Weird Tales in 1926

Happy New Year!

Twenty-six doesn't have the ring of twenty-five. For being an even number, it's kind of odd. But in 2026, we will celebrate 250 years since we declared our independence from an Old World tyranny. Although Old World brands of tyranny still threaten us, they threaten more the common, ordinary people of Europe, many of whom are being made into subjects rather than being allowed to remain citizens. Those brands are certain to keep coming back. We will be certain to keep knocking them down. Sometimes this is a deadly activity, as it was in 1917-1918 and 1941-1945. Other times it's fun. For example, the U.S. government recently denied visas to five supreme European censors and scolds. They and their governments stamped their tiny feet in response. Let them stamp. And let's hope this remains fun. Let's hope that the fullest freedoms will soon march unimpeded down the avenues of Europe.

In 1926, America celebrated its sesquicentennial, including at the world's fair in Philadelphia. That doesn't seem to have turned out very well. Our bicentennial celebration in 1976 was much better and more memorable, I think. I remember it at least, including images of the tall ships in New York Harbor, many of which came from our friends in Europe. You can still find bicentennial books and collectibles at secondhand stores. I don't think I have ever seen a collectible or book about the American sesquicentennial.

In 1926, Weird Tales magazine turned three years old. It was the second full year of the magazine, as well as the second full year with Farnsworth Wright as editor. I doubt that the sesquicentennial was on the minds of the publisher, editor, staff, writers, and readers of "The Unique Magazine." At least I haven't found any evidence that it was.

Weird Tales is supposed to have been the first American magazine devoted exclusively to fantastic fiction. But was it really? Part of the problem with this idea is that most people don't really know what weird fiction is. They don't seem to know that weird fiction is not necessarily the same as fantasy or horror. Weird fiction is, I think, its own separate sub-genre. There need not be a fantastic or supernatural element in a work of weird fiction. There should be, however, a weird element. It's not weird if it doesn't have weird.

I haven't read every issue of Weird Tales in the period beginning in March 1923 and ending in March 1926. (The month of March is important for a reason. We'll get to that in a minute.) What I can say is that not every story in the issues that I have read is a tale of fantasy, pseudoscience, or supernatural horror. Without reading further, I can't say which issue, if any, was the very first devoted exclusively to fantasy during that three-year period. However . . .

In April 1926, a new magazine appeared on newsstands in America. Although it had its predecessors, it was "a new sort of magazine." That was in fact the title of the opening essay of Amazing Stories, edited by Hugo Gernsback. There were only six stories in that inaugural issue. All were reprints, but all were fantastic. Until we know something different, Amazing Stories will have to remain as a candidate for the first American magazine devoted exclusively to fantastic fiction.

By the way, the first several issues of Amazing Stories were made up of all reprints. One of those was "The Malignant Entity" by Otis Adelbert Kline, originally in Weird Tales in May/June/July 1924.

Something else big happened in April 1926. That was the month in which H.P. Lovecraft returned to Providence after two years of marriage and life in New York City. The exact date was April 17, 1926. Later that year, in the summer in fact, Lovecraft wrote "The Call of Cthulhu," which was published in the February 1928 issue of Weird Tales. And another something else big happened in regards to Lovecraft when Weird Tales published his story "The Outsider" in its issue of April 1926.

August Derleth made his debut in the pages of "The Unique Magazine" in May 1926. His story was "Bat's Belfry." He had just turned sixteen years old when it appeared. Perhaps he submitted it at the age of fifteen, thereby making of himself a prodigy. In July 1926, Bassett Morgan had her first story in Weird Tales. She was a popular but not a prolific author. She lived to see the American bicentennial. In August 1926, "The Woman of the Wood" by A. Merritt was published. It proved to be the most popular story in Weird Tales in the period 1924 to 1938. Edmond Hamilton had his first story in Weird Tales in that same August issue. His was entitled "The Monster-God of Mamurth." In September 1926, Everil Worrell made her debut with "The Bird of Space."

Harry Houdini died on October 31, 1926. He had contributed to Weird Tales as it struggled through the first half of 1924. Cleveland Moffett, who was in a later incarnation of Weird Tales, had preceded him in death, on October 14. Marietta Hawley, aka "Josiah Allen's Wife," died on March 1, 1926. Her poem "The Haunted Castle" was printed posthumously in Weird Tales.

Richard Matheson, Anne McCaffrey, Roger Corman, J.O. Jeppson, Frank M. Robinson, Jeffrey Hunter, and Poul Anderson were born in 1926. Only the late Mr. Matheson was in Weird Tales.

Also in 1926, The Moon Maid by Edgar Rice Burroughs was published in book form, combining his Moon trilogy of "The Moon Maid" (1923), "The Moon Men" (1925), and "The Red Hawk" (1925). None of those stories was in Weird Tales, but knowing that didn't stop me from writing about them awhile back. The year 2026 is in the Moon trilogy: it's the year that Julian 5th and his crew land on the Moon. As it turns out, the middle book of the trilogy is about a future dystopia in which the Moon Men rule over the people of Earth. Julian 6th, who keeps as a piece of contraband an American flag, leads a revolt against the Moon Men. Unfortunately it fails. Nonetheless, "The Moon Men" is a pro-American and patriotic work. Larger than that, it is pro-human and pro-freedom. Burroughs hardly seems to have been capable of it, but he wrote a visionary work. Writing more than one hundred years ago, he looked ahead to our time, the current year, and in some ways our current situation. Flags and the flying of flags have become controversial, not only in the United States but also in Europe. People should be able to fly the American flag, the Pine Tree Flag, the Gadsden Flag, and, in the United Kingdom, the Union Jack without fear of disapproval and vilification by their own governments and scolds in the mainstream media. But that isn't always true today.

This year I will write about Weird Tales and its authors of 1926, but I also plan to write about other things, including meeting some requests, returning to some unfinished series from the past, and completing some entries that have lingered in draft form for months and years. I invite you to remain, to read and learn, if I have anything to teach you, and to leave comments in the space below. Welcome to the sixteenth calendar year of my blog.

A poster for the Sesquicentennial International Exposition in Philadelphia, June 1 to December 1, 1926. Art by Dan Smith (1865-1934). Published by Elliot Brewer. The half-clad woman in this image would seem to be Liberty. Referred to in the caption as "The Voice of the Liberty Bell," she seems to be emerging from the bell as from a cornucopia, bearing the Stars and Stripes and shedding stars as she emerges like a new constellation. The clock in the bell tower of Independence Hall reads 5:12 or thereabouts. I like to think that I'm up on my knowledge of the American Revolution, but I can't think of any significance as to the time. I guess it had to read one time or another, but I'm always on the lookout for secret and hidden meanings in things. 

Citation: "The Sesquicentennial International Exposition, Philadelphia," Smith, Dan, 1926, Library Broadside Collection, 34463, Tennessee State Library and Archives, Tennessee Virtual Archive, https://teva.contentdm.oclc.org/digital/collection/broadsides/id/36, accessed 2025-12-27.

Text and caption copyright 2026 Terence E. Hanley

Merry Christmas!

Galaxy Science Fiction, January 1956, with cover art by Emsh. We might think that January 1956 was too late for a Christmas cover, but I believe this issue would have been on the newsstand in December 1955 and so not too late after all. Science fiction asks the question What if? Well, Ed Emshwiller answered the question What if Santa Claus had to deliver Christmas presents to the stars and planets? in this clever cover illustration. Included in the cleverness is the artist's use of his signature as the name of the author of How To Manage Reindeer in Space. By the way, Emshwiller was born in 1925, and so we can add his name to the list of those for whom 2025 is the centennial of their arrivals upon Earth. As for the date in this illustration, it looks like December 2055, so one hundred years after Christmas 1955. Unfortunately, the artist was off by one day, for, according to an online future calendar created by Seattle Pacific University, Christmas 2055 will be on a Saturday rather than on a Friday. That's a meaningless quibble. But next year, in 2026, Christmas will in fact fall on a Friday. Before then, I will wish everyone a Merry Christmas!

Caption copyright 2025 Terence E. Hanley

A Lovecraft Sighting at Christmas

An essay about God, Christmas, and the birth of Jesus Christ is a strange place to find a discussion of H.P. Lovecraft, but that's where I came upon another Lovecraft sighting. As a bonus, there is also the phrase cosmic horror in the title of the essay. The essay is called "It's All Cosmic Horror Without Christmas," and it's by Brandon Morse. Go to the website RedState in order to read it. Mr. Morse's essay is dated today, December 23, 2025.

I'm planning to write more about cosmic horror in 2026. I'm afraid I haven't exhausted that topic yet. There is always more to read, more to learn, more ideas about which to think and write. One of my topics in the new year will be August Derleth on H.P. Lovecraft and Clark Ashton Smith, also a possible difference between horror and terror.

August Derleth was a Roman Catholic. H.P. Lovecraft was famously an atheist or materialist, at least at the surface, or at least a few layers down from the surface. I doubt that they would have agreed very much on what constitutes cosmic horror. I'm not sure that Derleth would have had the same kind of depth in his thinking as Lovecraft. In any case, in his essay, Brandon Morse approaches cosmic horror from the side of the believer. His approach gives us something different to think about in terms of cosmic horror. He even mentions the horrors of the Abyss. One difference  between the Christian and Lovecraftian viewpoints is that Lovecraft did not allow for a protector. We live at the mercy of malign entities. The Christian on the other hand believes that in God we have a protector of matchless power, thus Mr. Morse's title.

The following quotation is from Flannery O'Connor (1925-1964). Since reading it, these words and the idea underlying them have been on my mind:

"I am mighty tired of reading reviews that call A Good Man [Is Hard to Find] brutal and sarcastic. The stories are hard, but they are hard because there is nothing harder or less sentimental than Christian realism. . . . When I see these stories described as horror stories I am always amused because the reviewer always has hold of the wrong horror." (From a letter to Betty Hester, July 1955; presumably the ellipses are not in the original.)

An atheist or materialist is certainly capable of apprehending horror on a cosmic scale, but can his apprehension compare to that of a Christian, or perhaps more specifically to that of a Roman Catholic? I don't know. But I would like to read more from Flannery O'Connor's letter and to learn more about her conception of horror, in other words, what in her view is the "right" horror. She may or may not have been writing about horror on a specifically cosmic scale, but in Christian teaching is there much space that separates personal from cosmic horror? Or does cosmic horror descend into our lives when given a chance, distilled from vastness into potent, earthly, personal horror?

Original text copyright 2025 Terence E. Hanley

Sleep

Today is the first day of winter and the day and the earth sleep.

Gil Gerard died last week, on December 16, 2025, at age eighty-two. If you watched American television in the 1970s and '80s and were a fan of science fiction and fantasy, you remember Gil Gerard as the star of Buck Rogers in the 25th Century (1979-1981). The premise of Buck Rogers should be familiar to everyone by now: a man of an earlier time sleeps, only to awaken in a later time and to a greatly altered world.

Buck Rogers in the 25th Century was based on the comic strip of the same name, which made its debut on January 7, 1929, with art by Dick Calkins and a script by Philip Francis Nowlan. The comic strip was based in turn on Nowlan's novella Armageddon 2419 A.D., first published in Amazing Stories in August 1928. In the original, Buck is placed into suspended animation by the collapse of an old coal mine and his exposure to a radioactive gas. The date of the collapse is December 15. Throw away the year and you have the day before Gil Gerard's death, his first day of eternal sleep.

The sleeper who awakes is common in science fiction and fantasy. I have written these past two months about Washington Irving and "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow." Well, his other very famous story is "Rip Van Winkle" (1819), in which the title character sleeps twenty years, through the American Revolution, after having gotten drunk with the ghostly crew of the ship the Halve Maen. He awakens into America and his own lost past.

The sleeper or man in suspended animation is in other stories. They include: Looking Backward: 2000-1887 by Edward Bellamy (1888); When the Sleeper Awakes (1899) or The Sleeper Awakes (1910) by H.G. Wells; Beyond This Horizon by Robert A. Heinlein (1942); "The Marching Morons" by C.M. Kornbluth (1951); After Utopia by Mack Reynolds (1977); the Star Trek episode "Space Seed" (1967); The Planet of the Apes, with a script by Rod Serling (1968); Sleeper, co-written and directed by Woody Allen (1973); and Idiocracy, directed by Mike Judge (2006).

Sleeping in science fiction and fantasy is a kind of time travel. As a form of time travel, it's related to the dilation of time in relativistic physics and as such is ready-made for the science fiction author's purposes. Before falling into sleep, Gil Gerard offered us a time-and-space-travel valediction: "See You Out Somewhere in the Cosmos."

Original text copyright 2025 Terence E. Hanley

Summer & Fall Reading

I read this summer Area 51: An Uncensored History of America's Top Secret Military Base by Anne Jacobsen (2011; 2012). It's an interesting and pretty thorough history but not always very well written, especially in regards to airplanes and aviation. Anyway, the author asserts that the supposed crashdown at Roswell, New Mexico, in 1947 involved a Soviet flying saucer built using captured Nazi technology and mutated Mini-Me pilots, all without providing any evidence at all. Her description of Bob Lazar's account of seeing flying saucers and dead or injured pilots at Area 51 led me to believe that a similar scene in The Shape of Water (2017) was inspired by Mr. Lazar's supposed experience. So one fiction from another.

In September I read Ghosts, edited by Grant Overton and published in 1927 by Funk & Wagnall's. "The Two Drovers" by Sir Walter Scott tells of a most terrible event in the lives of two former friends. "Kari Aasen in Heaven" by Johan Bojer is a beautiful and charming fantasy. And "A Source of Irritation," a story of the Great War by Stacy Aumonier, is very funny. "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow" by Washington Irving is in Ghosts as well. Reading that story got me started on thinking and writing about H.P. Lovecraft, the Hudson River, and other recent topics.

In October I read A Fan's Notes: A Fictional Memoir by Frederick Exley (1968). The late Mr. Exley gave us another view of the Hudson River. Reading his book led me to write about still more topics during this past month (November-December 2025).

Also in October, I read The Negotiator by Frederick Forsyth (1989). I afterwards found out that Mr. Forsyth died earlier this year. I wrote about him and Martin Cruz Smith on November 10, 2025. They are two of the writers we lost in 2025.

Not long ago, I found a paperback book called Soviet Science Fiction, edited by Isaac Asimov and published in 1962 by Collier Books. I read it in October. There are six stories in its pages. All are good and reveal a different kind of sensibility than what you will find in western science fiction. If I had to name a favorite, it would be "Infra Draconis" by G. Gurevich (1917-1998), who was born in the month following the abdication of the Russian tsar. It made me think a little of Gateway by Frederik Pohl (1977).

In October I read The Computer Connection by Alfred Bester (1976). As with his earlier novels, this one is experimental, only more so. To meet the zeitgeist of the 1970s, it's also a little trippy. Bester mentioned Richard Nixon several times in his book. There's nothing wrong with that, but authors who include people and events of their day risk seeing their works becoming quickly dated. People of today, driven insane by their contemplations of our current president, should remember that. Their rants will not play well in the future and may prove incomprehensible to readers and viewers of the future. That's especially true of science fiction that is set in the future, for no one fifty or a hundred years from now is going to care or think about or talk about Nixon or Trump or almost anybody else from the past. They may not even know who those people are. In short, don't make your fiction outdated in the moment that you create it.

Anyway, there is a creature in The Computer Connection--I forget its name--that can be to added to The Internet Ooze, Blobs, Jellies, & Slime Database. In a book of extremely rapid-fire ideas and extrapolations, I found the earliest instance that I can remember of one fictional character addressing another as "dude," also the first instance of one character saying to another, "Wait for it, wait for it." I haven't seen the most recent Mission: Impossible movie, but reading a plot summary makes me think that there are similarities between it and Bester's novel, specifically in the attempt to evade the scrutiny of an otherwise all-seeing computer intelligence. But then we saw the same kind of thing in Colossus: The Forbin Project (1970).

In October I started to read Norstrilia by Cordwainer Smith (Ballantine Books, 1975). I didn't get very far: I had read too much science fiction and reading another such novel seemed to be even more too-much. So I turned to another type of story. (See below.) But in reading the first pages of Norstrilia, I came upon some of the same kinds of themes (or yearnings) that I had found in The Computer Connection, namely: a) Immortality; and b) Mental telepathy or psychic powers. There is a lot of both in science fiction. They seem to be the twin desires or fantasies of an awful lot of science fiction authors. That's a curious thing, considering psychic powers are a hoax or pseudoscience, while immortality is a spiritual issue and nothing else.

Mental telepathy or psychic powers are a subject of almost no appeal and no interest to me. As soon as I come across them in one book I begin to think about reading another. But if I think not about myself and my own tastes and instead about what writers tell us about themselves in the subjects that interest them and about which they write, then these things become more interesting and revealing. Thinking about them offers the reader the opportunity to explore ideas and gain insights into science fiction and its various authors. For example, an interest in mental telepathy or psychic powers would appear to be closely tied to the science-fictional concept of the superior man, or superman, so common in the 1930s, rampant in the 1940s, and continuing into the decades that followed. I imagine that some science fiction authors feel themselves superior to ordinary humans, a feeling that probably comes from a sneaking suspicion that they are in fact the opposite. Maybe a yearning for psychic powers is an adolescent power fantasy. Or maybe it's a yearning to escape from the self and to be unified with the rest of humanity in a kind of one-mind.

One thing that science fiction authors don't seem to realize is that if we could read each other's minds, writing would necessarily come to an end. Why would you express yourself and attempt to communicate through writing when you can simply meld your mind to that of another person? Why should I read what you write if I can simply see it in its original? Why wade through things conveyed by the imperfect medium of language when we can draw directly from the source? Put another way, if there were mind-reading, then that would make an end to storytelling and reading. (Even if mind-reading were possible, the mind cannot be read like words on a printed page. There actually wouldn't be any "reading" at all, but a kind of immersion in the mind-state of another person.) As for immortality, we all might seek it, but the only way open to us would seem to require the existence of God and a promised afterlife. (The idea of uploading our minds into a forever-android or -computer is both ridiculous and sophomoric.) That's probably too much for most science fiction authors, however, for men and women of this type are ultimately science-minded and science-oriented. Contemplation of God and an afterlife is probably too icky for writers of this type.

So instead of reading Norstrilia, I turned to a crime and detective novel, The Screaming Mimi by Fredric Brown (1949). That was a good choice for me. Brown's novel is closer in time and space than is Norstrilia, closer also in terms of its culture and setting (i.e., 1940s Chicago). It's more immediate and familiar than is a science fiction novel of other times and places. Norstrilia and stories like it are too distant, too remote (it's set 25,000 years in the future on a far-distant planet), and, frankly, too much of the author's own personal fantasy. The Screaming Mimi, on the other hand, takes place in the real world, or a reasonable facsimile thereof. (We should admit, however, that even hardboiled detective novels are fantasies.) I would add that The Screaming Mimi and stories like it are ultimately more human than is an outright fantasy, even if some of its plot points, moreover its climax, are somewhat mechanical or not entirely plausible. (Mechanical, that is, as the word relates to the mechanics of storytelling.) By the way, there is a lot of drinking in The Screaming Mimi. And I mean a lot of drinking. Brown seems to have known whereof he wrote.

In November I read Time of the Great Freeze by Robert Silverberg (1964). We're probably not allowed to read books like this one because it's not about global warming but instead about global cooling. I know, heresy. I'm surprised Montag the fireman hasn't come around to burn my copy into ashes, but then that would send more world-ending carbon into the atmosphere. Anyway, I read it and enjoyed it (despite the fact that there isn't even one woman in sight). It's really a boy's adventure book except that it's set in the future. Towards the end, men in aircraft arrive to save the day. That makes me think of the events in the middle sequence of the film Things to Come (1936).

In November I read A Walk Out of the World by Ruth Nichols (1960), with nice illustrations by Trina Schart Hyman. Ruth Nichols was still a teenager when she wrote her first book. I found it to be a pure, gentle, innocent, and beautiful fantasy. It was almost certainly inspired by the Chronicles of Narnia books by C.S. Lewis. The climax is refreshing. This is a woman's version of the end of a conflict versus that of a man.

Finally, I started reading McSweeney's Mammoth Treasury of Thrilling Tales (2003) in November. I find Stephen King's and Michael Crichton's stories to be two of the poorest in the book so far. The late Mr. Crichton's is very nearly pointless and gratuitous in the extreme. Elmore Leonard's is the best so far--and by a long shot, no pun intended--but then I have heard he was a good writer. And now I find that Elmore Leonard was born in 1925. I have written this year (and recently) about other people born in 1925, including Flannery O'Connor, Jack Matthews, Lou Feck, June Lockhart, Alec Penstone, and a man named Floyd, whom I saw in October at a Veterans Administration clinic in distant Appalachia.

There is in Thrilling Tales a story with needless product placement (Lego, UPS, etc.) by Dan Shaon. So now we know that such a practice goes back at least as far as 2003. I'll keep railing against it wherever I find it. The book opens with an old-fashioned adventure story, written in the naturalistic tradition, about a hunt for a Megalodon. It's a self-aware story, though, and includes an inside joke/insider information in its mention of Bernard Heuvelmans. That one is by Jim Shepard. Finally for now, there is an elephant story by Glen David Gold, one to go along with another, "Hoity-Toity" by A. Belayev, in Soviet Science Fiction. These would make the beginnings of an anthology, or, if you will allow it, an elephanthology.

Revised later in the day. I also hit the "Enter" key a few times.
Copyright 2025 Terence E. Hanley

The Monsters of Progress

In science fiction and some sub-genres of fantasy, monsters are external and their invasions come from without. Invasions can be of the old-fashioned type: monsters arrive at our doors or upon our shores like Mongol hordes or ravaging Vikings. Aliens from other planets, other lands, crossing vast oceans of space, arrive in their ships upon the shores of Earth. They mean to take over and subdue us, or to take everything we have, including our lives.

A more effective invasion, though, is an invasion from within. The alien Cthulhu invades the psyche of the sensitive artist Henry Anthony Wilcox of Providence, Rhode Island. For the duration of the Cthulhu crisis, Wilcox is taken over. He is no longer himself. Likewise, the alien ovipositor in Alien (1979), acting as an organism separate from the egg-laying alien queen, invades the very body of a crewman from Earth. He, then, is also taken over, but the invasion of his body is a physical one and not at all psychic. He is like a caterpillar to a parasitic wasp. As with the patient in Frederick Exley's fictional memoir, A Fan's Notes (1968), both men, Wilcox and the luckless crewman, have fallen victim to a "debbil" inside them. Worse still are the alien invaders that do not merely possess the human body or psyche but that actually supplant the human person within his own body or identity. He is wiped away while they advance. Think Invasion of the Body Snatchers (1956).

Invasions from without are science-fictional. Science fiction is in one sense the fiction of science, science being a development of the eighteenth through the twentieth centuries. Science doesn't account for the supernatural, of course, and not much, if at all, for anything non-material. If it can't be measured, quantified, tested, or observed, science is not interested and might even say it doesn't exist. If there are any debbils inside of us, they must come from the outside, or else something inside of us--our tissues or cells, more likely our chemicals and molecules--has gone terribly wrong. Those things can be fixed by scientific means. If you're off, it's only because the chemical soup inside you has too much of one ingredient or too little of another. If we put your chemicals back into balance, you will be yourself again. You will be perfect and happy, which is really what you are in your essential being and self. In short, all problems have material or physical solutions. That was of course the promise of science. Science would make for a better and more perfect world. In other words, through applications of science, technology, medicine, and so on, there would be progress.

In weird fiction and some other sub-genres of fantasy, the past is still alive and intrudes upon the present. Although there are sometimes external monsters in these sub-genres, science is often of little use, for it doesn't admit to the possibility of the non-material or supernatural. It cannot address the problem, let alone solve it. Progress is an illusion in weird fiction and related sub-genres. Very often, the monsters of traditional fiction (if we can call it that in opposition to science fiction) live within. They may come from without, but in moving in and taking over the human body and soul, they enter into a ready-made habitat. In our fall from grace and our cultivation of sin, corruption, depravity, and impurity, we carve out places in our hearts for the arrival of the debbil. We build it and he comes.

In preparing to write this, I have read a little about the idea of progress. One article I read traces the modern concept of progress to Francis Bacon (1561-1626). (Bacon is Progress.) I'm not a philosopher and know nothing about Bacon. My thoughts were going in another direction, namely, towards Jean-Jacques Rousseau (1712-1778) and the idea that human beings are good and pure but that we are corrupted by an imperfect society. If Rousseau was the originator of that idea, then he would seem to have been saying that our debbils are not internal but are in fact external. Monsters are placed inside of us by the motile ovipositor of the society in which we live. If we can perfect society, then the debbil can be exorcised and man can be made perfectly happy again. That's what progress is all about: a return to a perfect state.

So my hypostulatin' in all of this is towards the idea that the monsters of progress are external and that they came from the outside for as long as science and science-mindedness were viewed as the wave of the future. In other words, for as long as science fiction was strong and pervasive, the threat of the monster emanated from somewhere outside of our pure selves. (Remember that the stereotypical--and flat--science fiction hero is perfect and without flaw.) Before there was science and science fiction, though, the monster threatened from within, from the weak and corrupted human heart. Call it a heart of darkness. And now that science and science fiction are not pervasive and seem to have weakened greatly, the monster--that black mental patient's debbil--emanates from within. "The horror, the horror" is not out there but in here. But then that's where tradition has always placed it, I think. And poor Ichabod Crane may have been simply the victim of an elaborate prank.

Copyright 2025 Terence E. Hanley

More Views of the Hudson River-Part Six

Frederick Exley was born in Watertown, New York, in 1929. His birthplace isn't anywhere near the Hudson River. Instead, Exley had views of the river and its valley and towns while being institutionalized for alcoholism and mental illness during the 1950s. His struggles and experiences gave him much of the material for A Fan's Notes, his "fictional memoir" published in 1968.

Exley was the fan of his title, for he was obsessed with the New York Giants, especially with Frank Gifford, who had been a student and star athlete at the University of Southern California during Exley's attendance there in 1950-1952. The Giants aren't having much of a season this year, but Gifford gave fans a lot to cheer about in the 1950s. Both men left USC in 1952. Gifford soared. Exley on the other hand crashed. It was only with the writing (and success) of his novel that Exley began coming back. Kurt Vonnegut and James Dickey praised A Fan's Notes. Newsday called it "the best novel written in the English language since The Great Gatsby." Maybe Newsday was primed to make the comparison by references and allusions to F. Scott Fitzgerald's novel in Exley's own. These include the following passage:

     In the afternoons I lay face up on a water mattress and watched the compact white clouds run down the sky, or face down looking into the blue-green water--chlorinated and temulent to the smell--of the mail-order, children's swimming pool on which I floated. (Vintage Books, 1988, p. 368)

One difference is that Gatsby died afloat in his swimming pool, whereas Exley lived.

Exley mentioned other authors and books in A Fan's Notes. These include Washington Irving, George Orwell and 1984, and Nathaniel Hawthorne and The Scarlet Letter. He didn't mention H.P. Lovecraft, but there are comparisons there, too. Like Lovecraft, Exley suffered from self-imposed malnutrition, his due to alcoholism. In describing his institutionalization, Exley wrote: "We had failed our families by our inability to function properly in society (as good a definition of insanity as any)." (p. 75; italics in the original) Although Lovecraft was never institutionalized, I think he also suffered from the same inability. And now I find in rereading page 75 of my Vintage edition that Exley used a phrase also used in Lovecraft: "they told us terrifying stories of the indignities that would be heaped upon us down there." Compare that to two uses of the same phrase in "The Call of Cthulhu":

When I think of the extent of all that may be brooding down there I almost wish to kill myself forthwith.

And

The odour arising from the newly opened depths was intolerable, and at length the quick-eared Hawkins thought he heard a nasty, slopping sound down there. 

Depths and descent are themes in both works. In A Fan's Notes, the descent is more psychological than physical, even if the quote from above refers to a descent into a lower part of the hospital.

There are horrors in Exley's fictionalized memoir. Many of these have to do with how psychiatric patients were treated in the 1950s and early '60s, including by insulin shock treatment. There is another type of horror, too . . .

Joseph Conrad isn't in A Fan's Notes, either. Earlier this year, I wrote about Conrad and his novella Heart of Darkness (1899). The most famous line from that story is of course Marlow's last words: "The horror! The horror!" In my Dell edition of Heart of Darkness, a previous owner underlined different passages and made notes in the margins. One bit of that person's marginalia reads:

". . . is horror, horror out there or in here?"

And this is where my insight, if it is one, arrives.

In "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow," the horror or terror is external to the person. Ichabod Crane is normal and stable. Although Irving's narrator leaves open the possibility that Ichabod was finally terrified by a supernatural occurrence, the more likely explanation is that Brom Bones is the one to have put a scare into him by masquerading, Scooby-Doo style, as the Headless Horseman.

In "The Call of Cthulhu" (Weird Tales, Feb. 1928), the horror is also external in the form of Cthulhu himself, and to a lesser extent in his worshippers and acolytes. But the horror is also internal for some people, including the artist Henry Anthony Wilcox of Providence, Rhode Island. In late March and early April, coinciding with the worldwide Cthulhu crisis, Wilcox is possessed as if he were overcome by a terrible hallucinatory fever. He isn't himself. Others in the story suffer from psychological torments and fears as well. They have in a sense internalized an external horror. It occurs to me now that maybe their author in his own life externalized internal horrors.

Thirty years or more after that, Exley, while in the hospital, encounters another psychiatric patient, who tells him "that there was a man within him, pestering him, allowing him no peace." The man asks him to listen at his diaphragm, "the exact location of the man." Exley listens, hearing nothing. Nonetheless, he asks his interlocutor what the man is saying. "'He say he the debbil,'" is the reply, "'an' he gwoan kill me.'" (p. 73)

There is more on the man with the devil inside him (on pages following page 73--these show Exley's far different view of race in America than what Lovecraft expressed) and a further explication of the black man's--and Exley's--problem. The point is that, in a novel of a No-Longer-Romantic America, one of the postwar period and the 1960s, "the horror, the horror," was already internalized. There were external horrors to be sure--insulin shock treatment was one--but in the time between 1819-1820 when Irving's story was published and 1968 when Exley's first saw print, horror became internalized. The human heart--a heart often of darkness--became the source of the world's horrors instead of some externality. Joseph Conrad must have recognized that (during Freud's first decade as a published author), and so the migration of horror from external to internal sources had already commenced by then. Lovecraft recognized it in his own writings of the 1910s to the 1930s. And in an episode of his own first novel, Frederick Exley seems to have confirmed it.

I have mentioned Freud here because Exley did, too. He writes: "In the modern and enlightened sunshine of Freud, in this Anacreontic milieu where we were all going to be absolved of guilt and its ensuing remorse, Hawthorne had seemed to me irrelevant and spurious." (p. 367) But Exley returned to Hawthorne, learned a new appreciation of him, and even "developed a crush" on him. Conrad may or may not have been a romantic author (or "Romantic Realist" as Ruth M. Stauffer put it in a study from 1922; he was certainly conservative), but maybe he followed an older example, disregarding science and "progress" in favor of a traditional understanding of the human heart. That confuses things a little, and maybe mine is no insight after all. Maybe a discovery that horrors are internal rather than external is simply a return to tradition. If that's true, then maybe external horrors are left as artifacts of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. Our monsters and ghosts were and are from within.

* * *

Another of the authors mentioned in A Fan's Notes was Harlan Hatcher (1898-1998), with whom Exley had taken a course at USC. Exley mentioned him in relation to Ernest Hemingway and the days both men spent in Paris during the 1920s. (According to Exley, Hatcher did not know Hemingway. He only knew of him. See pp. 128-129.) I recognized Hatcher's name, for in late summer I had read from The Ohio Guide, compiled by Harlan Hatcher and published in 1940. Hatcher was born in Ironton, Ohio, and taught at Ohio State University but became president of football rival University of Michigan. I'm always fascinated by these nexi and coincidences, even when they don't signify anything greater than themselves or have any occult meaning. Anyway, this is the first of these final notes on my series on Washington Irving, H.P. Lovecraft, and the Hudson River, all of which are personal rather than external. They are in here rather than out there.

A Fan's Notes is not the kind of book you should read when you have slipped through the cracks of the world. I didn't know that when I began reading it during my five-weeks-and-a-day. I read it anyway. Sometimes it dragged and sometimes not. I got through it and I'm glad I read it, even if I don't have as high opinion of it as the writers of the cover blurbs. Chapter 6 is entitled "Who? Who? Who is Mr. Blue?" I was reading that chapter in my tent, by flashlight, when I heard a barred owl call, "Who? Who? Who?" Then it flew away, and I heard two owls exchanging their more recognizable call, "Who cooks for you?" Another thing you should know about barred owls: they sometimes begin their calling with the most terrible and ghastly of screams.

Finally, Frederick Exley married on October 31, 1959, exactly sixty-six years before my drive on Halloween night, 2025, which ended my five-weeks-and-a-day. I drove under a half moon that night, the same fraction that inspired the name of Henry Hudson's ship, Halve Maen, or Half Moon, on which he and his crew sailed up the Hudson River in 1609.

Original text copyright 2025 Terence E. Hanley