an indispensable part of the economy, and so the Syndicate can afford to lower the cost of corpse-procurement and, rather than selling them, rents the Livies to businesses. Whole service industries spring up around the Livy workforce, and what little reticence there was towards using the living dead as slave labor vanishes as the economy becomes entangled with the Syndicate.

This new era is the total domination of the world by the Syndicate; they come to, basically, own everything, commanding as they do the entirety of the labor force, and with it the mechanisms of the economic life of the planet and everyone on it. Workers in this system become perfectly alienated laborers; they are transformed by death into absolutely efficient non-consumers. The living, meanwhile, exist merely as consumers, eventually transforming their own dead into commodities that they can sell to the Syndicate so they can consume more. It’s grim as hell!

The historical narrative says that things are pretty paradisical for the first twenty years or so (excepting the whole “you might buy a widget from your dead relative down at the shop” thing, I suppose), but then the inevitable happens. With such an iron grip on the economy, the Syndicate starts to tighten the leash in order to make themselves MORE money; hilariously, Ernst lays this blame squarely on the billionaire’s failsons who have inherited their position within the Syndicate, a nice little condemnation of inhereted wealth.

Anyway, these zillionaire scions decide that they need to make more money, so they start reducing the unemployment stipends being paid out to people who aren’t working because of the Livies. They jack up the rental fees of the livies, and proclaim that businesses must accept as many Livies as the Syndicate sells ’em, or else. Finally, they even start slashing the salaries of the PMCs working for the Syndicate, the overseers and administrators and even the chemists who make the miracle drug ephedrine X.

Famine stalks the land; people can’t afford to eat, not with all the jobs taken by Livies and with the stipends slashed. Some people try to go back to work – afterall, Livy rental is now almost as much as a worker’s wage would be. But the Syndicate won’t allow it – they own the police, after all, and use them to break strikes and riots of the living.

And now the stage is set for the last act of the Great Cataclysm.

First, the chemists of the Syndicate, with their salaries slashed, leak the formula, resulting in non-Syndicate Livies which, kind of hilariously, are used in various crimes. Robberies and murders, perpetrated by the undead, are rampant, and even Vansom is killed by a Livie during a break in. The whole social order is breaking down, and people begin to demand restitution and dissolution of the all-powerful Syndicate. Rather than bowing to the demands, the Syndicate declares war on humanity; they recall all their Livies, bringing the world to a screeching halt. The Peoples’ response is a good one (one we today should emulate, I’d say), but it comes too late:

The Syndicate ends up militarizing their Livies and turning them on the living. The undead armies are unstoppable, and the dead of the masses just swell their ranks. Meanwhile, the Syndicate, floating high above the earth in airships, looses hell on earth, bombing cities, sending their armies of the undead against the living until, after five years:

Everyone except for the Syndicate and their family is dead, and the whole world has become theirs. And what’s their relationship to this historical narrative we’ve been reading?

And that’s the end of the Incredible Formula by Paul Ernst!

The ending there *is* a little weak – much better to just leave it grim and hopeless, with the 5000+ assholes and a world of the dead, but from the structure of the story I reckon he had to end it in the fashion that he did – after all, we’re reading a narrative from the year 2500 or whatever about the shit that happened in the late 20th and early 21st century, so we have to have some kind of human civilization to make that work. You can also very plausibly argue that this isn’t really much of a story, per say – after the first few pages of Vansom stuff, there’re no real characters, and the rest of the piece is really more world-building essay than a narrative. And that’s fair! But to me, what’s interesting about this story is the fact that it’s actually a pretty sharp and pretty good Marxist analysis of labor and alienation and industrialization…in a goddamn pulp sci fi mag!

This story in unescapably linked to the Great Depression and presents a pretty scathing analysis of the abuses of capitalism. The Syndicate is as sharp an indictment of the robber barons of the 20th century as it is of the technofascists of today – billionaires who make nothing but who use their wealth to bludgeon the world into a financial fiefdom that they can extract limitless wealth from, all while immiserating everyone else. The Livies are also fascinating, aren’t they? They’re the perfect work – a totally homogenized workforce, perfectly docile, perfectly efficient, and perfectly fungible. One the one hand, they’re a clear stand in for simple industrialization, right? Machinery that we’re promised will increase productivity, but there’s a real incisive commentary here on the OWNERSHIP of that productive machinery – it’s not merely factory owners anymore, it’s huge transnational capitalists that RENT the machinery to other, smaller capitalists. What’s remarkable is how much that applies to the bullshit a.i. slopworld of today, and the vision of the technofascists, down to their ideas of forcing its adoption and a dependency that would provide them, the “owners,” with limitless rents.

I don’t know about Ernst’s politics, but he must’ve been reading (and, more impressively) understanding Marx to write this story. His labor fable of the Livies is remarkably sophisticated – eschewing a simpler “mega-industrialization” narrative, his Livies represent the ultimate alienation of the worker from their labor. Furthermore, he literalizes the capitalists’ dreams of the perfectly fungible worker. The Livy is the transformation of labor into a perfect commodity, so much so that the living are selling their dead (or near dying) to the Syndicate in the story in order to make money.

And how about the living? They don’t come off much better here, do they? Feckless, they’re bought off by consumer luxuries, trading their dignity (and, again, their own family members) for more purchasing power! There’s no solidarity, and the Syndicate gets the Livies into society because the workers can’t stand together; it’s telling that politicians are nowhere to be seen in this story, and that the one brief mention of laws sees them brushed aside as irrelevant. Ernst understands what economic power is, and gives us a good example of how one group (the capitalists) use it effectively in their own interests while another group (the workers) fail to do the same.

As a parable of exploitation and the abuses of capitalism, it’s pretty great! And beyond that, there’s some real good glimpses of horror here – there’re several places where Ernst really dwells on the idea of running into a relative or friend or loved one working behind a counter as a corpse, and the final image of someone being killed in the Last War by their zombified relatives is a grim and ugly one. Honestly, as tired as we are of zombie stories, this isn’t a bad take on the genre, and the simple horror of the undead is magnified by the indifference and cruelty of capitalism – these walking corpses don’t wanna munch on your brains at all, they’re just being ordered to murder you by a middle manager type who is worried about their benefits plan if they lose their job.

It’s also interesting in the context of the last post – automation and automata as a symbol of radically evolving social conditions. Last time I was mostly focused on the scientific (and, therefore, ontological) implications of automata, and how changes in the world of science were reflected in the weirdification of the literature of automata; there’s a similar economic story too, one which takes up the Marxist analysis of material conditions and uses automata as a way to explore class and society and power. And Ernst’s story belongs alongside Asimov’s I, Robot tales in that regard, I think!

Automata in Weird Fiction

To celebrate (and *ahem* advertise) the fact that my short story, “Vaucanson’s Canard,” is available for preorder as an absolutely gorgeous pamphlet from Paradise Editions (with international shipping available from Asterism), I thought I’d write somethin’ up about one of my absolute favorite things ever: automata! And, specifically, automata… in weird fiction!

Vaucanson’s famous automata, include the Shitting Duck!

As a child of the 80s, I reckon my first exposure to automata were those classic dinosaur animatronic exhibits that were all the rage at the time – they used to be everywhere, a part of that era’s dino-mania that would, ultimately, culminate in Jurassic Park. As a paleo-obsessed kid, I recall enjoying the displays, but never in the same way as a fossil mount. The artificiality of them was always front and center, the repetitive clockwork motion of the figures shattering the verisimilitude; they never achieved the awesome dignity of those austere ambassadors from the gulfs of deep time, the actual fossils.

BUT! I have a vivid memory of a display at one of these things where the dinosaur had been stripped of its skin, at least in part, to allow you to see the machinery underneath the rubber, and that was a surprising and fascinating thing to little ol’ Eric. Covered, the thing was stilted and underwhelming, but with its pneumatic skeleton exposed, full of wires and electronics and with the unmuffled mechanism operating loudly, it was a much weirder, much more striking thing! Someone more mechanically inclined might’ve been inspired to a career in engineering, but for me it was all about the frisson of being shown simultaneously the illusion *and* the trick, and it produced a real moment of uncanniness.

The oddity of the simulacrum would be underlined by my evolving reading habits – I was a sci-fi kid, especially of the classic 50s-70s era, and boy if that ain’t a literature chockful o’ robots of all sorts. And, while living in an era of shitty a.i. slop means it’s harder than ever to write fiction about machine intelligence, I’ll never not have a fondness for a good robot story! Luckily, there’s a looooong history of automata to pick from!

Ancient Automata

Before we get into fictional ‘bots, it’s worth examining the long history of automata, real and imagined. There’s a deep history to the fascination people have with mechanisms, wrapped up as it is with ideas about knowledge (technical, secret, or divine), as well as questions of authority, labor and, eventually, life itself. Which means that our look at automata starts with those most introspective weirdos of the ancient world: the Greeks.

The word itself comes from Greek αὐτόματα, meaning “acting of one’s own will.” A subtle but important point – an aspect of these things is that the mechanisms must behave as if (or, among the mythic examples, because they have) their own individual motive impulse, power, and directive; in other words, they must appear to be alive. The earliest examples are in those foundational cornerstones of Western lit, the Illiad and the Odyssey. Homer tells us how Hephaestus, god of Smiths, had built mobile tripods to serve the Gods their ambrosia, and he famously had a gaggle of gold girls who, importantly, were in possession of an artificial intellect and skill that let them help out around the forge. In the Odyssey, we’re introduced to the Metal Dogs of Alcinous, gifts from Hephaestus to the King of the Phaeacians to help guard his palace.

It’s all good and well that a divine being like ol’ Festus there can create gold girlbots and robo-dogs, but there is also in the Odyssey at least one example of human(ish)-made automata. When doomed Alcinous is offering to help Odysseus get back home, he explains how their marvelous ships operate independently, without pilot or rudder; rather, the boats “understand” what it is their passengers want, reacting at the speed of thought, and are themselves aware of every city and port and can travel the various sea routes to get to them in a single day. These boats are not gifts from the gods; they’re manufactured right there by Phaeacians (who, admittedly, are descended from semi-divine giants). This seems like an important distinction: sure, the Gods can of course manufacture wonders, but if you have the skill and knowledge, you too can make these living (or at least, life-like) machines.

I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention Talos, one of the most famous examples of an automaton from Greek mythology, immortalized by divine wondersmith Ray Harryhausen (who could make inanimate matter appear to behave as if alive) in Jason and the Argonauts:

It’s super cool looking, a great part of a great movie, but I do have to point out that the tradition of Talos being a robot (and, actually, a giant) is not the whole story. In the earliest work in which he appears (the Argonautica of Apollonius, from ~3rd c. BCE), Talos is actually the last surviving member of the warlike Bronze Race who came before the current Iron Age people. It’s actually pretty eldritch when you think about it – an alien being from a lost world, the last of his kind, killable only through sorcery. It isn’t until a much later version of the story (from the 2nd century CE) that a writer says Talos was given to Minos by Hephaestus, suggesting that he was manufactured by the god.

These fantastical automata are fascinating, because they actually illustrate an important function of the whole idea of “automata” within the societies imagining them. There’s actually a really interesting literature out there about how these stories, a species of “science fiction” in the ancient world if you want to call it that, were received and how they influenced the history of technology in the Hellenistic world; it’s beyond the scope of this little free-form essay I’m writing, but there’s a great paper by Martin Devecka (“Did the Greeks Believe in their Robots” 2013, the Cambridge Classics Journal v.59) that makes the argument that these conceptual robots were an important part of the Greek world view, used to explore questions of work and slavery and contrast the world as it was with an idealized utopia. This is the same argument Aristotle made, by the way, and which Marx commented on in Capital v. 1; per Aristotle:

If every tool, when summoned, or even of its own accord, could do the work that befits it, just as the creations of Daedalus moved of themselves, or the tripods of Hephaestus went of their own accord to their sacred work, if the weavers’ shuttles were to weave of themselves, then there would be no need either of apprentices for the master workers, or of slaves for the lords.

(Marx, of course, disagreed with this rosy techno-positivist assessment, pointing out how “labor-saving devices” just resulted in more work for the worker, as demonstrated by the industrial revolution merely expanding the working day in the name of ever-increasing productivity).

Grecian mechanical knowledge was not merely mythic, of course; there were a lot of very advanced, very technically adroit thinkers working in the Hellenistic world, producing some really remarkable things. Ctesibius, a mathematician and engineer from 2nd c. BCE Ptolemaic Egypt is said to have basically invented pneumatics and hydraulics for use in things as widely divergent as pipe organs and water clocks; none of his work survivors, but he was a huge influence on later Greek mechanists, including Hero of Alexandria (1st or 2nd c. CE) who, in addition to inventing a rudimentary steam engine, also wrote a treatise on automata as wonders, describing robots that poured wine at banquets or that could be used in theatrical productions. He also documented and described automata for religious festivals, including a robotic Dionysius that was at the center of a major religious festival; this suggests that not only were his automata luxury objects for the parties of the rich, but that they existed in the public/civic/religious sphere as well, which is fascinating! Hero’s writing, which did survive, was later enormously influential on early modern European machinists.

A 1589 edition of Hero of Alexandria’s book “About Automata”

Ancient Greek automata, if not necessarily common, seemed to be a least extremely well known. There’re a number of Greco-Roman travel writers who described the wonders of Greek robots, including descriptions of the city of Rhodes that makes it sound like an animatronic park – moving statues on every corner, mechanical fountains, water clocks, a kind of ancient world steampunk scene (sans steam, of course). The fame of Greek automata builders extended beyond the Mediterranean, too – there’s a tradition in northern India that the secrets of robot-building were stolen from the Greeks, brought home, and used to build an army of automata to guard the relics of Buddha (admittedly, most scholars believe this story arose out of Middle Eastern or Islamic sources in the middle ages, but still!)

The idea and, in some cases, literal existence of automata in the ancient world is an important predecessor to both the technical and conceptual developments of later ages; it lays the foundation for both the science and literature of subsequent life-like mechanisms. The technical writing on automata was preserved in Arabic and Persian sources, and would influence both the development of mechanical wonders in those cultures as well as become an important part of the Exoticizing Orientalism of later Western concepts of the “Mysterious East.” And, even if Europe lost access to the mechanical knowledge and skills of the ancient Greek artificers, there remained a thread of automata throughout their literature – the Alexander Romances, medieval retellings of the life of Alexander the Great liberally spiced-up with all kinds of fantastical elements, included a number of encounters with deadly automata, both human- and beast-like.

But what’s interesting is how, even where the ancient Greeks were musing on the social ramifications of automata in the workshop, there’s nothing really “weird” about them, you know what I mean? To use Todorov’s terminology, even when these automata are presented as killer robots built by mysterious artificers with secret knowledge, they largely remain merely “marvelous,” remarkable and possibly unique, but not *outside* the bounds of the world, as it were. It isn’t until much later, with the development of Enlightenment ideas about bodies and nature, that automata become uncanny.

The Uncanny Machine

Automata become weird when they stop merely mimicking life and start being mistaken for it. This blurring between the biological and the mechanical can only occur when you abandon the idea of some divine or numinous attribute, unique to life, that categorically and irrevocably separates life from non-life. In other words, when bodies begin to be conceived of as mechanisms, then mechanisms can begin to become bodies. In seventeenth century Europe, the development of modern science, with its rationalist approach to observation and experimentation, resulted in a new, mechanistic view of the world. And if planets revolved under the operation of physical laws and matter behaved with chemical predictability, then there must be sensical laws fundamental to the operation of the body too!

That’s actually a pretty radical idea, if you think about it. There had been theories of the body before, of course, and while we’re quick to scoff at humors and bleedings, they were a part of a largely consistent (if poorly informed) theoretical structure of how bodies were believed to work. But as medical and biological knowledge grew, guided by new techniques and instruments of experimentation and observation, a model began to form that analogized the human body with the operation of a mechanism. In particular, thinkers like Descartes and William Harvey explored the operation of the heart and its role in circulating blood, providing an important step forward in the material understanding of the operation of animal (and, by analogy, human) bodies. Descartes explicitly referred to the “animal-machine,” and used it as the basis for a new framework for life.

Hearts as pumps, lungs as bellows, eyes as lenses…and then it’s a short step to minds as material things, isn’t it? While we’re familiar with the Creationists’ argument about the Divine Watchmaker, it’s important to recognize that that rhetorical gambit only came about well into the 19th Century, when religion had had to cede so much territory to science already. In the 17th and 18th centuries, the Church (meaning all of Western Religion) was much less enthusiastic about all this mechanistic talk BECAUSE it seemed to remove God from the equation – after all, if bodies become explicable through purely material, mechanistic processes, then there’s no real reason to invoke the divine, is there?

(As an aside, if you’re interested in the topic of the development of this bio-mechanistic world view, including the role of automata in its development, I’d strongly recommend Jessica Riskin’s “The Restless Clock: A History of the Centuries-Long Argument over What Makes Living Things Tick” from the University of Chicago Press. It’s great!)

It was into this brave new world of men and machines that Jacques Vaucanson (the honorific “de” would be added later, in recognition of his achievements) was born in 1709. The tenth son of a glovemaker, Jacques was sent to study with the Jacobins in Grenoble and joined the Order of the Minims in Lyon as a young man; it was here that he learned the math, natural philosophy, and engineering that would serve him through his life. He left the Minims after his first attempt at automata was met with hostility, and he travelled to Paris to pursue his studies in mechanics. He learned anatomy from Claude-Nicolas Le Cat, a famous surgeon of the day, and developed a keen interest in the mechanical operation of the body from his lectures.

At the time, there was a bit of a fad around automata in Europe, though they were often displayed as toys or wonders of novel engineering, rather than as anything scholarly or profound. Vaucanson, however, envisioned the development of a machine that would mimic not merely the actions of a living being, but the processes too. His first famous automaton was a flute-player which he built in 1737. Rather than appearing to play the flute, the figure ACTUALLY played it, with a convoluted throat architecture that relied on a complex system of pumps to generate the differing air pressures necessary to change octaves on the flute. Furthermore, the figure actually pressed its fingers against the holes of the flute to play the notes it was programmed with; in order to achieve the necessary pliability, Vaucanson actually clothed the automaton’s hands in skin. This was no toy; scholars viewed it as a remarkable (and instructive) model of how a human being could play music, and an important lesson in circulation, breath regulation, and coordination. Indeed, the failings of the mechanism were even discussed as instructive, with an emphasis on how the subtle muscles of the lips and mouth must likewise operate.

Vaucanson’s interest in attacking the question of biological processes via analogy to engineering explains his most famous automaton (and the inspiration behind my little story): his famous “Digesting Duck.”

The Duck in the 1800s

This little guy was, simply, a small mechanical duck that dabbled around in a small pool, flicked its feathers, flapped its wings, ate corn from peoples’ hands…and then shat it out afterwards in neat, green little plops. And people fuckin’ LOVED it.

It’s easy to laugh about (because it IS kind of goofy), but people thought this was the most amazing thing they’d ever seen. Voltaire called it one of France’s singular contributions to the world, and it was discussed and written about all; Poe even discussed it in his essay “Maelzal’s Chess Player” (which is mostly about an exhibition of the famous “Turk” chess playing automaton). Why so much excitement over a shitting duck robot? Because, it was believed, Vaucanson had solved one of the truly great mysteries of life: digestion.

Think about it; people obviously knew you had to eat to live, but what exactly happened to the food once you mashed it up with your teeth and swallowed it down your gullet? How did it sustain life, and why was it eliminated from the body as waste? These are huge, fundamental questions about life, and here comes little Jacques Vaucanson with his shitting duck, apparently in possession of this remarkable secret.

Vaucanson positioned his duck as an instructive example of his scholarly knowledge on the subject; interestingly, much like the dinosaur I mentioned way back at the beginning of this little essay, Vaucanson’s Duck was presented naked, unfeathered and with (some of) the mechanisms visible, as a way of demonstrating both the subtly of his mechanical skill as well as the transparency of the operation. What was NOT visible, of course, was the way this “digestion” took place; this was because it was all a trick. Vaucanson would preload his duck with a mashed up lump of breadcrumbs soaked in green dye, which the duck would produce in the course of its normal operation.

In my opinion, I don’t think Vaucanson was really trying to pull one over on people – I think he probably really thought that he could, EVENTUALLY, figure this whole digestion thing out with more time and more effort. In this scenario, the Shitting Duck is a place holder for future work, a kind of mock up prototype or early draft that defined the problem without offering a solution. Just my two sous on the subject, of course.

In my story (available here!) I use this history, and the historical fascination with automata as models for understanding life, to push on the idea of Vaucanson’s little trick, and explore to what further (and extreme) ends it might have been deployed. Fantastical as it may be, it’s not too far off, because Vaucanson’s work with the duck was recognized as revolutionary; he was awarded a role as the inspector of silk works for France, a position that provided him ample funds and influence to pursue other work. These included an early prototype of the punch-card driven automated loom (which, 50 years after his death and perfected by Jacquard, would become a major part of the industrial revolution). He also invented the lathe, the “tool for making other tools” that was likewise of incredible importance in the history of technology. Finally, he also received a commission from the King of France to see if he couldn’t build an automaton that would mimic the circulation of blood in veins and arteries, which would lead Vaucanson to basically invent rubber tubing. All in all, the slightly skewed events of my story don’t seem that much out of character!

In many ways, it’s Vaucanson’s work, most especially with the duck, that changes the way automata are thought about and discussed. Before him, they were amusing if complex toys, clever feats of engineering to be sure, but not objects of existential contemplation. After Vaucanson, the question of what can and cannot be considered alive becomes something that can be asked and discussed; this is why Von Kempelen’s chess-playing automaton The Turk (built in 1770, long after Vaucanson’s Duck) became such a sensation. Von Kempelen never claimed that it actually “played” chess, nor did any of its later exhibitors, but people couldn’t help but look at it performing a complex, seemingly intellectual task, and ask “what is it To Think?” While the Turk, much like the Duck, is little more than a sophisticated side-show gaff, it forced people to confront the uncertainly around the division of life from non-life, and that’s when things can get weird!

Weird Automata in Fiction

The first modern weird automaton appears in the work of E.T.A. Hoffmann (1776-1822). Now, Hoffmann wasn’t the first modern writer to use automata in their fiction; François-Félix Nogaret had some in his “Le Miroir des événements actuels” from 1770, though they were of a much more “marvelous” sort than weird and menacing. But Hoffmann was the first writer to really understand and approach automata as objects steeped in uncertainty and ambiguity, and because of this, he’s had a prominent role in the literature since.

Hoffmann is an absolute favorite of mine; I think he was one of the rare authentic geniuses out there, a really epochal talent whose work radically changed the literary landscape. He had an enormous influence on Poe, actually, who read him in translation and who, on several occasions, explicitly tried to wrest outré literature out from under the shadow of German “phantasy.” In the preface of his Tales of the Grotesque and Arabesque (1840), Poe wrote:

I am led to think that it is the prevalence of the Arabesque in my serious tales which has induced one or two of my critics to tax me, in all friendliness, with what they have been pleased to call Germanism and gloom. The charge is in bad taste and the grounds of the accusation have not been sufficiently considered. Let us admit for the moment that the “phantasy pieces” now given are Germanic or what not. But the truth is that with a single exception there is no one of the stories in which the scholar should recognize the distinctive features of that species of pseudo-horror which we are taught to call Germanic for no better reason than that some of the secondary names of German literature have become identified with its folly. If in many of my productions terror has been the thesis, I maintain that terror is not of Germany, but of the soul.

To my eye, there’s a bit of protesting too much here from little Eddie Poe, but regardless I think we can very much see how, in 1840, the world of “phantasy” literature was dominated by German writers, including (and certainly at the top of the list), Hoffmann. And a dive into his automata stories shows why!

Hoffmann’s first automata story is, appropriately enough, titled “The Automata” (“Die Automate” auf Deutsch), which actually name drops Vaucanson and his pipe-playing robot. The story, first published in 1814 and later collected in “The Serapion Brotherhood,” is a fascinating piece, dealing directly with that very dynamic moment of epistemological revolution in science that we were talking about above. It’s a nested tale about a bunch of sensitive, educated German bros hanging out, investigating and arguing over the various different and new Ways of Knowing Things, basically. They’re introduced trying to use their Willpower to force a ring suspended on a string between them to move, and they go on to discuss the aesthetical implications of supernaturalism afterwards via an odd and portentous ghost story. It’s written with that classic Hoffmannian verve, simultaneously funny and mysterious.

The third nested tale is where we’re introduced to the titular automata. One of these Deutscher Bros, by the name of Theodore, has a fragment of a story he’s been working on and which he shares. It’s the tale of a group of German college bros (sensing a theme?) who go to visit a mysterious, marvelous robot being displayed in town, “the Talking Turk.” Now, this Turk (clearly inspired by von Kempelen’s chess-playing robot) is a kind of oracular automaton. People come up, whisper a question in its ear, and then the Turk speaks an answer back. This advice depends, of course, on the question; banal queries receive banal answers, but when prompted the Turk has become famous for seemingly possessing knowledge it cannot otherwise have had, and for having a deep and probing wisdom to boot! In fact, there’s an implication that the mechanism of the Turk is so finely tuned and expertly adjusted that it is able to access supernatural realms of knowledge – in effect, its machine brain is better than an organic one at using psychic power!

There’s a love story and a mysterious (and menacing) professor involved, and there is no real ending because, diegetically, it is a fragment of a story, but there’s a real sense of oddness and mystery about the Turk and the Professor and the Singing Woman, and a kind of brooding doom that is never resolved – it’s spectacular writing (come on, it’s Hoffmann) but the relevant thing is that Hoffmann is using the story to really explore what we now call “the uncanny valley.” First off, he has one character express his disgust at the idea of simulacra:

“All figures of this sort,” said Lewis, “which can scarcely ne said to counterfeit humanity so much as to travesty it – mere images of living death or inanimate life – are most distasteful to me. […] When I see the staring, lifeless, glassy eyes […] I feel disposed to cry with Macbeth ‘Thou hast no speculation in those eyes/ Which thou dost glare with.’ […] it is the oppressive sense of being in the presence of something unnatural and gruesome; and what I detest most of all is the mechanical imitation of human motions…”

I’ve excerpted the above from a much longer passage, but Hoffmann is really laying out a vision of the unsettling experience of seeing something that is almost-but-not-quite-right; he’s articulating one of the absolute cornerstones of modern horror, and he’s doing it with automata as the exemplars of this terrible eeriness in a story from 1814!

What’s ALSO amazing is how, again in 1814, Hoffmann is articulating a very modern anti-AI perspective in the voice of one of his characters:

“All that machine music…makes every bone in my body ache. I am sure I don not know when I shall get over it! The fact that any human being’s doing anything in association with those lifeless figures which counterfeit the appearance and movements of humanity has always, to me, something fearful, unnatural, and may I say terrible, about it. I suppose it would be possible, by means of certain mechanical arrangements inside them, to construct automata which would dance, and then to set them to dance with human beings, and twist and turn about in all sorts of figures; so that we should have a living man putting his arms about a lifeless partner of wood, and whirling round and round with her, or rather it. Could you look at such a sight, for an instant, without horror?”

(I’ll pause here to send you to another remarkable pamphlet, also available at Paradise Editions, that includes an essay by the inimitable Heinrich von Kleist, translated by Matthew Spencer, that offers an interesting counterpoint to this argument! You can even get it as part of an “AUTOMATON BUNDLE” from them!)

Hoffmann, via his character Lewis, continues expressing the anti-AI argument with a point that gets to the nub of much of the artistic arguments against slop today:

“The gravest reproach you can make to a musician is that he plays without expression; because, by so doing he is marring the whole essence of the matter. Yet the coldest and most unfeeling executant will always be far in advance of the most perfect machines. For it is impossible that any impulse whatever from the inner man shall not, even for a moment, animate his rendering; whereas, in the case of a machine, no such impulse can ever do so. The attempts of mechanicians to imitate[…] the human organs in the production of musical sounds […] I consider tantamount to a declaration of war against the spiritual element in music. […] I infinitely prefer the commonest barrel-organ, in which the mechanical attempts nothing but to be mechanical, to Vaucanson’s flute player, or the harmonica girl.”

As you can see, it’s a rich text…and it’s not even the only time Hoffmann talks about automata! Hoffman’s remarkable 1816 story “The Sandman” has an automaton that helps drive a man mad. Famously, this is the story that Freud addressed in his famous essay “The Uncanny,” citing an earlier paper by another German head-shrinker who described the unnatural and unsettling nature of Hoffmann’s girlbot Olimpia. (Freud, interestingly, actually argues that there’s nothing uncanny about Olimpia because there’s no ambiguity about her status as robot in the story. He, for obvious reasons, preferred to focus on Nathaniel’s childhood trauma.) I don’t want this to turn into a Hoffmann lovefest, so I’ll just recommend you read everything that Hoffmann ever wrote, or at least what’s been translated if you’re a monolingual dummy like me, because it really is foundational to both weird horror and science fiction (as well as being remarkable literature on its own).

There’re other important automata stories in the history of weird lit too. Auguste Villiers de l’Isle-Adam’s “L’Ève future” (“Tomorrow’s Eve” in the English translation) from 1880 is a very strange, very interesting, and very misogynistic piece of work; it’s notable for including Thomas fuckin’ Edison as a character, joining the ranks of Hoffmann’s Professor X______ and Mary Shelley’s Dr. Frankenstein as mysterious creator-figures in these kinds of stories. In particular, there’s a very unsettling part of Villiers de I’sle-Adam’s novel where Edison basically vivisects a fembot, very much akin to the kind of surgical presentations of Vaucanson’s day (which I included in my story), as well as a striking example of the unsettling effect a robot can have on our categories of life and what is acceptable to do to a living being. This is also importantly a story about sex and gender and reproductive roles, something that is always flitting around the edge of any robot tale, even when it’s not explicitly acknowledged.

Jerome K. Jerome, one of my favorite writers of all time, wrote what we’d call a weird story about an automaton on 1893, one that actually reflects on the “dancing partner” section in Hoffmann’s “The Automata.” It could’ve been inspired by Jerome having read it, for all I know; after all, he set his sequel to Three Men in a Boat in Germany, and his family hosted a famous Hungarian general (who certainly would’ve spoke German), so it’s possible he’d read Hoffmann. Anyway, JKJ’s story, “The Dancing Partner” is a fun “the dangers of automation” tale, but I think there’s some real uncanniness in story, particularly in the climax, when the robot is whirling its partner madly around the dance floor.

Leaping to 1899, another automaton story worthy of your consideration is “Moxon’s Master” by good ol’ Ambrose Bierce. This story opens with the line “Do you really believe machines can think?” and proceeds to not only explore “thinking” in the form of chess-playing, but also whether machines can feel and hate as well. It’s a fun, grim little tale, classic Bierce all around!

In those heady days before the ossification of genre, you can see the fun way automata let writers use both horror and wonder in their stories. The uncanniness of automata let writers unite terror and supernaturalism with the breakneck pace of science and technology, a powerful set of lenses to bring to bear on the world. As genre was born in the pages of the pulps, and science fiction became separated from weird fiction, there’s a little bit of a custody battle over robots that, ultimately, finds them slotted in with Sci-Fi.

However, before all that got locked in, Weird Tales was actually trying to make an argument that “pseudo-scientific stories” belonged in *their* pages, and so we do occasionally run across an automaton tale in the magazine. One of these that I think is worth mentioning is Edmond Hamilton’s “The Metal Giants” from the December 1926 issue of Weird Tales.

Hamilton is an interesting character, one of the most prolific writers in Weird Tales who went on to become one of the early masters of big, bombastic space opera style sci-fi. He was popular with readers, though his style is often a bit affected for our modern tastes. But his origins in the pages of the Unique Magazine were something he never forgot – in even his most nuts-and-bolts sci fi stories there’s often a hint of cosmicism and weirdness in there somewhere.

And in “The Metal Giants” Hamilton really lands on something strange and interesting, I think. While the story is about giant robots, the real weird science aspect of the story is in the creation of the thing’s BRAIN. The inventor, some schmuck named Detmold, creates a totally artificial brain, and it’s here that Hamilton really lands on a fun bit of alien-ness. The brain, while obviously vastly intelligent, is totally inhuman and cannot truly communicate with us. The incommensurability of our evolved (and, Hamilton states, ensouled) brains with a machine, no matter how complex, is a really interesting idea, and not really one you see much of in sci-fi. Super potent A.I.s in sci-fi are often archly supercilious and capable of ridiculously powerful feats of intellect, sure, but they’re almost always portrayed as human-like, at least superficially. We can communicate with them, at least; not so here, where Detmold’s artificial brain is truly, awfully alien. It of course goes rogue and there’s lots of gee-whiz action, but the core of Hamilton’s story, about a machine brain being something fundamentally inhuman, is a really fun, interesting idea.

We’ve been explicitly talking about mechanical robots here, but in the realm of weird fiction there’s another class of artificial beings that are worth mentioning: the non-mechanical. There’s Frankenstein’s monster, a hugely influential figure in the literature, but there’s also Karel Capek’s R.U.R. to contend with; Capek invents the word “robot” in its modern usage, but his robots are biological, artificial beings built via the industrialized production of synthetic body parts. Perhaps most important, though, is the theme of revolt of the enslaved, artificial underclass, in the course of which the slave masters are actually rendered extinct by those they had brutally created for lives of drudgery and oppression. That sounds familiar, eh? Ever hear tell of a shoggoth?

I’m not sure Lovecraft read Capek, though it is possible he was at least familiar with the play – it was pretty famous, and by 1923 it had had a pretty successful and well-publicized run in translation in North America. But there is ANOTHER automaton that we KNOW Lovecraft appreciated…Gustav Meyrink’s THE GOLEM! Now, Lovecraft hadn’t read it by the time he wrote “At the Mountains of Madness,” but he HAD seen the movie in 1921 or so. What’s interesting is that the movie “Golem” is pretty different from Meyrink’s novel (which Lovecraft LOVED when he got to read it in ’35); the movie is much more of a monster flick, with a literal artificially created thing at the center of the story that, ultimately, revolts and causes all kinds of havoc in the Prague ghetto.

Of course, labor actions and violent revolt were pretty major stories of Lovecraft’s day – he looked with horror on the Bolshevik revolution in Russia, and was famously deeply offended by the social upheaval and implied violent unrest brought around by foreign workers moving into New England’s industrial towns, so his shoggoths and their eventual revolt are undoubtably sourced from lots of things. But it is interesting to note that they are, basically, automata – as presented, they’re biological robots, and one of their core functions is explicitly imitative (as wonderfully expressed by their piping “tekeli-li” sounds). Lovecraft even approaches some of the same questions that the previously mentioned automata do; it’s implied that all native life on earth came about as a result of these shoggoths, forcing us to confront questions of authenticity and “realness” as a species. In that, shoggoths are fulfilling the same rhetorical function as Hoffman’s Olimpia, Bierce’s Chess-Playing Robot, or Vaucanson’s shitting duck.

Conclusion

Well, this has gone on for a while, hasn’t it? That’s the danger (and pleasure) of free writing, I suppose. But I think automata are a topic worthy of even long-winded, meandering discussion. When I wrote Vaucanson’s Canard (what’s that? why yes, it IS available for preorder from Paradise Editions!) I was scratchin’ an itch I’d had for a while about ol’ Jacques and his weird duck machine, but the more I thought and read about it, the more I realized that there’s a lot to unpack about these mechanisms. Their place in the history of science and technology (and medicine) is a fascinating one, but they also represent important symbols of industrial automation and the role of people in both labor AND creation. There’re questions of agency and aesthetics and economics and, honestly, even metaphysics wrapped up in their clockwork bodies, and they’re worthy of serious study and contemplation.

In terms of the history of weird fiction, I think they’re as important a figure as the Vampire, for instance – Hoffmann’s automata mark a change in the world of the weird, and are as good a place as any to pin the invention of the unsettled, uncanny, uncertain type of horror that typifies one flavor of the modern genre. And, of course, their influence on science fiction goes without saying – the uses that writers like Dick or Asimov put their automata redefined the genre and changed forever the way speculative fiction approached questions of life and materiality and creation.

Finally, in these dark days of A.I. slop, there’s a lot to be learned from automatons both literary and literal. In a lot of ways, there’s something reflective of our own times in contemplating a mechanical duck presented as a wonder of the age that would revolutionize our world…but that is really just shitting out some secretly pre-loaded crap.

Robert E. Howard and Evolution

Having returned from Robert E. Howard Days up in Cross Plains, TX (where I was nominated for but did not win The Hyrkanian award, ah, c’est le awards), I find the ol’ skull is all a-swirl with a lot of REH/S&S these days. I’ll try and space it out (and maybe save some for my annual S&S celebration time around the Yule), but I think I’ve got to exorcise SOME of it now, so today I’d like to talk about a bit of science that undergirds Robert E. Howard’s fiction: evolution.

This was inspired by the 1998 REH biopic THE WHOLE WIDE WORLD, which was screened at REH Days, and which includes a very strange exchange between Howard (played extremely D’Onofriolly by Vincent D’Onofrio) and Novalyne Price (played extremely cute-as-a-buttonly by Renee Zellweger). The scene in question occurs at around the 53 minute mark or so (you can see it right here). The two lovebirds have just had a picnic where Howard tells Novalyne that his mom thinks she must have some “Indian blood” in her, maybe as much as “half Indian.” Novalyne, confused and amused, asks why Howard’s mom had thought that. There’s a cut and the two of them are in the car, with REH taking up the topic:

HOWARD: It’s the shape of your face. Do you know how much Indian blood you have?

PRICE: None that I know of –

HOWARD: I bet you got a drop or two. We are human because our ancestors were human. That’s the one thing that persuades me that the Bible was right. I can imagine a lot of things, but I can’t imagine Man was once a monkey.

Now, there’s a lot of bonkers-ass shit to unpack in that short exchange! Setting aside (for the moment) the weird interest in race and miscegenation (one of Howard’s favorite topics in his fiction), the fact that the movie has Howard say that a) he believes in a biblically informed divine origin for humanity and b) the he “can’t imagine Man was once a monkey” is absolutely crazy, something totally incommensurate with both his fiction as well as many statements in his letters to different people.

When I got back home, I broke out my copy of Novalyne Price Ellis’s One Who Walked Alone, her memoir of her couple-o-years-long relationship with REH, written in 1986 and the source for much of the movie. Perhaps, I thought, the movie had invented the exchange for some strange reason? Afterall, coming out in ’98, the movie would’ve been right smack in the middle of one of the big Creationist waves that periodically sweep this benighted nation – perhaps they’d felt the need to situate Howard, a southerner through and through, within a comfortable southern archetype? But, there on page 150 of my copy of the book (the edition w/ Renee Zellweger on the cover), was the exact lines:

Again: this is insane. There is no possible way to reconcile this statement, that REH was a bible-believin’ Creationist, with the fiction he wrote, where the centrality of evolution is key, not merely to the biological nature of individuals, but to whole civilizations and cultures! Similarly, it is contracted directly by his own words in his letters! So let’s take a look!

The first and most obvious counterexample in REH’s fiction is in the Conan story “Rogues in the House.” This was published in the January 1934 issue of Weird Tales, so it appeared not that far in time from when the weird exchange in the movie is supposed to have happened. In it, Conan is engaged by a patriotic rebel to help kill the vile Red Priest Nabonidus (who is, basically, the scheming and clever Cardinal Richelieu from “The Three Musketeers”). In the course of infiltrating his death-trap of a house, they learn that something is amiss – one of Nabonidus’s servants, an ape-man named Thak, has taken over the compound, dressing in his robes and using his crude but effective knowledge of the various death-dealing mechanisms in the house to kill all comers. When the heroes get their first good look at Thak (via a series of complex mirrors), we get introduced to Thak’s history by the Red Priest:

Later, when Murilo, the rebel instigator, gets a good, long look at Thak’s face, Howard takes the opportunity to further underline the proto-humaness of Thak:

Thak is explicitly portrayed as part of a chain of beings leading progressively towards a kind of archetypal humanity, one that furthermore (and most horribly) suggests to Murilo that humans themselves had experienced just such a stage of life in the distant past. Howard revisits Thak’s fundamental and evolutionarily-informed idea of “human-ness” in the climactic battle between Conan and the ape-man, making sure we understand that this is not merely an ape, but a sentient being close to our own “kind.”

Let us pause briefly to admire Frazetta’s portrayal of this fight in one of his inimitable paintings:

Badass.

The important thing about Thak is that he is explicitly positioned within an evolutionary context – Nabonidus, while certainly a villain, is also portrayed as a deeply and indeed uniquely profound thinker for his age, and we are meant to take his insights into the evolutionary history and potential of Thak at face value. Furthermore, Thak’s ambitions, his wearing of the robe, and his usurpation of Nabonidus in his own home are not mere apings; rather, Thak is possessed of a sense of self and of others that is human-like, a result of his heritage as a kind of developmentally and evolutionarily intermediate man-ape.

This interest in evolution and the deep history of humans in geological time isn’t anything new for lil’ Bobby Howard either – way back in 1925, his very first professionally published story in Weird Tales (“Spear and Fang”) was all about the conflict between Cro-Magnon and Neanderthals. There is no room within a strict, fundamentalist worldview for different members of the genus Homo to be waging war on one another. Interestingly, for all its eventual violence, the story begins with a Cro Magnon character making cave paintings of extinct animals, a scene placing art, an aesthetic sensibility, and an appreciation of beauty explicitly within an evolutionary framework. But, like so many of Howard’s ancient wildernesses, this is no Edenic garden; it’s a savage and brutal landscape where violence and survival are the engines of evolution.

Indeed, over and over again, Howard portrays the past as a grim evolutionary climb, calling out specifically the rise from apedom to semi-apedom and, eventually, full humanity. In fact, taking cues from both contemporary geological literature as well as esoteric theories of human history, Howard makes these events explicitly cyclical – Kull’s Atlanteans rise from apehood into their barbaric splendor, only to be hurled back again down the evolutionary ladder by their Age’s terminal cataclysm; slowly they rise to become fully human again in the fullness of geological time where, it is implied, they become the Cimmerians. Bran Mak Morn’s Picts are likewise a people with a long and troubled past that stretches into prehistory, and Atla, the were-woman of Dagon Moor, explicitly tells Bran that the Worms of the Earth could’ve been people, were very nearly human in fact, when the Picts drove them back into atavism and subterranean degeneracy. This sort of evolutionary thinking is integral to Howard’s fiction, both mechanically as part of plots as well as conceptually, as something key to his worldview.

Howard’s exposure to evolutionary thinking can be traced from two sources. The first is in the books he owned and which, on his death, were donated to the Howard Payne University library by his father. This collection, originally something approaching 300 books, was eventually taken out of special collections and put into general circulation, the result being that there are now less than 50 or so actual books left due to loss, theft, etc. However, a group of dedicated workers over the years have put together the original accession list and chased down references in Howard’s letters, meaning we now have a pretty decent idea of the books available to REH in his home. For more on this incredible work (including a handy history), and to peruse the book list, check out The Robert E. Howard Booklist!

To cut to the chase there’s one book in particular that is extremely relevant on the list: E. A. Allen’s The Prehistoric World or, Vanished Races originally published in 1885. It’s an odd and interesting book, actually; Allen, while an obscure writer now, was a prolific popularizer of natural history, with a particular interest in anthropology and ethnography. The book that Howard owned is a helluva doorstop, 800 pages or so, that begins in prehistory and moves through the iron age in Europe before leaping over to the Americas, with chapters on the Mound Builders, on the Nahua, on the Maya, etc. It’s a remarkably interesting historical document, a snapshot of both the broadly consensus natural history scholarship of the day as well as the then popular “stadial” version of anthropology (a decidedly progressivist and positivist framework that placed “civilizations” in a developmental hierarchy; guess what sort of people were on the top?). Honestly, I suspect this books is enormously important to a lot of Howard’s thinking and writing, but I want to focus on the second chapter “Early Geological Periods.”

This chapter is a kind of speed run through geology and paleontology, giving the reader a thumbnail of 1880s vintage earth science. There’s some great bits in there, especially if you’re interested in the history of geology – this is, after all, a pre plate tectonics world, and so there are some amusing gaps in both the interpretations and the detailed stories. However, this book IS firmly post Darwin (Origin of the Species was published in 1859). That means evolution is front and center:

Like I said, there’s some fun goofy stuff in there – the old-ass taxonomic term “Quadrumana,” a paleobiogeography that predates the Out of Africa model of human origins, and the to-us-now shocking attempts to extend the presence humans back to the Miocene! (just for context, Allen’s work of course predates radiometric dating [it predates the discovery of radiation, in fact] so they’re using a relative chronostratigraphic approach; even so, a Miocene origin is wild! The Miocene *ended* ~5 million years ago, and the oldest extant example of the genus Homo is 2 million years old!) But this section is interesting when compared to the “Rogues in the House” excerpt. Here, a Miocene primate is explicitly stated to have made “a nearer approach to man than any other monkey,” which sounds very much like what Nabonidus said of Thak. Later in the passage Allen refers to a “highly organized genus” (meaning “evolutionarily advanced”) of ape as living in the Edenic Europe of the Miocene. Non-humans “ascending” towards humanness in the fathomless depths of time – this is extremely REH’s bag, you know?

It’s a bit too much to get into now (though it’s a topic I’ll definitely be returning to in the future) but there’s another relevant library in the Howard household that bears on this discussion – his dad’s bonkers collection of esoterica! That Howard was familiar with at least a popular gloss of Theosophical concepts is obvious from his work; the ideas of cyclical catastrophes, of the struggle of “root races” to ascend the ladder of progress over and over again, these concepts out of Theosophy are probably just as important as his understanding of geology and biology. Of course, the reality is that the Theosophists were actually responding to the science of day, drawing their myths and mysticism out of the mid-19th century scientific milieu the same as Allen (and everyone else). Geological catastrophism, deep time, sinking and rising lands (like Lemuria!), comparative religion, all of these ideas were taken out of their scientific and scholarly context and massaged into a new mystical quasi-religion, one that Howard’s dad was EXTREMELY well read in. But that’s for another post!

Leaving the Howards’ libraries behind, there’s an even more direct source for REH’s views on evolution we can tap: his letters! Thanks to the tireless effort of a bunch of editors, we’ve got an embarrassment of riches when it comes to the letters of REH. And, given the voluminousness of his correspondence, there’s a lot to choose from! Let’s hit a big one right away:

Let us consider the insect Man. How many specimens of this creature are willing to believe that they came from the same root stem as the elephant, the garter snake and the leopard? No, they must have a special creative act, a special Divine process to account for their godlike beings – bah, either Haeckel’s right and there is no such thing as a “soul” in the accepted sense or else everything has a soul, whether organic or inorganic. Let the theologians seek to refute the theory of spontaneous generation all they wish – I admit it is rather difficult to grasp in a cosmological sense, but biologically speaking, the scientific world has as a whole, I think, accepted the unicellular theory as a positive fact. The facts boiled down are these: theology must accept evolution both in ontogeny and in phylogeny if it accepts geology.

REH to Tevis Clyde Smith, March 1928, The Collected Letters of Robert E. Howard, volume 1: 1923-1929, Rob Roehm and John Bullard (eds)

That’s a pretty definitive statement, and one completely antithetical to the quote from the movie. Howard is 100% rejecting a special creation for humanity (and, indeed, for all of life). The “spontaneous generation” he’s referencing is not the “flies from meat” thing you might’ve heard about, but rather the idea of life originating on its own from inorganic matter via natural processes in the deep past. This, in particular, was one of Haeckel’s (many) research interests – taking up a topic that Darwin himself had not dealt with, he posited that highly organized but inorganic matter (like crystals) may have given rise to simple organic life, the “unicellular theory” REH mentions later. Howard is also explicitly rejecting biblical authority on theological matters in this letter too – theologians have to reckon with Haeckel’s biogenic law as well as the reality of Deep Time, rather than the other way around!

The prominence of Haeckel in Howard’s thinking is fascinating, and it’s something I’d never appreciated until I read his letters. He’s easily the biologist most mentioned by REH, and he seems to have seriously engaged with ol’ Ernst pretty heavily at some point (though, in a later letter to Lovecraft, he admits that he’d forgotten a lot of about the details of his work). Presumably, his exposure to Haeckel was in school, where Howard was part of a “science course” which, presumably, operated as a kind of theme or special focus in his curricula. It’s striking the effect it must’ve had on Howard; Haeckel comes up a lot (alongside famous scientific racist Herbert Spencer), whereas Darwin is mentioned only once…in a list of people who have “grasped the cosmic” that also includes Haeckel and Spencer and Huxley. What’s interesting in particular is that in addition to Haeckel’s biological and evolutionary work (he was a major popularizer of Darwin), REH seems enamored of Haeckel’s strange brand of monism, which provides a kind of romantic and pantheistic underpinning to the natural world (in opposition to a strictly materialist view). This same kind of vaguely mystical biology is something also seen in Herbert Spencer, another of REH’s favorite thinkers – he in particular seems to enjoy Spencer’s ideas of the “Ultimate Unknowable,” which much like Haeckel leaves room for some sort of ineffable energy or drive behind the mechanical operation of the universe and life.

Of course, the other things that Howard undoubtably took from both Haeckel and Spencer were their scientific racism and polygenism. Both men were, like many people of the age, eugenicists; Spencer, who as mentioned above was name-checked by REH a lot in his letters, originated the term and idea of “Social Darwinism;” he also coined the term “survival of the fittest,” an obvious and important part of Howard’s philosophy and ethos. Additionally, Haeckel was a vocal and powerful proponent of scientific polygenism, the idea that the various human races arose separately from different ancestors and at different times. In fact, part of Haeckel’s theories about the origins of life, the “spontaneous generation” mentioned in the letter, was that life itself was potentially polygenetic, having arisen multiple times out of inorganic matter on earth. While REH never outright states his support for polygenist views in his letters, the idea is clearly present in his fiction – there are multiple examples of different “races” rising up out of semi-apedom into humanity in his essay “The Hyborian Age,” for example, and the idea is implicit in the way he writes about Thak and the Worms of the Earth. It’s probably also a part of his horror of miscegenation: Howard clearly believes that there is something fundamentally biologically wrong with race-mixing, in addition to the moral decadence that he felt it represented.

It’s worth taking a look at Haeckel’s visual representation of this idea, because it’s a subtle but important point that illustrates REH’s thinking. The below figure is a portion of a plate from the English translation of one of Haeckel’s books, his 1879 Evolution of Man:

A few things are worth noting here: first, the placement of MAN atop the tree, crowning the progressive hierarchy implicit in the history of life. More important, however, is the very subtle way Haeckel conveys his idea that the human races arise out of different ancestors. A forking branch proceeds from APE-MEN, with single branches leading to GIBBON, ORANG, etc. But then look at the MULTIPLE BRANCHES (six of them!) leading into MAN. Like I said, it’s a subtle but very important point with some extremely unpleasant implications, namely that the various races of humans represent distinct biological species arising out of a common ape-man ancestor. It’s foul stuff, but it’s also recognizable as a very common belief among people in Howard’s time, and within Howard’s work; put “Cimmerian,” “Stygian,” “Hyborian,” etc on each of those branches and you’ve got a good representation of Howard’s ideas.

Another letter, this one part of the interminable HPL-REH Civilization-vs-Barbarism running gun battle that they had for years and years, interestingly provides some insight into Howard’s opinion of religious anti-evolutionists. The context of this short excerpt from their (unending and tedious) argument focuses on HPL’s view that REH doesn’t hold artistic endeavors in as high of esteem as he should. Regardless, the relevant section is interesting as regards our topic here today:

Between the fundamental religionist who goes into foaming rages over the idea of evolution, because he can not stand the thought of kinship with a monkey, and the artists who strains his guts to prove his distance from the protozoa, I see no basic difference; both seem outcroppings of the idea concerning the divinity of man.

REH to HPL, September or October 1933, letter 259, The Collected Letters of Robert E. Howard Volume 3: 1933-1936, Rob Roehm and John Bullard (eds)

It’s a pretty funny statement; I love to imagine a tortured poète maudit weeping over the need to distinguish themselves from protists in the eyes of the posterity. But it’s also a helluva rejoinder to the weird statement from Novalyne’s memoir and in the movie, isn’t it?

One last letter excerpt, because they’re fun and more people need to read ’em! This one is from a letter to August Derleth, and in addition to its relevance to our discussion here, it is also one of those great examples of REH really playing up rurality for his non-western interlocutors:

A friend of mine was trapping once […] He thought he had a muskrat and climbed carelessly up and stuck his head over the ledge, and there was a skunk in the trap and it let him have a full volley smack in the face […] My friend fell off the ledge with an ear-splitting shriek and rolled on the ground for some time after the exact fashion of a hound-dog […] Nobody could doubt evolution after watching the antics of a man who has just been slapped in the mush by a polecat.

REH to August Derleth, July 4 1935, letter 319, The Collected Letters of Robert E. Howard Volume 3: 1933-1936, Rob Roehm and John Bullard (eds)

In addition to just being a funny story, it also shows how, even beyond the eugenicist background of his thinking, Howard’s worldview (and his fiction) was founded on an philosophical framework of what was “natural,” a view informed strongly by a belief in evolution. There’s also present the idea that this “naturalness” reflects the fundamental biological order of the world – a man, for all his sophistication, is no different than a dog when confronted with the same problem (of getting their shit rocked by a pissed-off skunk). There’s really no way to imagine Robert E. Howard without a belief in evolution – the idea is as central to his work and worldview as it is for Lovecraft, and having him question it in the movie (rejecting it in favor of the bible even!) is truly bizarre!

So what’s going in Novalyne Price Ellis’s memoir, One Who Walked Alone and the movie it inspired? Well, there’re a few options, I reckon:

1 – Novalyne Price made it up whole cloth. It’s a possibility, certainly – as described by Bobby Derie the creation of One Who Walked Alone remains opaque, with the author dead and her notes and materials unavailable, leaving us merely with the book. A key motive for Price writing it was to counter negative portrayals of Howard; perhaps she felt a definitive statement of belief in the Bible was important (including a statement of Creationist faith) and so inserted it into the narrative. As far as I can tell, we don’t know anything specific about Novalyne Price’s religious leanings, though she does write about attending church and believing in God (and in everyone’s right to worship God in whatever way they see fit) in the book. But who knows? An older Southern lady writing in the late 70s-80s, she very easily could’ve held Creationist beliefs, and decided to put REH in the camp of the angels. Without access to her diaries and journals, we’ll never know! But this is clearly the very darkest option – it puts her memoirs, as a source of sincere recollection, into *very* shaky, shady territory!

2 – Novalyne Price misunderstood/misinterpreted something REH had said. Reading Price suggests (to me at least) that she *thought* she understood REH better than she actually did. There’re numerous places in the book where she seems to be confused by what is, plainly, REH making a joke or poking fun or being ironical. Additionally, Howard could clearly be kind of a combative asshole, picking at people or arguing for argument’s sake. The exchange in the book is actually a good deal more contentious than is presented in the movie; Howard, at least to my reading, absolutely understands that his mother was talking shit about Novalyne, and he’s getting a kick needling her and watching her reaction (a very common thing in the book). If so, the odd statement about the bible and creationism becomes legible as just more of REH’s situational weirdness, where he’s trying to offer biblical support for his position, knowing that it’d annoy her.

3 – REH said it because he thought it was something Novalyne wanted to hear. Like I said, the discussion around miscegenation that REH and Price are having is a bit of a strange, heated one. Maybe Howard wanted to change the subject, or in the moment felt like he was offering an olive branch by claiming to be a bible-believer (something clearly important to Price, from sections elsewhere in the book). It would mean he was straight up lying of course, since his letters seem to make his position very clear. Also, it’d be an odd moment of him backing down too; he seemed to love scrapin’ and arguin’ with Novalyne in particular!

4 – REH said it because he believed it. The weirdest and hardest-to-swallow option, but there it is. We contain multitudes, and maybe Howard had had a strange religious epiphany. I knew a devout Mormon paleontologist who described his life this way: six days of the week, he believed in evolution and geochronology and the fossil record, but on Sunday, he didn’t. Maybe Howard separated himself from his work like that, though that seems extremely unlikely given the whole “he put a bit of himself into everything he wrote” paean from Lovecraft and all. It’s again also a statement completely at odds with his own words, both fictional and in his letters!

As to which one it is, who the Hell knows? What I think is very certain, however, is that contrary to the statement reported by Price, Howard absolutely believed in evolution. In particular, the concept was central to his whole world view, both in his life and in his work. This is not to say that he had no religion; the scientists from whom he had drawn his understanding of evolution, Ernst Haeckel and Herbert Spencer, were themselves certainly not atheists; both of them believed in a kind of pantheistic drive that, while operating within the realm of the mundane and through the laws of biology and physics, nonetheless held something of wonder and, if not divine, then at least something more-than-mechanistic about it. Given his father’s own unusual religious milieu, something like that, a combination of Haeckelean monism with pop Theosophy, makes a lot of sense. Afterall, Jesus was an Ascended Master in a lot of New Age religious movements, so there’s even room for a (nondenominational) kind of appreciation for the Bible in there.

What there ISN’T room for is creationism – time and time again, the centrality of evolution to Howard’s writing is made abundantly clear. The battle between Cro Magnon and Neanderthal at the dawn of human history, the punctuated cataclysms of Howard’s Atlantis and Hyboria, the aspirational evolutionism of Thak and the thwarted phylogenetics of the Worms of the Earth, all of these are just as much evidence for Howard’s deep commitment to the reality of evolution as are his literal statements of the same in his letters.

Short Introductory Texts for Radicalizing People

It is abundantly clear that the good ol’ U.S. of A. needs to be totally and irrevocably destroyed; this has been true for 250 years, but now, with a genocidal white nationalist empowered by the most feckless cowards in world history at the helm, the simple truth of that fact seems to be dimly, faintly, tremulously beginning to shine through the cracks for even the most obdurate, blinkered, knuckleheaded citizen of this moronic, evil country. There are real historical resonances between us and late 19th/early 20th C. Tsarist Russia, I think – an absolutely oblivious political class, insane wealth disparity, cultural and economic collapse on the horizon are the most obvious, but another similarity must be the anxiety and frustration felt by those who, recognizing the evil, cannot see what there is to do about it.

This floundering uncertainty was certainly being felt by the Russian activists and revolutionaries, because ol’ Lenin himself wrote a pretty great (in parts) long essay on the problem, “What Is To Be Done?” The whole point of this pamphlet was that there was a definite crisis looming, in fact they were in one right then, and yet the path forward was not clear, and it was not obvious what actions should be taken to hasten the radical reshaping of society. Importantly, this pamphlet was written in 1901, a major period of reaction and oppression in tsarist Russia, and a long way from the heady days of 1917-1918. So how does ol’ Vlad answer the question he poses in the title? What, exactly, is to be done?

I’ve written about it before (back when Trump was reelected) but the thing that I like about this essay is that Lenin is very clear-headed – the goal of all revolutionaries is the same, regardless of the conditions around them: degrade the power of the oppressor. The means to achieving this, of course, change depending on the conditions, and the conditions that Lenin faced in the early 20th C and that we are confronting in our own 21st century are the same – we are scattered, disorganized, atomized, while the evil pricks are the ones holding all the power. So, with this in mind, Lenin sez that what is to be done is to increase the political consciousness of socialism among people, pushing the verboten discussion of revolutionary anti-capitalism out of the shadows and into the light of the public sphere. Propagandize! I’m a firm believer that you’ve gotta wear your anti-capitalism on your sleeve, unapologetically and openly. There’s no room for milquetoast appeasement of dumbass centrists or rat-faced neolibs – you have to take the fight to them, because the only thing to do now is to make socialism (in whatever flavor you want) an out-and-proud political identity.

We’ve made baby steps in that direction, but because actual anti-capitalist Leftists have refused to push it, we’re basically letting a few wishy-washy DSA types stand in for actual Left political thought in this country. One reason for that, I think, is because a specter is haunting our public politics; the specter of the dreaded Marxist Study Group. You know the scene (you might’ve even participated in it): a bunch of frustrated people trying to slog their way through Capital, worried about deriving the use-value of a bolt of cloth in labor-hours.

That’s not particularly useful propaganda, I think. Don’t get me wrong, everyone absolutely should read Capital (esp the Third Volume, where all the fun soil science is), but it’s not at all the way to take one’s first steps on the Path to Enlightenment. What’s needed are short, punchy, and fairly direct documents that quickly and clearly make the argument for anti-capitalism and anti-imperialism. So, off the top of my head, I put together a short list of some of my favorite short (or short-ish) essays/pamphlets, with links. If you have any that you love or that you think I missed, let me know – I feel like a nice centralized resource like this is a good thing to have and, in this moment when Trump is baring for all to see the horrors of Capitalism and Imperialism, these documents can be a nice wedge to help crack the shell of people who might not have ever envisioned anything different as being possible!

Anarchism

Capital, Technology, and Proletariat by Miguel Amorós

The Capitalist System by Michail Bakunin

Anarchism: Past and Present by Murray Bookchin

Anarchism: What it Really Stands For by Emma Goldman (Chapter 1 from her volume of collected essays)

Are You an Anarchist? The Answer May Surprise You! by David Graeber

Anarchism: Its Philosophy and Ideals by Peter Kropotkin

An Anarchist Programme by Errico Malatesta

An Anarchist on Anarchism by Elisee Reclus

“Anarchism” by George Woodcock

Marxism

Draft of a Communist Confession of Faith by Frederick Engels

Wage Labor and Capital by Karl Marx and Frederick Engels

The Communist Manifesto by Karl Marx and Frederick Engels

An Introduction to Marx’s Theory of Alienation by Judy Cox

Revolution

What Is To Be Done? by V.I. Lenin (you should absolutely read Chapter 3, though the first three chapters all together are great…feel free to ignore the long last chapter on Russian newspapers, though)

The Political Socialists by Ricardo Flores Magón

Art and Socialism by William Morris

The Meaning of Socialism by William Morris and the Executive Council of the SDF

Imperialism and the Task of the Proletariat by Anton Pannekoek

The Struggle Against Fascism by Klara Zetkin

Further, Longer Reading (Book length texts, for when you’ve read the above pamphlets and essays!)

What is Communist Anarchism? by Alexander Berkman

Strike! by Jeremy Brecher

The End of Anarchism? by Luigi Galleani

The Conquest of Bread by Peter Kropotkin

The Great French Revolution 1789-1793 by Peter Kropotkin

Imperialism, the Highest Stage of Capitalism by V.I. Lenin

Wobblies and Zapatistas: Conversations on Anarchism, Marxism and Radical History by Staughton Lynd & Andrej Grubacic

The Eighteenth Brumaire of Louis Bonaparte by Karl Marx

Critique of the Gotha Program by Karl Marx

The Revolution of Everyday Life by Raoul Vaneigem

The Unknown Revolution 1917-1921 by Volin

Cthulhu, quo vadis? Cosmic Horror and the 21st century

Now all my tales are based on the fundamental premise that common human laws and interests and emotions have no validity or significance in the vast cosmos-at-large.

H.P. Lovecraft to Farnsworth Wright, July 5 1927

Only at a dread of dark

Quaver, and they quit their form:

Thousand eyeballs under hoods

Have you by the hair.

Enter these enchanted woods,

You who dare.

“The Woods of Westermaine” by George Meredith (1883)

H.P. Lovecraft inaugurated a revolution in modern imaginative fiction when he articulated, in stories, essays, and letters, the philosophical underpinning of his cosmic approach to horror. In perhaps his most autobiographically informed story, “The Silver Key,” Lovecraft wrote that “the blind cosmos grinds aimlessly on from nothing to something and from something back to nothing again, neither heeding nor knowing the wishes or existence of the minds that flicker for a second now and then in the darkness.[1]” This was indeed the key to Lovecraft’s concept of weird fiction, where the horror of a tale arises not from rank supernaturalism or mere physical danger, but from the revelation that the anthropocentric view of the world, with human beings crowned in the center of creation, is not merely mistaken, but actively delusional.

This radical decentering of humanity was a favored “punchline” in many of his stories: humans are revealed to be merely the accidental byproduct of Elder Thing bioengineering in “The Mountains of Madness;” the vanity of human supremacy is punctured by the reproductive machinations of the Deep Ones in “The Shadow over Innsmouth;” the presumed permanence of human civilization is shown to be a mere footnote in the vast sweep of the biological history of Earth in “The Shadow Out of Time;” even our ability to physically comprehend the universe is questioned in “The Colour Out of Space.” In these and other stories, Lovecraft uses the abjectification of humans as the shocking denouement of his weird fiction.

Part and parcel with this is Lovecraft’s twisting of the very idea of the ineffable march of progress. Crawford Tillinghast in “From Beyond” has created a machine that exposes the deeper but otherwise invisible reality of nature, revealing a maddening world of alien existences beyond the ability of our paltry senses to perceive. More to the point, in the famous opening to “The Call of Cthulhu,” Lovecraft completely inverts the positivist narrative of early 20th century science and technology; rather than advancing human knowledge and prosperity,

The sciences, each straining in its own direction, have hitherto harmed us little; but some day the piecing together of dissociated knowledge will open up such terrifying vistas of reality, and of our frightful position therein, that we shall either go mad from the revelation or flee from the deadly light into the peace and safety of a new dark age.[2]

In fact, Lovecraft’s “cosmic indifference” relies on the idea that an increasing knowledge base, whether individually or socially, inevitably overturns the comfortable fiction of the primacy and permanence of humanity.

These two concepts, an indifferent universe in which humanity is menaced by vast forces beyond their comprehension and a world in which the inevitable progress of human knowledge is an existential threat to humanity, represent the major aesthetic and thematic development in horror literature in the early 20th century. Lovecraft’s articulation of them is not entirely sui generis of course (he himself acknowledged his debt to his literary antecedents), but his work is unique in its almost single-minded exploration of what has come to be called “cosmicism.” More to the point, Lovecraft’s popularity, initially as a beloved cult writer but, more recently, as an important figure that has influenced both literary[3] and popular culture[4], has ensured that cosmic horror has become a part of the zeitgeist.

From the perspective of early 20th century America, the aesthetic pleasure and transgressive appeal of cosmicism as a philosophy of horror is evident; it toyed nicely with the very real fear that the grand American experiment was not as unassailable and inevitable as it seemed. It titillated readers by undermining the placidly bourgeois status quo with the threat of displacement by the alien Other, with miscegenation, and with the possibility that the universe was not as neatly Panglossian as all that. In this way, Lovecraft’s cosmic horror simply (though extremely) extrapolated from the conclusions of contemporary science. The realization of the depths of Deep Time in Earth’s history, the identification of extinction as a biological possibility for any species, the Darwinian revolution, and finally the discovery of a whole world of invisible energy and effects in the form of radiation – all of these things factually decentered humanity, making them subject to nature rather than its overlord and highlighting our smallness and fragility.

For cosmic horror’s decentering to be shocking and transgressive, however, it requires first that humans be assumed to be at the center – this is how the revelation of cosmic indifference can function as the frightful climax of a story. In Lovecraft’s milieu of the early 20th century this was indeed the case, with a popular status quo best be described as broadly anthropocentric and positivist.

But in the 21st Century, do these same assumptions exist? And if not, if the wider cultural understanding of humans now is that they have already been decentered, what does that mean for our concept of cosmic horror?

After all, it’s not much of a dark epiphany to state that human beings are small animals in an uncaring world – that’s the lived experience of the 21st century, reinforced daily. Humanity is existentially threatened by maddeningly complex forces that operate on scales we can scarcely conceive. Climate change, pandemics, capitalism; all of these threats represent as profound a reordering of humanity’s relationship to the world around them as anything Lovecraft ever wrote. The primary revelation of cosmicism, that humans are not special and that the universe will not shepherd them safely through danger, is simply the fundamental background noise of day-to-day life. Any real person believing otherwise strikes us as delusional, and it’s laughable to imagine a horror protagonist beginning from a place of such naivety, such that the shattering of that illusion is merely corrective, rather than shocking or transgressive.

Similarly, cosmic horror’s “piecing together” of knowledge into a starkly and bleakly apocalyptic whole seems quaint and ridiculously optimistic in a world of commodified corporatized science, slashed funding for research, a “post-fact” media landscape, and the hallucinogenic world of venture capitalist A.I. schemes. The popular median view of technological “progress” is purely declensionist now[5], with information technology in particular subject to decay, collapse, and abuse. “Reality” is popularly understood to be illusory and malleable, subject to the whims of unknowable and inscrutable forces; similarly, the conspiracism inherent in cosmic horror, with cultists and cabals manipulating events from the shadows, has taken on a very different valence in the 21st century.

Additionally, the very idea of scholarly inquiry into the bleeding edge of human knowledge has been made laughable by recent history. Cosmic horror is built on a world of expertise and specialist knowledge, something under attack in the 21st century. The High Energy Physics Lab at Miskatonic would undoubtably have shut down due to federal funding cuts, while the college administration would probably be investigating the Forbidden Books Department of the Henry Armitage Memorial Library for “radical leftist” DEI practices.

From a thematic perspective, therefore, it is difficult to see what “cosmic horror” in the 21st could even mean. What cosmic revelation is there left to make about humanity, after all? That said, the aesthetics of cosmic horror are definitely going strong – tentacular horrors from other dimensions and cults communing with alien intelligences abound in the literature and have escaped into other genres, like science fiction, fantasy (where secondary worlds may still need decentering), and even literary fiction (see, for example, Thomas Pynchon’s brief but memorable evocation of an alien horror in the tunnels under Montauk in Bleeding Edge).

Within the larger horror genre, the interest in “folk horror” can be seen as partaking of cosmic aesthetics; the countryside is a liminal territory, the folkways of the natives are transformed into ancient rites, animals and plants are twisted and altered. Jeff VanderMeer’s Southern Reach novels are an interesting example of the new ends to which cosmic horror aesthetics can be put – the skewed and altered reality within Area X is as strange as the alien architecture of R’lyeh. Interestingly, the radical decentering of humans (to the point of excision) from Area X suggests a sort of “optimistic” cosmicism, a kind of reading only possible under anthropogenic climate derangement; the removal of humans and the restoration of a (new and alien) “natural” order becomes a comforting corrective to human-caused ecological degradation.

This subversion of cosmicism, where very human evils are countered by the restoration of a natural (or more natural) order is an interesting development in 21st century horror. Many works use the aesthetics of cosmic horror while inverting its themes. For example, P. Djèlí Clark’s Ring Shout uses classic cosmic horror concepts (extradimensional horrors that feed and infect humans and are served by a cult) to explore themes of marginalized identities and resistance. N.K. Jemisin’s The City We Became was written, as per the author, to explicitly explore the history and influence of Lovecraft’s cosmic horror (and his racism) on the genre. In it, an embodied avatar of the extradimensional city of R’lyeh wages a war of gentrification on the communities of New York; tentacles, fungal corruption, and skittering things make numerous appearances. What unifies these (and other) works of modern cosmic horror is that, contrary to the older traditions of the genre, they actually radically recenter humanity, not in a solipsistic way, but rather restoratively, affirming the importance of identity and community in the face of hegemonic cosmic hate.

This is an interesting development, and one that is, actually, anticipated (albeit obliquely) by Lovecraft. In an often overlooked section of “The Call of Cthulhu,” the cultist Castro explains that the time for Cthulhu’s return will be patently evident, for then humans “would have become as the Great Old Ones; free and wild and beyond good and evil, with laws and morals thrown aside and all men shouting and killing and revelling in joy.”[6] Lovecraft here leaves open the way a narrative can enfold human activity within cosmic horror, as Clark or Jemisin have ably done.

Another commonly encountered aspect of modern cosmic horror is the aesthetic deployment of surreality and uncertainty within a work. John Langan, Brian Evenson, and Laird Barron are exemplars of this, making excellent use of the vast and suggestive unknowable in their work, something Lovecraft himself often did to great effect. What differs in the 21st century is, again, the fact that there is no need to decenter the human via incomprehensible and indifferent cosmic weirdness; that is the understood precondition of the modern-day human being. Rather, for these contemporary cosmicists, it is the aesthetic of unknowing that becomes centered, the way people (either as characters or readers) cannot confront meaningfully the alien logic at work. While this is certainly allied to the older expression of cosmic horror, it actually recenters the human and their faculties of apprehension as the site of the uncanny. In other words, it is fundamentally about the trauma of experiencing cosmic horror, rather than the cosmic horror of knowing your experiences don’t fundamentally matter; there is actually very little uncertainty in Lovecraft, for example, where the clarity of the horrific revelation is clear and hard as a diamond for both characters and readers.

The question to ask then is: does the strict, “classic” flavor of cosmic horror still have any relevance or power to startle today? For example, actually existing A.I. has rendered robo-centric science fiction suspect, at least for now; have our constant confrontations with existential crises done the same for cosmic horror? With apologies to Adorno, is it barbaric to write cosmic horror in the 21st century?

I personally hope not. Cosmic horror is an explicitly epistemological literature, a particularly worthy approach these days, it seems to me. Horror as a genre often tries to justify itself as a literature with particular power to comment on the world around us, and the origins of cosmic horror surely illustrate that. But the nature of our epistemologies have, perhaps, changed – if the cosmicism of the early 20th century found horror in the decentering of humanity, where does that leave those of us ontologically decentered in the 21st century? What is the epistemic horror inherent in a modern cosmicism?           

An approach centered around the horror of uncertainty is a dead end, I think – perfectly pleasurable, but hardly revelatory. After all, Heisenbergian indeterminacy has been a potent metaphor in cosmic horror since Lovecraft’s day, where it underlined the breakdown of the comfortably quotidian Newtonian mechanics that underpins our illusion of a stable, “real” world. There is nothing horrific about uncertainty today, if only because it’s become so banal; there’s nothing new or startling in our confronting it. Actually, the breakdown of concrete reality can be seen now as a kind of consolatory epiphany, the revolt of messy and vital organicism against mechanistic and dehumanizing systems, a cri de Coeur that history (and therefore life) has not ended. Uncertainty and unsettlement can be read as an almost heroic epistemology (something common in the New Weird, for example). This is laudable and makes for good literature, but it is the antithesis of horror.

If, as I’ve argued, the baseline understanding of the human condition is one of tininess and powerlessness in the face of vast, incomprehensible forces beyond our understanding, is there horror to be mined from embracing it? In other words, rather than being frightened by the vast indifference of the universe, perhaps modern cosmicism reflects the horror of people becoming like the Great Old Ones, living only to kill and take pleasure? That’s certainly one of the true horrors of our times now, the gleefulness with which some people embrace the degradation of humanity for capitalism and oppression. That’s a subtle but important difference, I think – in other words, it’s not the indifference of the cosmos that’s behind the horror, it’s the way a human can wholeheartedly cast off their own humanity to become a part of that indifference[7]. Cthulhu, then, isn’t the problem – it’s his cultists, human beings who have made a decision, that are the real source of cosmic horror today. But, as I write that, I’m confronted by the fact again that this seems to be recentering humanity, making human agency the source of horror, something totally antithetical to cosmicism.

Maybe, then, the cosmic horror moment has passed? There was a brief time where the positivist anthropocentrism of western culture and the scientific materialist worldview were both equally strong enough to create a kind of horrific frisson, but now that’s long gone, with no hope of ever really recapturing it. We can play with the elements of cosmicism, the nostalgic fun of tentacles from beyond and all that, but it will never have the immediacy or excitement or vitality that it did in the early 20th century. Horror is, simply, different now, dealing with different things in different ways, and maybe it’s time we made that break with the past explicit?


[1] “The Silver Key” H.P. Lovecraft, Weird Tales, v. 13, no. 1, 1929, p. 42.

[2] “The Call of Cthulhu,” H.P. Lovecraft, Weird Tales, v.11, n.2, 1928, p. 159.

[3] Borges dedicated his story “There Are More Things” to Lovecraft, for instance, and Joyce Carol Oates has edited a collection of his fiction; similarly, critical appraisals of his work have become something of a minor academic industry.

[4] The existence of plush “Cthulhus” would be enough to make this point, but Lovecraft’s influence on science fiction, fantasy, comics, movies, cartoons, and games is well documented. See, for example, Mark Jones’s 2013 essay “Tentacles and Teeth: The Lovecraftian Being in Popular Culture.”

[5] Merriam-Webster enshrining “enshittification” in the official English lexicon, for example.

[6] “The Call of Cthulhu,” H.P. Lovecraft, Weird Tales, v.11, n.2, 1928, p. 170.

[7] A great recent example of this kind of horror, of humans making themselves like the cruelly indifferent cosmos, is Mariana Enriquez’s Our Share of Night (tr. Megan McDowell, 2023).

The Pulp Carts #46: “The Milk Carts” by Violet A. Methley, Weird Tales, v.19 n.3, March 1932

Spring has sprung, at least down here in Texas; in fact, there might not be much more of it, since we’re looking at some mid-90s later this week. Regardless, this is one of the lovelier times in these parts, with everything green and flowering, so I thought I’d take a break from work and write up a short, fun, outdoorsy and landscape-o-centric bit of Weird Fic from the March 1932 issue of Weird Tales. Our story today is “The Milk Carts” by Violet Methley!

Methley is an interesting if enigmatical figure. Not much in the way of biographical information on her out there, despite being a fairly prolific and apparently popular writer of children’s adventure novels. At least some of her output was what we’d now consider “weird” – in addition to a couple of short stories appearing in Weird Tales she also wrote a novel about a bunch of Australian schoolgirls hunting for Bunyips. But she must’ve been a fairly versatile writer with wide-ranging interests, because her first published book was a biography of the journalist, revolutionary, and friend-of-Robespierre Camille Desmoulins, which is kind of wild. She’s English, though, and was born in Kent in the late 1800s, a relevant bit of information for this story, I think.

As for this issue of Weird Tales:

Good ol’ C.C. Senf doing the cover, based on the Kirk Mashburn story “The Vengeance of Ixmal,” one of the countless Aztec/Mayan (they played fast and loose with the definition) stories that appeared during the great flowering of interest in Central and South American archeology/history in the 20s-50s. Good example of the lurid exoticism inherent in a lot of these stories, where well-meaning but stupid anglos end up getting menaced by swarthy religious zealots with a mania for liturgical heart extraction.

The ToC is kind of interesting this month:

Some CAS and Quinn on here, they’re what you’d call the Heavy Hitters, and some REH verse too. A solid if unspectacular offering, I’d say, perfectly middle-of-the-road. It’s always good to see the reprint series still going strong, though if you’ll indulge me a minute, I’d like to point out some kind of silly things about this version of Dumas’ werewolf novel. First off, check out this little footnote which has a remarkable density of incorrect things in it:

First off, Le Meneur de Loups was NOT written by Alexandre Dumas fils, but by Alexandre Dumas pere, he of Three Musketeers and Count of Monte Cristo fame (among others). Strange to see Weird Tales get that wrong, especially since the editor here is Farnsworth Wright, who spoke, read, and translated French fluently and was familiar with classic French literature. Another thing that’s wrong about it is the claim that this was the first English translation of the work – it was translated in the 1904 in England! In fact, despite some light editing by Wright himself (and the inclusion of the summaries), the version in Weird Tales IS that translation, by Alfred Allison, though of course the translator is never named or acknowledged! Makes me wonder if the errors aren’t some way to help elide the fact that Wright and Weird Tales almost certainly didn’t pay to publish this translation. Ah well, c’est le pulps!

Anyway, enough perfidy! On to “The Milk Carts!”

We’re well in the back of the magazine, without any illustrations or ornamentation for these (often shorter) stories. A decent summary too, without too much in the way of a spoiler or anything, so that’s good.

A nice, economical beginning – two guys in those baggy, classic golf pants are tromping around the great outdoors. One of them is Seton Croft, golf-course architect, and he’s busy writing notes and making measurements, all with an eye towards turning this stretch of green turf (owned by the bluff fellow who we’ll learn is named Scayles) into a premiere bit o’ golfing!

In particular, it seems like this spot, where these two have stopped and agreed to begin work, is ideal for what Croft is envisioning:

There’s a damn Roman encampment in the middle of these downs! I mentioned earlier that the author, Violet Methly, was born in Kent, and there’s clearly a bit o’ the Kentish countryside in this story, a place rich in Roman history; the initial Roman invasion of Britain started in Kent, and it was always one of the the strongest points of its far-flung colony. It’s a landscape with a deep history that is still visible today!

Anyway, Croft’s golf course musings are interrupted rudely!

I’m a sucker for landscape descriptions, and that’s a particularly nice bit of work about these wheel-track furrows, I think – “the soft skin of the turf” ripped down to “the flesh and bone of chalk and rock beneath” is really good. In particular, I think it really nicely captures Croft’s view of the situation – after all, it’s just some wheel-ruts in the downs, not exactly an open-pit mine or anything, you know? But for Croft, this landscape must be adhere to an ideal, a particularly managed and manicured vision of Golf, artificially and meticulously pristine, and this cart track has no part in it! It’s a fun bit of characterization, and really highlights the centrality of landscape AND land usage in this story.

Anyway, Scayles, the owner of the land, is likewise aghast at this brutalization of the grass, and vows to have it turfed and repaired immediately! After all, he wants this fairway done and opened for golfing by Easter, and Croft promises it will be done!

I really like the little sandbox he’s using to do a scale-model of the project, complete with teeny tiny little flags and everything. A fun glimpse of the way Croft is managing and shaping this land, I think.

But all is not well! Back at the 12th hole, those damned cart tracks have appeared…again!

Scayles vows to make enquiries among his neighbors, but all the various cart-owning locals deny having driven across the greens. After all, it’s not a short-cut to anywhere, so why would they? Still, SOMEONE is wrecking Croft’s beautiful fairway, because shortly after levelling and turfing the ruts…they’re back! Croft and his wife are out looking over the site, when they run across the ruts again!

How great is that, “they plaguey milk-carts” with all their cans a-jangling? Great bit of gnomic mutterings from a weird old guy, classic ghost story stuff. And the idea that the wheel-tracks will ALWAYS come back, that there’s nuthin’ to do about ’em, is a lot of fun. Croft, of course, is still trapped in the mundane world so beloved of golf architects – he and Scayles investigate if there’re any dairies near by, but no dice. So, Croft does the obvious thing – he’s going to stand guard out by the 12th hole and catch the mad cart drivers in the act!

Whisky and sandwiches in the moonlight it is!

Again, this is a very short story, but the writing is economically evocative, I think – love the squeaking critter and the feebly piping bird, really conveys the loneliness of the wide-open rough here. We get another gesture towards the hummock of the Roman earthworks, just to remind us that this landscape is not a primeval wilderness or anything – the Romans were here long before Croft, and they too had modified the landscape to fit their purposes.

Croft’s peaceful vigil is interrupted by a clanging and a clanking – the milk carts have arrived!

Croft is pissed! He hops up, intent on confronting these cart hooligans who keep running roughshod over his golf course!

Tweedy little golf architect Croft is ready to crack some skulls! He’s got a stick, and he yells at the figures, telling them to fuck off (not is so many words, of course)…but the off cart drivers don’t seem to be paying him ANY attention. Furious, Croft grabs at the bridle of the nearest horse…

Those aren’t milk carts at all! Why, they look like…

Roman ghost chariots! How rad is that? They’re still practicing, all these centuries later, in the same spot that they’d chosen for their recreation, the land they’d levelled and modified and built up, just the same as Croft was doing now! With this new realization, Croft heads home and meets his wife:

And that’s the end of “The Milk Carts!”

A short, placid little tale, and much more of a classic English ghost story than what I’d call a “weird tale,” but still, I like it – there’s a surprising amount of depth to it, I think, a kind of interesting meditation on landscapes and history that I really like. Plus, it’s extremely short, and that kind of efficient brevity is something worth studying too. And not everything needs to end in tentacular horror and madness either – I like Croft’s simple “they proved to me that they had a prior claim” and his later enigmatical justification for altering his design around the 12th hole. I like the way this story uses landscape and embedded history to good, spooky effect. And the idea of these spectral Roman charioteers circling their track night after night, especially in a spot that was being transformed into another location for sport and recreation, is a lot of fun!

The Man who Strained Pulp #45: “The Man who Collected Poe” by Robert Bloch, Famous Fantastic Mysteries v. 12, n. 6, Oct 1951

January 19th, which was last Monday, was Edgar Allan Poe’s birthday, one of the high holy days for weird fiction! Poe, of course, is hugely important, not merely as an antecedent to what would coalesce into the genre of “Weird Fiction,” but also beyond it in the larger world of literature; for starters, just look at the huge impact his work had in other languages once it was translated – Baudelaire’s translations of (and essays on) Poe in the 1850s and 1860s were epochal in French (and Continental) literature, while Konstantin Balmont’s translation of Poe in 1895 ushered in the Russian Symbolist movement. Similarly, Arno Schmidt’s love of Poe, whom he (with Hans Wollschläger) translated and celebrated in his insanely fun (and insanely huge) novel Bottom’s Dream (which is, among other things, a novel about Poe), was an important part of mid-century German lit. There’s Edogawa Ranpo in Japan, Borges and Cortazar in 20th century Spanish lit (preceded by Landa and Alarcon who similarly revolutionized 19th century Spanish literature with Poe as a major factor), I mean, the list goes on and on! Poe was a big deal!

There’s even a fun bit of Poe-in-translation history in the story of Weird Tales – as a college student at the University of Nevada, Farnsworth Wright translated Poe’s “The Tell-Tale Heart” into Esperanto and published it in the Esperantist magazine La Simbolo in the ‘teens! Wright, who would go on to become the single most powerful editor in the history of the genre of Weird Fiction, would often cite Poe as a foundational figure for the genre. And, of course, there’s Lovecraft, for whom Poe was a god; point is, Poe is hugely important to literature, both highfalutin’ AND pulpy, so how about we spend some time reading and enjoying and thinking about a very fun story by Robert Bloch about ol’ Ed A. Poe? It’s “The Man Who Collected Poe” from Famous Fantastic Mysteries 1951!

We’ve talked out little Bobby Bloch before, specifically while looking at “Notebook Found in a Deserted House,” his great Lovecraftian story and one of the few non-HPL mythos stories that rises above homage and pastiche to be something interesting, spooky, and good in itself. Interestingly, that story is also from 1951; in both of those it sort of feels like Bloch is looking back on the great influences of his writing career one last time, waving goodbye to them fondly as he begins to really develop his own voice and style.

What we haven’t talked about, though, is the magazine that this story was published in: Famous Fantastic Mysteries was one of the great sci-fi-ish mags that came around as the genre really got going, a major competitor to Weird Tales. It was first published in ’39, when it was owned by the Munsey company, who had a great backlog of weird- and science fictional stories from it’s older mags, like Argosy, that it decided to exploit. For the first few years of its existence, into the 40s, FFM was mostly a reprint magazine, focusing on classics, but it later got bought by another company (I wanna say Popular, but I’m not 100% sure of that right now, and checking would run counter to the spirit of these off-the-cuff essays!) which promptly changed the policy and began publishing new fiction. Some good writers showed up in its pages, Moore, Kuttner, Arthur C. Clarke, some big names. The editor for its entire run was Mary Gnaedinger, who was a HUGE name in sci-fi back then, famous for her deep knowledge of the field.

Oh, hey, it was “Popular” who bought ’em from Muncey then; you can see that on the ToC, above. Margaret Irwin is an interesting character – she was an English writer most famous for her historical novels, mostly set in Elizabethan times, but she (like so many writers from the UK) also wrote “ghost” stories (a term the brits use to cover both traditional spooky tales as well as what we’d call weird fic, too). You can see, though, that FFM focused on longer work with their reprints – that big ol’ “Rebirth,” originally from ’34, is a hefty un! But, luckily, they filled the nooks and crannies with shorter work, and that’s what we’re looking at today!

I love these little writer’s statements up front of the stories in FFM, fun little glimpses into the processes and how the author views their work. It’s a little odd because, as we’ll see, I don’t think this story really does address the question Bloch raises there (goofy and ahistorical as it is) – it’s not about whether Poe would’ve sold his work today at all, so it’s a little strange to see that point raised here. But what IS fun is that Bloch tells you, up front, that he’s grabbed a LOT of text straight from Poe’s “The Fall of the House of Usher” and, by God, he’s right! Here’s the first two paragraphs of this story:

And for comparison, here’s the opening of Poe’s story:

I mean, that’s super fun, isn’t it? What I really like is the way Bloch hangs a lampshade on the whole thing in the story by suggesting that our nameless narrator seems to recognize the whole scene – which of course he would, since he’s a Poe expert who happens to be entering into a Poe(esque) story about all things Poe! It’s fun and playful, which is one of the hallmarks of Bloch’s writing (and why he’s such a good horror writer).

Anyway, we do get a name here, and it’s another deep cut from Poe’s story: Launcelot Canning, who is the fictional author of the fake book (The Mad Trist) that Roderick Usher reads aloud while his sister, Madeleine, is clawing her way to freedom in the tomb beneath the house. As an aside, that part of “Usher” is a lot of fun and is an interesting earlier example of what would become a hallmark of Lovecraft and his circle of weird writers – the inclusion of a fake book in among a some real ancient texts.

Again, Bloch was very sincere in saying he was mining “Usher” directly here – the allusions come thick n’ fast in this story! It makes for a fun read after reading “Usher” honestly, and I’d recommend you do that too! But, anyway, back to the story:

A good weird intro to the character – ol’ Lance Canning here is the world’s greatest collector of Poe-mobilia, something that, while interesting enough to the narrator, isn’t the real hook that reels him into Canning’s orbit. Rather, it is Canning himself, who is just a straight-up oddball seemingly right our of a Poe tale:

I really like that little joke at the expense of people with obsessive interests – the bit about wanting to figure out EXACTLY when Poe first grew a mustache is a funny line!

Anyway, our narrator accepts Canning’s invite out to the ol’ home place in Maryland (the state where Poe died and is buried, an important point to this story). The house is, of course, the Usher mansion, though without moat and tarn, and the rooms are straight outta the story too. Canning is languidly reclining on a couch, and our narrator feels like there’s something forced, or maybe manic, about his greeting, but our guy here just chalks it up to his weirdness. Moreover, he comes to realize that Canning is, literally, a BORN collector:

As a brief interlude, here are the graves themselves in Baltimore, which I visited during a conference in Baltimore a few years ago. This first one is the original monument:

And here’s the newer one, which was indeed commissioned by notable and literary members of Baltimore’s citizenry in 1875 and which necessitated an exhumation and reburial of Poe’s remains:

In particular, it’s this grandfather, Christopher Canning, the one who helped fund the new monument, that built the bulk of the Canning collection. Lance shows off some of the insanely rare and insanely valuable pieces:

This is some fun bibliomania, and the “commingled pride and cupidity” is a great line that really conveys the very specific affect of Canning here. It’s not merely greed or snobbery – it’s a kind of all-consuming obsession, something Poe wrote about often. It’s also fun to see the long list of Poe works here, especially the weird Conchologist’s First Book, which is a real fun deep cut in Poe’s oeuvre. And this obsessiveness seems to run in the family too:

Some fun metacommentary on the kind of mania that can develop around a subject of study, as well as an important part of the story – we learn that ol’ Grandpappy Canning was not above rank thievery to get what he wanted for his Poe collection! Our narrator tries to explain Canning’s grandfather’s truly all-consuming obsession with Poe by asking if there wasn’t some deeper reason behind it? Perhaps the old man thought he’d been related to Poe in someway?

Canning then goes on to talk of his father who followed in Grandpa’s footsteps and became a reclusive scholar and collector of all things Poe, in particular focusing on letters either from, to, or about ol’ Edgard Allan Poe. While Lance gathers these particular pieces, he pours them some amontillado (natch), and the two of them proceed to get increasingly toasted as they look over the collection.

Aside from the fact that the above passages are just good writing, I like the kind of mounting (or, perhaps “deepening” is more appropriate here) intensity here – Canning began with his Grandfather’s collection, a remarkable but still very MATERIAL kind of thing, full of rare and valuable books. But now we’ve moved beyond the man’s work to the man himself. Canning’s father was obsessed with the letters, little glimpses into Poe the person, and that kind of voyeuristic and intimate examination of a person’s life is a very intoxicating thing, you know, just as much as the wine they’re drinking. It ALSO nicely sets up a kind of generational escalation to this Poe obsession that afflicts the family Canning, right? Grandpa was all about the material of the man, his son was getting into the psychology and life of Poe…so what does that leave for the grandson, Launcelot Canning?

A fun little nod in the text there to Arthur Quinn who wrote, in 1941, the excellent and still definitive biography of Poe (you can read the 1960 edition over on archive.org here, btw).

Lance cracks open a chest and shows our narrator the intimate objects of Poe’s life, a helluva collection. And while he’s doing so, Lance seems to be afflicted with a mounting panic or dread, like he’s juuuuuuust barely tamping down some kinda freak-out.

His reserve almost cracks when our narrator asks about a small box in the chest.

So now we’re getting to the details of the hinted-at mysterious death of ol’ Grandpappy Canning. The two of them take a trip (with more wine) into the weird Poe-themed fun-house mansion that is Canning Manor, wandering down a dark hallway and dismal stairs into the bowels of the castle-like edifice before coming to a huge, copper-lined door:

I mean, that’s excellent stuff right there. Love the wildly Poe-flavored rantings of the madman, for one thing – it’s fun to see ’em purely as allusions, but within the text it’s interesting because we, as the readers, can’t be sure WHAT exactly is happening here – did ol’ Christopher’s Poe-obsessed brain break, and THAT’S why his rantings are all Poe-flavored…or is something else happening, something darker and much weirder? We don’t get an answer immediately, but we do get a nice reveal of Christopher Canning’s ghoulishness:

Just wonderful! It’s really fun to use the Real Life exhumation and movement of Poe’s body as the seed for a story of body theft, isn’t it? It also suggests the joke (or a joke, as we’ll see…) behind the title of this piece. Christopher Canning did, indeed quite literally, Collect Poe.

And what of the little box, which he was clutching when they found him mad and raving before the door of the secret tomb of Edgar Allan Poe?

If you’re a fan of Lovecraft (as Bloch was), you might have an inkling of where this story is heading, but if not, we’ll come back to it shortly.

Lance leads the narrator back to the study, where he continues his tale – his Father kept secret the fact that Poe’s corpse lay in the tomb beneath the house, and only told Lance about it as he lay dying. Even so, it was several years before Lance even found the key that would unlock the door to the secret, shameful tomb. And yet, with that key, somehow, Launcelot Canning is confident in stating that now HE, more than his grandfather or father, is in fact the Greatest Collector of Poe! Wait, what’s that now?

The storm builds in fury, and Lance takes up Poe’s childhood flute and begins to play madly on it, in a scene reminiscent of Roderick Usher’s guitar-playin’ while the storm (and his sister) creep upon the doomed house. Seems like a weird scene, but I guess the wine must be good because, rather than gettin’ the Hell out of Dodge, our narrator decides to peruse the bookshelves of his obviously mad host (as you do when you’re in a weird tale):

Oh hell yes. That’s right – this is Bloch before he’d shed himself entirely of his Lovecraftianisms, so of course there’re forbidden books of dark lore and evil magic here…and they’ve been well-thumbed too!

“…what can be summoned forth if one but hold the key.” hmm…

Anyway, THIS is apparently enough for the narrator, who refuses his ninth glass of wine and says he must, at last, be on his way. This panics poor ol Lance, who seems to desperately want to have someone there with him, particularly on this stormy night. Our narrator demands that Canning admit that all this stuff about the stolen body and the tomb and all is a hoax, but Canning says its all real. And, in fact, he can PROVE it:

A very fun reveal – secret Poe stories that no one has ever read! But how can this be?

Super fun, isn’t it? And if it weren’t for those magical Lovecraftian tomes mentioned earlier, you might think that the Narrator has hit on the solution here, right? That Lance Canning, a la Norman Bates (who hasn’t been written about yet) has monomaniacally BECOME the dead person who is the focus of their obsession. Maybe Canning has so steeped himself in Poe that he has, in some mad way, convinced himself that he IS Poe, right?

Well, surely that IS what has happened, right? New paper, one of the stories is dated 1949…clearly Canning is just nuts and thinks he Poe. MYSTERY SOLVED!

But Canning persists in his denial:

A boxful of dust, you say…what does that sound like…

That’s right – this IS a Lovecraftian mythos tale after all! Canning, like Charles Dexter Ward, has used the essential salts of the corpse to REANIMATE the dead!

It’s a pretty fun little twist, and one you might not have seen coming – after all, even knowing that Bloch began his writing life as a Lovecraft acolyte, you might assume that, by ’51, he’d transformed himself into the writer who was more interested in the twists and turns of a fucked-up mind than in weird gibbering cosmic entities from behind. And it’s fun to see him set that up here – the idea that this family, so obsessed with Poe, would eventually produce a deranged member that believed himself to actually BE Poe is a perfectly good bit of weird horror, you know what I mean? But in many ways this is not merely a story ABOUT Poe…rather, it’s a story about the influence of Poe, of the way an older writer can still impact people from beyond the grave. And, of course, Bloch is also thinking about how that influence was felt by Lovecraft, and how he was, in many ways, the grandson of Poe and the son of Lovecraft, at least from a writing perspective. It’s a neat, weird mediation on influence and writerly genealogies!

AND it’s got an undead Poe writing impossibly horrific stories from beyond the grave!

We’re rapidly approaching the end, so of course we start hearing the metallic pounding on the tomb door below echoing through the house!

A chilling image, and a great, horrific concept too: Poe’s new material is informed by concrete knowledge of what he could only have imagined in life. His old published work is merest preamble to the true horror of his undead writings! It’s all so huge and over the top that it really can’t be beat, it’s so much fun!

Of course, Poe has escaped the Tomb and has been making his way up the stairs and through the house towards the study. Our narrator pushes aside the panicking Canning (knocking over a flaming candelabra) and flings open the door!

And that’s the end of Robert Bloch’s “The Man Who Collected Poe!”

This story has some great art with it that sorta kinda gives away the plot, so I’ve saved it for last:

A wonderful piece by the great Lawrence Stevens showing the moment of the revivified Poe’s appearance. I really like the border there, full of little allusions to Poe’s works. A great piece all around!

Obviously, I love this story. It’s just a blast, and you can really see Bloch is having fun writing it, playing with the original text from “Usher,” really relishing the language and vivacity of Poe’s words. But beyond that, I think it’s a really interesting example of a writer very explicitly exploring both their genre in general and those in it who influenced them very specifically. And, not to be schmaltzy, but I think there’s a real affection and appreciation on display here, both for Poe and Lovecraft, writers who were very important to Bloch at one time but whose work he’s moved (and will continue to move) away from as he develops and grows and ages.

And, like I said above, it is interesting to see Bloch musing on his changing interests in his writing – there’s still the Lovecraftian weirdness here, of course, but there’s also a preoccupation with minds and psychology, highlighted both in his own writing as well as in the sections of “Usher” he chose to use. It’s also reflective of Bloch’s deeply Freudian impulse to look his progenitors square in the face and, if not reject them, at least put them to bed. Poe is the grandfather of all horror writers, and for Bloch Lovecraft was a sort of literary father – for Bloch to grow he has to step out of the shadows, otherwise he’d be in the shoes of Launcelot Canning, brooding over his collection, unable to live his own life and write his own work.

Poe is a writer who often suffers from peoples’ assumptions – the idea that he wrote only horrible, macabre, freaky shit is a common one, and tends to color most peoples’ views of his work. But a careful reading of Poe shows, I think, that he’s deeply interested in consolation after the horror, in looking for solace in the face of unimaginable terror and tragedy. And while he’s mostly just a Monster in this story, I think that there is a kind of catharsis here – Poe is, of course, freed at last, but so too is Canning. The conflagration that consumes him and his collection (and its centerpiece, Poe himself) is a cleansing fire, in more ways than one!

Not Long Before the Pulp #44: Three Kings’ Day Edition! “Not Long Before the End” by Larry Niven, The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, v. 36 n.4, April 1969

Well, with the Yule ended and the New Year begun, we prepare to say farewell to the annual Sword & Sorcery celebration on the ol’ blog. But, as in year’s past, we have one final S&S-focused post for this, the most Swordish & Sorcerous (at least by name) of Holidays…that’s right, it’s Three Kings’ Day! And, as is my prerogative, I’m leaping out of the pulps and into the fancy digests of the 60s in order to talk about an interesting moment in Sword & Sorcery’s history! The story in question: “Not Long Before the End” by famous prick Larry Niven, from the April issue of the 1969 volume of The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction!

Why have we flexed our mighty thews to leap wildly into the late 60s, you ask? Well, previous recent entries in this ol’ blog have focused on S&S in the immediate aftermath of Howard’s death, an important and delicate phase in the growth of the genre. Characters like Henry Kuttner’s Elak of Atlantis and Clifford Ball’s Rald the Thief were major steps in defining the rough outlines of the then nameless genre that Howard had created; similarly, we’ve looked at Fritz Leiber’s work, and he’s the writer who actually coined the term “Sword & Sorcery,” fer Crom’s sake! All of these are important points in the early history of the genre, moments where readers and writers were negotiating about what was and wasn’t a swashbuckling weird adventure story with swords and monsters and mightily muscled heroes.

And while Fantasy (broadly constructed) was kept alive in the pages of Unknown Worlds, in important novels by Poul Andersen and Jack Vance, in the SAGA organization, and in the infamous Gnome Press Conan paperbacks, it wasn’t until the unauthorized Lord of the Rings Ace paperbacks in ’65 that things really changed. Publishers suddenly saw dollar-signs around these weirdo fantasy works, and so they sought out more, with editors like L. Sprague de Camp and Lin Carter digging deeply into the pulp archives to reissue old fantasy material in handy paperback format. In particular, Lancer’s Conan series, with the famous Frazetta cover that forever defined The Barbarian Archetype, was enormously important:

a collection of first edition Lancer paperbacks on display at the Frank Frazetta Museum in East Stroudsburg PA. The one on the far right, Conan the Adventurer, was the first of the series, published in 1966, and marks the beginning of a major Sword & Sorcery renaissance

What’s this got to do with our story today? Well, it’s striking (to me at least) at how quickly a backlash to Sword & Sorcery develops – we’ve got Conan exploding in popularity, and Howard’s muscular approach to the genre in particular suddenly becomes a major flavor in the genre landscape, all roughly in the later half of the 60s. And then by ’69 there’s ALREADY a story commenting on/satirizing some of the themes and styles and modes of the genre, and in one of the flagship publications of the day too! That’s remarkable, and speaks to the kind of wild expansion (and passionate fandom) that S&S (and Spec Fic in general) is capable of generating.

S&S literature would have something of a tumultuous 60s and 70s, with some exciting and interesting experimentation coming from people like Michael Moorcock, Samuel R. Delany, Joanna Russ, Charles Saunders, and M. John Harrison, all of them writing if not against “classic” S&S then at least in conversation with it. That’s why today’s story, by Niven, is so important and interesting – it is a major part of a new sword & sorcery, breaking free (finally) or Howard pastiche and associated pulp reprints.

But, before we can get to the story, it’s important to address the fact that Larry Niven, in addition to being a hugely important science fiction author, is also a gigantic piece of shit and fascist scumbag. While people may fondly remember his “Known Space” setting (which he smuggled into Star Trek canon via the Animated Series), he was also an unrepentant reactionary and evil racist. With his buddy, arch-fascist Jerry Pournelle (a major figure in Sword & Sorcery fandom, btw) he cowrote a number of extremely vile novels, full of racism and dumbass rah-rah militarism; their collabs include what might be the single worst thing I’ve ever read, Lucifer’s Hammer, which is as truly deranged a race war fantasy as The Camp of the Saints or The Turner Diaries. But his bullshit goes beyond his own writing – he (with Pournelle and other assholes like David Brin) were members of a group called SIGMA, an association of sci fi dorks who offered pro bono consulting to the gov’t. Here’s one of Niven’s brilliant brain-waves, from 2008:

So yeah, Larry Niven is an enormous piece of shit, and his smugly moronic right-wing cryptofascist world view is a part of his fiction; in addition to his highly developed sycophancy towards power and authority, he’s also (like so many classical conservatives) blithely techno-positivist, which is something you’ll see in the story today! (yay!)

But, before we get to it, let’s look at the cover and ToC:

Now THAT is a damn cover, isn’t it? It’s by Bert Tanner, who did a number of great covers (and interiors) for the magazine, and who only died last year, if I recall correctly. The story this cover is for, Greg Benford’s “Deeper than the Darkness” is an interesting one, though there’s some uncomfortable (and very 60s) race relations stuff in it. It really goes for the whole “I am going to blow your mind: what if white people were on the bottom of the racial hierarchy!?” thing, and it can be a bit eye-rolly, honestly. I will say, though, that despite its somewhat clumsy framing, it DOES deserve some plaudits for at least engaging with the the unrest around the American Civil Rights struggle. The story has some interesting bits (and the alien menace in it *is* quite good), and it’s also a downer, too, which is always fun – this phase of sci-fi, knocking on the New Wave and therefore willing to take more chances, is exciting. It’s the kind of thing F&SF was famous for publishing, back in the Good Ol’ Days – provocative, literary stuff, often quite daring for its time, meant to demonstrate that spec fic was something to take seriously.

The ToC is interesting:

The only really BIG names that most people recognize today are Niven, Russ, and Asimov, and only one of them is in here for fiction. I think that reflects the extreme importance that fandom played in Sci Fi – there’s a lot of ink given over to criticism and articles and discussions of the field, right alongside the stories themselves, and its one of the key strengths that genre lit has going for it – it’s very organic and vital, forcing people reading (and writing) the stuff to be in constant conversation with each other within a curated space (something missing from today’s internet-poisoned fandom, I’d argue).

But enough! On to today’s tale!

No art here, of course, but the little italicized intro makes it clear that this story is going to invert the usual order of antagonism here, something Niven underlines right off the bat in the very first paragraph:

1969, but we’re already playing around with the well-established sword versus sorcery aspect of the genre! It’s kind of remarkable, really, that the genre, which didn’t really have a name until 1961 (coined by Fritz Leiber in the pages of the fan magazines Ancalagon and Amra), was already stimulating comment and experimentation (much to the chagrin of people of Lin Carter, actually). Of course, the inimical nature of magic and the uncanny is a HUGE part of the genre, an inheritance from its progenitor genre, Weird Fiction. It’s also why the Barbarian in particular came to be such a strong and semiotically potent figure – the barbarian’s Natural strength, inherent in their powerful Body, versus the otherworldly and inhuman power of Magic. The triumph of Conan over foes like undead wizard Xaltotun is about restoring the dominance of the physical and the natural over the insubstantial and the perverse, and that becomes one of the defining themes of the whole genre.

But for people like Niven, that kind of message was antithetical to what they saw as the REAL narrative of human progress – the Barbarian, representative of brute physicality, triumphing over the specialist/technologist/intellectual was intolerable, the sort of dirt-kicked-in-the-nerd’s face bullshit that had hindered the cultural and technological advancement of the species. Niven is very explicit about this, even making a eugenicist and social Darwinist argument – swordsmen being removed from the gene pool was a net win for the species, and wizards who couldn’t kill a swordsman likewise benefited the population by being removed from it.

The kind of elemental nature of this struggle is further made clear for us by Niven’s choice of name for his sorcerer:

Swordsman vs. Sorcerer. Very clear, very straightforward.

Our sorcerer is introduced as a conscientious and competent wizard, a kind of idealized technocrat, powerful but largely benevolent. In addition, we learn that Warlock moves around a lot, because he’s discovered something:

And this diminution of potency isn’t relegated to individual sorcerers alone, mind you:

Niven, connecting the loss of magical power to civilizational collapse, is laying the groundwork for what this story is going to be about. Indeed, you might have already guessed his punchline, but we’ll get there in good time!

Anyway, like it says up there, Warlock is a particularly curious sort, even for a wizard, so he sticks around and seeks, through the scientific method, some answer as to what this phenomenon of magical loss is, exactly.

Credit where credit is due, Niven is setting this story up very nicely here. Our Warlock has discovered something absolutely fundamental to magic and, therefore, civilization, a fact that is terrible and final and immutable. Warlock doesn’t share this information with anyone, apparently our of compassion – there’s nothing to be done, so why bother anyone with it? We also learn that, a half-century or so later, Warlock has someone reconsidered his position – he’s manufactured another of his experimental magical spinning discs, keeping it in readiness, just in case.

And then we’re introduced to the second-most important character in the story. Not the swordsman, who is of course a meathead beneath contempt, but his sword:

The name of the barbarian swordsman here, in addition to the satirical grandiosity of having such a long soubriquet, is also obviously chockfull of injokes and puns (Niven loved that kind of stuff, and cowrote a novel The Flying Sourcerer that is basically devoted to that sort of thing, characters whose names are injokes among the sci-fi community). The most important part of the name, though, is last apparently patronym – Cononson, Son of Conan; this brutish barbarian is, for Niven, a stand-in for all of the swaggering and powerfully violent descendants of Howard’s work.

We’re also given an oblique and suggestive view of ol’ Hap the Barbarian’s character and history – he killed a sleeping woman to get this sword, which is itself a dangerous and potent magical artifact.

Anyway, with Warlock and Hap and Glirendree all introduced, we get into the story proper. Warlock is hangin’ out in his cave/laboratory with his wife/apprentice (yikes!) Sharla when a magical alarm goes off, indicating that someone is on the way. Warlock scrys on the interlopers…and the news ain’t good!

Sharla, like many of Niven’s characters who are women, doesn’t get to do much or have much agency. She’s vaguely important to the plot, but only as an object, not a person. Oh well! What’s ALSO interesting is Niven’s use of “mana” here, setting in motion a very important stream of magical terminology/theory that will run through a lot of fantasy lit AND role playing games. We’ll talk a bit more about that a little later, but this is an important story for that reason, too.

Anyway, Glirendree is a dangerous and powerful magical artefact, as we’ve already mentioned, and as a sorcerer Warlock has some responsibility to deal with it. He and Sharla leave the cave, with her running to safety and him grabbing some gear before heading off to confront the sword and its swordsman.

There’s some fun magic-as-a-technical-discipline bits in this part, an interesting and very sci-fi take on the concept of sorcery. It’s interesting to note how, in Howard’s stories, a fair bit of “sorcery” was just hypnotism and trickery and alchemy (but not all of it, of course – there’s plenty of hellish, outre spell casters in his work who draw on dark and unnatural power). But for Howard, this stuff was all wrapped up in mummery and obfuscation; the magic that Conan faced was always secret knowledge pursed by half-mad sorcerer-priests. Niven here is following a different trend in fantastic literature, one that has very strict, very technical rules-based magic, a kind of hyper-rationalized supernaturalism, which is an important distinction – there’s no NATURAL explanation for Warlock’s powers, but there are Logical rules to its operation. In other words, it’s not hidden or forbidden knowledge; rather, it’s a technical discipline, akin to science of engineering. This is something that Fletcher Pratt and L. Sprague de Camp pioneered in their Harold Shea stories, and it’s obvious why Niven, doyen of “hard” sci-fi at the time, would take it up in his fantasy story. Again, it turns the wizards into ultrarationalists, even if their rationalism hinges around supernaturalism. It’s important to Niven and the story that this be the case, because he’s already established that Magic = Civilization.

Importantly, in his magical observations of Hap, Warlock lets us know that the Sword protects its wielder and makes them invulnerable to everything but the sword itself. A key plot point! Warlock, unable to enchant Hap or even prognosticate the outcome of a battle, gets out two important pieces of equipment – a metal disc and a rune-covered dagger.

And then, finally, the swordsman and the sorcerer face each other.

An important highlighting of Hap’s scarred and formidable body here, highlighting his barbarism and the supremacy of physicality that he represents. What’s odd, though, is that just a few paragraphs later, we learn that Warlock is ALSO a slab of beefcake, through his magic. It’s an interesting inversion of the more usual sword & sorcery & bodies – Hap’s body, earned through labor and effort and with ample evidence of it having been used, is a sign of atavism and barbarity, whereas Warlock’s magically maintained pleasingly aesthetic form is a symbol of refinement and technical sophistication.

Anyway, we learn that Hap is here to free Sharla…who is there willingly, married to Warlock and learning magic. Hap apparently believes Sharla to be the victim of a love spell or something, and he’s here to free her by killing Warlock.

Warlock cuts him off with another attempted spell, which does nothing, of course. Similar failures occur when he tries to smash Hap with a magical meteor, or when he unleashes a demon from his magical back tattoo (which is very cool). And then Warlock tries one last time to reason with Hap.

There’s gotta be a bit of Moorcock’s Stormbringer in Glirendree, though there’s probably more of Andersen’s Tyrfing (which comes from the sagas) in there. Still, a solid fantasy macguffin, a sword that’s actually an evil demon. We go on to learn a bit more about the sword:

Another fun bit of Nivenesque name jokery there with “Jeery.” There’s possibly an interesting commentary of the sexual charms of barbarians there too, although it’s kind of lost under the vaguely misogynistic banter about the Rainbow Witch… really feels like the story is saying the Dumb Broad got stupid horny and that’s why the sword escaped. I dunno, I can’t help but look for the worst in Niven, because he was worst, basically.

Anyway, as Hap leaps in for the kill, Warlock tosses up the metal disc and says the word “four.” This, of course is the disc that had been integral to his epiphany in the introduction, the experiment that he kept in readiness after learning that dark truth about magic.

The disc spins and spins, glowing and getting hotter, while Warlock goes over in greater detail what we already know – magic gets used up in places, and there’re places where magic doesn’t work because all the mana is gone.

There’s some fun writing here; the part about the fallen cities and the dragon bones is good, solid stuff in my opinion. This is also a good spot to pause and discuss mana!

If you’ve ever played a JRPG or anything like that, you’ve encountered the concept of mana – a nice numerical value that defines the amount of magic a character can use. If you’ve ever looked into its origins, you might’ve been surprised to run across discussions of Polynesian religious, spiritual, and magical practices; Mana, it turns out, is a kind of spiritual property that things or people or places had, and it could be cultivated and developed. For Victorian-era anthropologists, it was an enormously fascinating concept because it seemed to have a kind of universality to it that was suggestive of ancient, interconnected humanity. It’s a lot more complicated, of course, but this pop anthro understanding came to be the general status quo understanding of the concept: mana was a kind of magical, spiritual energy. A number of Early 20th century occultists latched onto the concept, but it really took off in U.S. Pop Culture alongside all the broader Polynesian/Island craze of the 40s/50s – think Hawaiian shirts (and statehood), atomic atoll tests, and tiki bar culture.

There were a number of semi-popular and technical books on the concepts at the same time, and both the word and idea of mana was out there; Jack Vance used it in work in the 50s, though with a sense slightly closer to the “real” meaning, as a kind of mystical essence that famous objects or places could accumulate through veneration, a kind of magical force that came about as they (or people) became SYMBOLS of something. What’s interesting here is that Niven, who said he’d come across the word in a book on Polynesian culture, has slightly tweaked its meaning in this story – mana is now a quantum of magic, and more importantly, a natural resource that can be depleted.

And that, it turns out, is the great secret that Warlock has discovered.

The disc keeps spinning, using up all the magic in the area, depleting the magical effects in the area: Warlock’s anti-aging spell fails, revealing him to be an ancient and decrepit old man, and Glirendree’s true form in unveiled:

Things look grim for ol’ Hap…but then the Demon begins to experience the mana-less nature of the area they’re in:

The exploding disc in the sign that the very last of the mana in the area has been drained; Warlock is rapidly withering, the magical spring and the cavern’s furnishing and the mansion have vanished, everything has become mundane and magicless.

Mana is a finite resource, depleted by the casting of spell. The disc, Warlock explains, operates simply as a perpetual motion machine, fueled by magic…until the magic runs out, a microcosm of what will happen to the whole world, eventually.

Regardless, Hap, even with his severed hand, is still going to kill Warlock.

A clever bit of problem solving, and you’ve got to give Niven credit; “A knife always works” is a pretty badass line.

Warlock is fading fast – he’s like two hundred years old, after all, but then Sharla appears. She lifts the frail and dying Warlock in her arms and carries him down the hill towards a source of mana.

I like the little descriptions of Warlock’s failing body here – the fluttering pulse, the lose of his senses, and the way Sharla, who intellectually knew that Warlock was ancient, is still being confronted with the existential horror of decay and decrepitude. I also like her asking what color Hap’s eyes where, though not for the reason Niven has put it in – like I said, I always assume the worse with Niven, and I’m pretty sure he meant (at least partially) for this bit to be further evidence of the fickle and oversexed nature of womankind (the same thing that struck down the Rainbow Witch). Instead, I like to read this as the ambivalence of people confronted with illusion; once you know it’s not REALLY real, there’s a little bit of the magic that’s gone forever (which is the theme of this story, of course).

And that’s The End of “Not Long Before the End,” by Larry Niven!

Niven himself apparently referred to this story as science fiction rather than fantasy, pointing specifically to his rationalist mana system, contrasting it with the purely supernatural sorcery of other stories. Whether you think that counts or not (I don’t, this story is fantasy) isn’t important, though, because the real interest in it is the way he’s commenting on and writing against the fantasy of the day. Like I said, he’s explicitly rejecting the framing of traditional sword & sorcery stories, denigrating the barbarian (and, by extension, the celebration of physicality and bodily strength) as a force of social retrogression. Conversely, the sorcerer here is a paragon of rational investigation and judicious use of power, a symbol of the intellect and discipline.

What’s fun about this is that it’s happening only a few years after the explosion of fantasy and S&S; in fact, it’s in direct response to it that Niven, a proponent of rationalist and technologically triumphalist stories, wrote it. Niven’s story is a part of the larger 60s trend interrogating the fantasy genre and what it means, right alongside Moorcock and Vance and Leiber and all the rest. From the standpoint of genre studies, that period is very interesting – unsatisfied with what was, workers in the disciple are trying out new things, cutting trail into the wilderness on the edges of the stable and well-trod center.

Beyond that, it’s interesting to place Niven’s declensionist narrative, one based on resource scarcity, in the larger context of the period’s social history. The Erlichs’s book The Population Bomb had just come out in 1968, and was a humongous best-seller that had dramatically changed the way people talked about society, resources, and human population (it’s also important because the framing is one of a surging third world outbreeding the first world, a classically racist fear finding new expression in world systems theory and macroeconomic jargon). The idea of finite resources and hard limits to growth and progress were starting to occupy people’s minds in this era, and it’s interesting to see Niven take that and apply it to fantasy. He actually ends up going farther with the idea in the 70s, by the way – the Oil Embargo inspires him to explore the idea of mana depletion in more stories and, eventually, a fix-up novel based on this setting.

The 60s and 70s have been described as a period of backlash against “classic” S&S, and that’s true enough – the pages of the fan magazines are full of conservatives like Carter and Jakes defending red-blooded conan-esque tales of mighty adventurers. But the “backlash” is actually a sign of the vibrancy of the genre – people were exploring new territory through the genre, right alongside the New Wave in science fiction; in fact, I think there’s definitely a “New Wave” style of S&S being written, in some cases by the same authors (Delany’s work in the late 70s in particular represents this). And while Niven certainly had more in common politically with Carter and the conservatives in sword & sorcery, there is value in digging into this story and reading it not merely as a takedown of the genre, but as a commentary expanding on the strengths of the genre to produce more than a simple Conan pastiche.

The Pulp of Yondo #43: “The Abominations of Yondo” by Clark Ashton Smith (Overland Monthly, v. 84, n. 4, April 1926)

A very merry Solstice to you and yours! On this, the darkest day of the year, let us enjoy some deep, indulgent fiction, the work of an author who was an important antecedent to Sword-and-Sorcery, the rich and evocative Clark Ashton Smith! Today’s story is maybe my favorite thing he ever wrote: The Abominations of Yondo, originally published in the April 1926 issue of the Overland Monthly!

For some reason or another, this S&Smas I’ve been focusing on the genre after Howard’s death; this has included a story by the great Fritz Leiber and the not-so-great but still interesting work of Henry Kuttner and Clifford Ball. Important points in the genre’s evolution all, of course, but no genre springs ab nihlio! There’s stuff before it, points of reference or experimentation that are pushing at (or solidifying) boundaries! And while I do think Howard’s work is uniquely important and an epochal invention, he was but part of a milieu that was exploring the newly created genre of Weird Fiction. Clark Ashton Smith was an important figure in that group, helping to define the aesthetic and move the genre in new and interesting directions, an important bridge between pre-genre writers like Dunsany and Howard’s eventual creation of Sword-and-Sorcery.

Which is not to say that this story in particular was a key influence on anything; hell, I’m not even sure that Howard ever read this one. It’s entirely possible he did – he and Smith were correspondents, of course, and there’s a chance he got a copy from him or HPL or something like that, but I don’t have any evidence at hand about that (remember – I’m writing these things off-the-cuff and straight-from-the-hip, with no time for looking things up in the multi-volume letter collections of these people). Like I said up top, this is just one of my favorite of Smith’s, and I’m allowed to indulge myself every now and then! BUT I do think this story is incredibly illustrative of one of the very important parts of both the creation of weird fiction AND the sub-genre that would come to be S&S, which we’ll get to later.

Now, you’ll also note that this story is not, per se, from a pulp…it’s from what was very much a storied literary magazine, The Overland Monthly, a magazine founded in the 1860s to advance the literary culture of the West broadly and California in particular. It included famous writers as Mark Twain, Ambrose Bierce, and Willa Cather, and ALSO published work by early nature writing by people like Muir and the famous geologist Clarence King, which makes Smith’s bonkers little story an interesting addition to its body of work. I think there’s plenty of reasons for why it was published here, HOWEVER it is important to note that “The Abominations of Yondo” was originally submitted to Weird Tales, representing as it did Smith’s first foray into weird fic. Farnsworth Wright rejected it, doubtless because it’s not really a “story” as such. Which is fair! This is, as I hope you’ll see when you read it (it’s quite short!) very much more of a vignette, moody and evocative (and trippy) but without much of a plot or character. Doesn’t mean it’s not rad as hell, of course, and I’m sure Wright liked it – it just wasn’t a comfortable fit as a story. So, while “The Abominations of Yondo” ended up in a high-falutin’ hoity-toity literature mag, it was absolutely and unequivocally written within the tradition of the weird tale as created in the magazine, Weird Tales. Also, it’s Clark Ashton Smith, gimme a break! He’s one of the Big Three! It counts!

Anyway, let’s dive in:

Much like Weird Tales, you can see that this magazine was not cheap! Twenty-five cents in 1926 was no joke – that’s like $5 now, a decently priced bit o’ culture! It’s also very clearly positioning itself as a Western magazine of culture and literature too, isn’t it, a very solemn bit of romantic appropriation on its cover and all. As for the ToC:

You can see George Sterling, CAS’s mentor and friend, is on here too, both as a contributor AND as an editor (explaining how “Yondo” endued up here, in part). But the best part, in my opinion, is the brief little author’s bios on the side. Take a closer at Smith’s:

I mean, that’s pretty funny, isn’t it? Smith is absolutely a California Poet, of course; this story today is only his third piece of prose ever published, and his first bit of outré fiction too. Prior to that he’d had several collections of his poetry collected, so this IS the beginning of a new phase for him, artistically (and economically – he took to weird fic largely as a way to make money). But it’s also a fun, oblique way to acknowledge that this is a bit of a departure content-wise for ol’ Overland Monthly.

You can tell this is a Serious Magazine because there’s no art. No buxom ladies being menaced here, no sirree, just cold hard text!

Smith is even more purple and rich than Lovecraft, but I’ll be goddamned if it doesn’t work! His background as a romantic poet, and particularly someone interested in the decadents, really shows through in his over-the-top, hyperbolic language, but (like Lovecraft) he comes by it honestly – there’s no affectation here, it’s all a deeply considered and hard-wrung aesthetic that he’s employing, one which is sumptuous and suggestive and decadent, and it works! Come on! Yondo (which we learn immediately is a place, which means that the title is about Abominations in Yondo, or perhaps from there) is a desert on the edge of reality, covered in the dust and ash of dead planets and rotting suns. I love the orb-like mountains, which Smith tells us are asteroids plunked down in the sands, a wonderfully outre image. Also wonderful is the menace and terror of the fact that this borderland on the edge of the world is open to incursions from all sorts of things from Outside, a wonderful bit of Lovecraftian horror derived from discussions and readings of HPLs work with the Old Gent himself.

Great, smoothly efficient introduction of both the narrator and the world we’re reading about. Our nameless dude, a heretic, has been tortured by the Inquisitors of the Lion-Headed Ong and, his punishment done, he’s been “freed” on the edge of the vast, hellish wilderness of Yondo. There’s great descriptions of both cacti- and fungi-forests (suggesting a very strange hydrologic regime at work here), and wonderful landscape writing too, lichen-mottled soils and grimy tarns, all evocative of real, hostile, untouched wilderness.

We get very sparse background on our heretic – he pissed off the Priests and Magicians of Ong, and as punishment he faced tortures both physical (stretched on adamant-dusted dragon-gut racks) and psychological (oublietted in a dark hole with huge fat corpse worms dropping in on him). But, eventually, they finish with him:

Now, we’re told that Yondo is a terrifying, mysterious, and all together evil place – very few people have gone there, and even fewer have returned. Those who have? Driven mad of course, palsied with the horrors they encountered there! Fantastic stuff! And our guy is a little trepidatious about entering Yondo…but what else can he do? So, ignoring the horrible insects that seem to be following him, he marches into the Wastes of Yondo, hoping to get through it and fall in with some nomads who live on its northern borders.

Again, wonderful weird landscape writing here. Smith is highlighting the sheer alienness of this landscape, and also wants us to think about its vast, incomprehensible age, and the way time has ground down whole civilizations:

The “fat chameleons” creeping with “royal pearls” in there mouths are nice inversions of the “dragons with pearls” motifs of a Chinese imperial art, and the endless ruins given over to hyenas and snakes makes for a wonderfully rich sense of decay and collapse. Also, great geology terms, even if they are extremely archaic – no one has used psammite for sandstone (or, possibly, metamorphic rock with a sand rich protolith) since the 1850s, man! Porphyry is also a rock name freighted with meaning – “imperial porphyry” was the term for the rock used in a lot of Pharaonic monuments.

Our heretic spots a bitter lake fringed with salt bars below him, and hustles down for a refreshing dip…unfortunately the water stings his hand, and he realizes this puddle is the last remnants of a sea! And ideal picnic spot! He sits down and rests, eating some bread and sipping some water, gathering his strength.

Man, c’mon…the MINUTE you start thinking like that, you KNOW some shit is going to go down!

Told ya, dummy!

The unearthly chuckling (like the “mirth of an idiotic demon”) goes on and on, and out heretic realizes its coming from the speleothem-fanged mouth of a cave he hadn’t noticed before.

I mean THAT’S a damn monster, isn’t it? Pale, hairless, egg-shaped body, NINE goddamn legs, but fer my money the weirdest thing is the things Bat-ness, a hint of Smith’s horrible elder god Tsathoggua, maybe? Like both HPL (sea-life/fungi) and REH (reptiles but especially snakes), CAS often uses bats (or a furry bat-ishness) as a kind of signifier of deep, outer evil. I love the thing’s blindness, and the suggestion that the thing’s “eternal chuckle” might be some kind of echolocation. But the Big Fella is just thirsty!

He runs as far and as long as he can until, exhausted, he reaches a boulder field in a vast sandy sea. But he doesn’t get much of a chance to rest:

The fuck is going on here!? Some kind of figure screaming in horror, but when he approaches it, it becomes a statue, the terror-widened eyes now closed, the outstretched plaintive hands now hidden in the sand…extremely, beautifully weird stuff! Of course he runs, and takes particular care NOT to look back behind him when he hears the terror-filled shriek again.

He runs deeper into Yondo, but eventually notices that he’s picked up a strange shadow that is keeping pace with his own! It’s an odd, inhuman shape, this second shadow, with an elongated head and maybe five limbs, but it is also relentless, neither gaining nor losing ground, but always following him as he runs into the wastes.

I love it! The smell building around him as the pursuit continues, the fact that he (and we) have no idea what this thing is – is it a monster invisible save for its shadow, or is it some of shadow monster? Is the threat physical or spiritual? What will happen if the shadow CATCHES his shadow? It’s great, scary stuff never answered, and even its eventual departure is menacing and weird:

He waits in the weird circle, exhausted and terrified, but eventually he rises. Night is threatening, but he has to go on – his only hope is to push on northward. If he can get to the border country he can leave this unearthly place behind him…but that’s a helluva “if!” He gets up and heads out! The powdered dust of millennia-dead civilizations makes for pretty sunsets, apparently: the horizon is ablaze with miasmal scarlet, lending the already bizarre landscape of Yondo a particularly phantasmagoric cast. And then:

Very Nazgûl-ly, huh? Faceless, with an empty helmet and ancient rotting armor, apparently just going out for a walk. I love the way it clanks “dismally” as it goes, too, a wonderful bit of description. But our heretic can’t spend much time considering this Witch King of Angmar lookin’ motherfucker, because there’s a second, even more horrible apparition!

A perfect monster, in my opinion – a huge figure, the monstrous mummy of some ancient king, and the way he describes its face as being ruined by MORE than time or the worm is wonderful. What the fuck is this thing! And then it’s got another little monster in its crown! The way the ape-headed serpent thing is introduced as first a shape, only for its eyes to open and reveal it as another being, is perfectly done, a flawless bit of weird writing. And then it whispers in the giant lich’s ear! It’s so horrible! And then, like in a nightmare, the huge mummy closes the distance between them SUDDENLY, reaching out for the heretic’s throat!

And that’s the end of “The Abominations of Yondo!”

The Inquisitors waiting for him, knowing that he’ll be back, is great; this whole ridiculous thing has been another bit of psychological torture, something straight from Orwell’s Room 101. Smith’s stories often have a sadistic streak to them, sometimes too much so, but here it’s the perfect capper to this little fable, a real nice bit o’ meanness on top of the weird monsters and landscape of Yondo.

In addition to this being full of great monsters, it’s also an important bit of fantasy-flavored weird fiction, very much part and parcel with Lovecraft’s Sarnath or the Cats of Ulthar; while Lovecraft would leave that sort of writing behind him in a year or two, Smith would keep it alive, pushing the boundaries of weird fantasy with his Hyperborean stories or his Zothique tales. I also think this is a fun one because it’s got some fun hints of things to come – the bat monster, the second shadow, the horrible liches. There’re some fun “first draft” kinds of things in here, Smith finding ideas that he would polish and refine over time in its writing.

Maybe more importantly, though, and the real valuable thing in this story, is what it illustrates about one (of the many) underappreciated parts of Sword & Sorcery – namely, S&S as a literature of landscape and environment!

Smith was a Californian through and through, in the same way HPL was a New Englander and REH was a Texan – regional writers whose backgrounds and environments shaped them fundamentally! And Smith lived in a particularly striking landscape, surrounded by the Sierra Mountains and, in particular, the spectacular scenery (and geology) of the Long Valley caldera!

From Bailey 1989, Geologic Map of Long Valley Caldera

I told you I was going to be indulgent! Now, if you’re not familiar with geologic maps, no worries – what you’re seeing here is the underlying geology of CAS’s ol’ stomping grounds, a vast and complex terrain of extensive volcanics squished up and extruded out onto a region of heavily extended Basin-and-Range mountains. It’s chock full of huge craters, thick ash tuffs, and weird hydrothermal systems, mountainous and broken and wild! Here’s a simplified map:

Craters, lava flows, ashfall tuff, faults…it’s a busy landscape! In fact, here’s what it LOOKS like on the ground (all these pics were grabbed from the USGS’s Long Valley Caldera Field Guide):

That’s a hydrothermally fed creek, full of weird plants, strange precipitated minerals, and weird geochemistry…you can just imagine a strange bat-headed nine-legged hellbeast creeping down for a sip on the banks there, can’t you?

Above is a pic of the famous “Devil’s Postpile,” a basaltic lava flow that fractured into the columnar patterns you see while cooling. Real “ancient ruins of a lost civilization” vibe too, dontcha think?

The whole area is volcanically active and pocked with weird craters. These are explosions from within the earth, but you can imaginatively reinterpret them as asteroid craters, if you were a weird fiction writer!

The volcanism is expressed on the surface by a lot of raw, fresh looking rock, the product of active eruptions, that often contrast markedly with the surrounding landscape. Remember the weird monster-backed mountains from the story? Well, I mean, these are them:

There’s even a deadly aspect to this landscape – the active volcanism means there’s a lot of volcanic gases leaking out here and there, with CO2 plumes killing plants and people over the years. It’s a wild, woolly landscape, visually and psychically striking, a clear influence on both this story and the way Smith approaches his weird fiction. Whereas HPL was often focused on decay and decadence in the landscape, the environment reflecting rottenness and perversion, I think Smith’s use of the environment highlights its alienness and inhumanity. There’s surely ancient decay in Yondo, but it’s sort of ancillary, the product of humans trying to live in this place at one time, a place fundamentally and existentially antagonistic to the vanities and illusions of mayfly-like people and their temporary civilizations. For Smith Nature is both Red in Tooth and Claw, but it’s also Purply and Green and Ultraviolet in Tentacles and Too-Many-Jointed Legs and Weird Minerals.

What I think is important about this story is that Smith is showing us a key part of weird fiction – twisting and skewing and finding strangeness in the world around us. Interestingly, Smith is always playing with that idea, too, suggesting that perhaps our idea of weirdness is a result of our limited perspective. For weird nine-legged bat monsters, Yondo might be a perfectly nice place to live – it’s just not so for us humans! That glancing contact with outer realms is what makes weird fiction work, and really anchors Smith’s fiction in a very visceral, very strange world.

And importantly, Sword & Sorcery is a sub-genre of WEIRD FICTION! Which is why this Smith-ian approach to landscape, one that Howard would also pursue, is so important – S&S confront its heroes with weirdness, first and foremost, for them to conquer (or at least survive). The immersion of a characters (and readers) in a weird landscape, one where there is alien agency and alien rules, is such an important, fundamental part of the genre, and Smith is a master of it! His poetical aesthetic is important, but so is his having lived in a truly stunning landscape, one dynamic and alive and strangely active beyond anything a human can really grasp. “The Abominations of Yondo” is weird fiction, but the way it centers not the human, but rather the human experience of the unhuman, is a perfect crystallization of both weird fic AND S&S’s power and scope!

PLUS, goddamn but those are some great monsters!!!!

The Death of Robert E. Howard in the Pages of Weird Tales

In the “Thief of Forthe” discussion, I posted Clifford Ball’s brief encomium to REH from The Eyrie, Weird Tales‘s enormously important and incredibly interesting letter section, where readers, writers, and editors wrangled with Weird Fiction and discussed the stories, characters, and aesthetics of the genre. It’s an interesting little letter, mostly because it explicitly couches Howard’s death in terms of the loss of stories that readers would never see (one of the most gratifying types of mourning a writer can imagine, honestly). And ol’ Ball wasn’t alone – Howard’s death really rocked the Weird Tales readership, and elicited a lot of shocked and saddened letters from a lot of fans.

What’s fun about ’em, though, is that these letters offer a really interesting ground-level view of both fandom and the way it mediates genre-ification – in a lot of ways, the death of Howard is a crisis that forces people to reckon not only with his work as it was, but the future of both it and writing allied with it. It’s a fascinating archive!

But, before we dive in, here’s a pic of the Big Man himself, enjoying a refreshing big ass beer:

my favorite REH pic

Howard died on June 11th, 1936, and the announcement was made in Weird Tales in the v 28, n. 2 Aug/Sept issue’s Eyrie:

A short but heartfelt tribute from Wright and the Weird Tales staff, highlighting both his imagination as well as his dedication to his craft (something that would get lost in certain later reevaluations of his work; much like what happened with Lovecraft, there were certain parties later on interested in portraying both of them as being weirdo savants who, by accident rather than careful work, produced important and interesting fiction). I’d also point out that, right away, we begin to see certain inaccuracies creeping into the Official Biography – REH did not attend the University of Texas. He took business courses at Howard Payne College, a private Baptist college in Brownwood, TX. By the way, one of those posthumous stories promised in forthcoming issues of Weird Tales included what many consider to be his very best horror story, “Pigeons from Hell.”

The next issue of Weird Tales, v 28, n.3 October 1936, had further semi-official remembrances of Howard’s life and work published in the Eyrie, this time from his friend and voluminous correspondent HPL, as well as E. Hoffmann Price, who actually met him in person:

The Lovecraft excerpt is a pretty important one, I think, and sort of sets the tone for the way Howard has entered the annals of weird literature. His line about Howard having “put himself into everything he wrote” is key, and a point HPL would make over and over (it forms the center of the long in memorium he wrote for the fanzine Fantasy in their Sept 1936 issue too). The idea that Howard was deeply engaged with his writing, producing art even in spite of the commercial conditions, is high praise from someone like HPL. Too, I think both he and REH shared a deep appreciation for their roles as REGIONAL authors, people interested in their specific environments and backgrounds and what it meant for them as both people and writers. And there’s certainly something to HPL statement that Howard had a “unique inner force and sincerity” in his work – read Kuttner’s Elak story or Ball’s Rald stories and you have to admit that, no matter how fun and possibly good they are, there IS certainly something missing from them.

Also interesting is the appearance (and misattribution) of REH’s death poem there. It’s a bit of a convoluted story, and I’d point you towards Todd Vick’s biography of REH “Renegades & Rogues” for more detail, but it became a major part of REH’s mythology, a suitably literary (and barbaric) poem to mark his passing.

Even more interesting, though, is that the Eyrie is still working through fan letters from people who had written them before they’d known of REH. Take, for example, this letter from Irvin Gould of PA, asking about a map of Conan’s world:

An interesting letter that sheds some light on the way people were reading and enjoying Conan – they love the hints and callbacks and history peppered throughout the stories, suggestive details about the larger world and deeper lore that imbued Howard’s writing with such vitality and sincerity, and want to know more about it! Specifically, they want a damn fantasy world map! While something like that is de rigueur in fantastic fiction now, back then it was a pretty novel request, I think. I know that there were maps in Haggard’s King Solomon’s Mine novel, for instance, and the Oz books famously had fantastic maps, but it’s fun to see people yearning for fantasy cartography because of the stories themselves and the sense of the scale and sweep of Howard’s vision. And maybe even MORE interesting is Mr. Gould’s recognition that asking for such concrete canonicity from weird fiction might not be appropriate! It’s a fun glimpse into the way READERS were engaging with both weird fiction AND Howard’s work particularly, navigating new genre conventions.

In this same issue there’s also a letter from the famously idiosyncratic fan, Gertrude Hemken. These letters from “Trudy” would become a beloved part of the Eyrie, mostly because she wrote in an absolutely delightful and totally fannish style – they’re a lot of fun, and it’s always fun to run into her in the pages of Weird Tales. Anyway, in the midst of a longer letter, she has this to say about Howard (unaware of his death, of course):

“So-o-o happy. I could gurgle!” should be the blurb they use on any and all Howard books henceforth. But it again speaks the clarity with which Howard presented Conan to the readers – he’s instantly and clearly defined, and folks like what they see!

The November 1936 issue (v. 28 n.4) includes the first fans letter reacting to the death announcement from a few issues back.

This letter’s request for a reprinting of his “best stories” as selected by the WT readership isn’t a bad one, honestly, and shows that, while the pulps were an ephemeral medium, there was a real desire to ensure that their contents lived on and were accessible to readers new and old alike. Later, in the same letter, Hopkins has an interesting thing to say:

It’s an interesting daydream: “The Death of Conan the Cimmerian!” And this musing about what could’ve been, and the extension of the character’s adventures beyond the pen of the creator, is an interesting seed that we’ll see explored more in later letters.

But the desire for a collection of Howard’s work was a common one:

I wonder if Clark’s personally bound collection of Conan stories exists in some attic somewhere?

The December ’36 issues (v. 28, n.5) is mostly dedicated to wranglin’ about the covers and whether they’re too risqué or not, but that leads into an interesting letter from Robert Lowndes about the artistic representations of Conan in The Unique Magazine:

It’d be worthwhile collecting these all together and doing a careful interrogation of each, but there’s no room (or time!) here for it…maybe later. I will grab the Rankin piece that Lowndes speaks so highly of, though, from the Jan 34 issue:

I find the sexualization of Conan by readers (and, to be fair, by Howard) hugely interesting, so the way this letter-writer highlights what it was the women found so damn hot about Conan in the stories is pretty fascinating!

I’ll just highlight one more prescient letter about REH from this issue, by the great Clark Ashton Smith:

The next issue, Jan 1937 v. 29 n.1, opens with Wright reflecting on the “necrology” of Weird Tales:

It’s a sad editorial, particularly in the way Wright’s hopes that no one else will die are pretty quickly about to be dashed. But, as he said, they’ve been getting a lot of letters about REH, and this issue includes some very fascinating ones!

I mean, that’s fascinating, isn’t it? Can’t Weird Tales find someone else to keep writing Conan for them? What a wild question, and I can’t think of any precedent for it at all, can you? On the one hand, there must’ve been fairly widespread knowledge that some “writers” in the pulps were house names with lots of different individuals contributing stories under them (a fairly common practice in particular in the western pulps), but the idea that a writer as singular as REH could be replaced is a wild one. On the OTHER hand, though, weird fiction DID have shared universes, if not shared characters – what is Lovecraft’s Mythos but a shared world with the same gods and aliens and dark books showing up in different stories by different authors? Is that the model this letter writer is drawing from when they talk about Conan continuing without REH? I think you have to give credit to Wright here, who very clearly and definitively answers that no one can write a Conan story except Howard…something later paperback authors should’ve kept in mind, in my opinion!

This same issue includes the Ball letter that we talked about in the last Pulp Strainer blog post, and while Ball certainly isn’t asking for someone else to write Conan stories, as we discussed there is a clear expression of the desire for more stories LIKE Conan’s.

Skipping ahead a couple of issues to March ’37 (v. 29 n.3) we get another plea for a book-length collection of Howard’s work:

These calls for a collection of Howard’s work to be published are pretty insistent, and it’s a shame that Weird Tales got so brutally burned on their one and only book publishing adventure (The Moon Terror) that they couldn’t do something with Howard’s work. Derleth’s Arkham House would, in ’46, put out Skull-Face and Others in 1946, complete with a badass Hannes Bok cover:

This book included some good Conan stories, but it wouldn’t be until the Gnome Press paperbacks of the mid-50s that you’d see a dedicated Conan series. Interestingly, those same Gnome Press editions would see just the sort of “Continuing Adventures of Conan” pastiche stories that (some) people were DEMANDING in there letters:

People LOVED Conan man, and that’s all there is to it. Howard had made something new and exciting, had carved out a real niche for himself in weird fiction, and the idea that there wouldn’t be any more Conan stories was a hard pill for some people to swallow. It’s interesting that everyone is explicitly couching these as more CONAN stories…they don’t want imitations, they don’t want other characters by other people, they want CONAN doing CONAN things. In some ways, then, it’s actually quite laudable that people like Kuttner tried to do SOMETHING a little different, even while trying to reverse engineer REH’s own unique approaches to his stories. Also, again, I think you have to salute Wright’s firm “nope” here too – he has a very clear aesthetic vision for weird fiction, and it doesn’t include the bloodless imitators of an inimitable writer like Robert E. Howard.

In the next issue of the Eyrie (v29 n.4) Wright publishes a letter from H. Warner Munn, a Weird Tales author famous for his “Werewolf of Ponkert” story, which was a favorite with readers, that really offers the Last Word on whether Conan should have further adventures written by other people:

Pretty succinctly and strongly put, I’d say, and a position I support. Wright obviously thought so too, and even seems to have used Munn’s letter as the punctuation on the chapter of Official Mourning for Howard. In the next issue (May 1937, v. 29 n.5), there’s only a single, passing mention of “the late Robert E. Howard” in one of the letters, and it’s clear that they’re turning the page on the sorrowful demise of a beloved author…

…and then, in v.29 n.6, the June ’37 issue of Weird Tales:

Goddammit!

With regards to REH, I think there’s something really interesting in getting to read these letters from readers of his stories; you can see the huge enthusiasm for his work and his creations, Conan in particular, a real glimpse into the phenomenon that would become fantasy literature in general and sword & sorcery in particular. There’s a little tinge of sadness here, though – you can only hope that Howard had a sense of just how beloved his work was while he was still alive. Writers are a touchy, morose lot in general, given much to self-recrimination and disappointment, often absolutely certain that they’ve wasted their time and largely failed to achieve what they wanted to with their work. It’s something REH certainly struggled with – his letters include many gloomy reflections on his work and the struggle of writing, even when he’s arguably at the height of his career. It’s something people always talk about, but it bears repeating: if there’s someone out there whose work you like, tell ’em! Even something as simple as a nice note can mean a lot to someone, and you never know when it’ll be too late to tell them!

There’s also something extremely valuable to be had by reading these letters in the Eyrie, I think – they’re such a rich archive of READERS and their reactions to/thoughts about the stories and authors and genre as a whole. In the wake of REH’s death you really start to see the way they were ENGAGING with his work, and with Conan in particular, and it’s a real granular way to interrogate the formation of what would, eventually, become “Sword & Sorcery.” There’s ALSO a really interesting tension between what people want (more Conan!) and what they would eventually get (some pastiche-y early attempts by Kuttner, for example, and then Fafhrd & the Gray Mouser – but not in Weird Tales, of course…).

Some other stray observations – it’s interesting how CONAN focused the readers’ letters generally are, isn’t it? I mean, there’s other stuff mentioned for sure, but the Cimmerian is front-and-center, and it’s his adventures that people are clamoring for more of. Partly that’s got to be simple chronology – after all, Howard’s death is announced with “Red Nails,” one of the best Conan stories of all time, and there’d been a lot of Conan recently too, while his other characters like Solomon Kane and Bran Mak Morn hadn’t appeared for years. But there’s something about Conan’s special alchemy at work there, I think, and particularly the sense of a real, lived in, vital WORLD around him that just grabbed readers.

Finally, I’d point out how often people with talent and knowledge would point out just how inimitable Howard was as a writer. Wright is very firm in his explanations about why there’d be no more Conan stories by other people – he was a singular talent writing singular tales, and no one else could do them. Similarly, I think HPL’s oft-cited “there’s a piece of Howard in every one of his stories” is a perfect way to capture the kind of ineffable qualities of his work (and HPL’s, for that matter). It’s easiest recognized by its absence in, for instance, Kuttner’s S&S work, and really underlines the absolutely necessary quality of a writer finding their authentic voice if they want to produce art. For all the problems with Howard’s work (and there’re a lot!), the one thing you can absolutely say is that they are the products of a writer who was absolutely sincere in his efforts at communicating the things he thought were important and interesting. That he succeeded is shown by the many heartfelt letters we see in The Eyrie.