Weird Fiction & Regional Fiction

Weird fiction can be seen as a type of regional fiction. Setting in weird fiction is important, as is a familial, cultural, or historical past tied to a specific place. Sometimes we don't know where a weird tale is taking place. That can be disconcerting. We don't know where to anchor our reading or understanding of such a tale, nor our feelings about it. Part of the effect of a weird tale is in making the reader feel disoriented or dislocated. It's better, I think, when that feeling of disorientation or dislocation has to do with the events and occurrences in a story rather than with its setting, location, or sense of place. I think it's better to feel connected to a real (or real-fictional) place but perhaps otherwise disconnected, at least for a time, as we read. We as readers don't do well when we're floating or in free fall, out of touch with anything solid. The Rentharpian Hills aren't a real place, nor is Arkham or Innsmouth, but each has the characteristics of a real place and all are believable in that way. If there are three things in a story, one or two of them can be fantastic, but at least one of them should be real and plausible, a thing that attaches it to someplace on planet Earth and a normal, recognizable experience. The reader should feel like he or she could go to that place, or to the edge of it. Whether he or she can proceed and a weird experience ensues is another story.

The same thing can be said--i.e., that it can be seen as a type of regional fiction--of Gothic or Romantic fiction, for example, William Faulkner's Mississippi. Faulkner even invented his own county--Yoknapatawpha County--the name of which reads like something the demigod Wilbur Whateley would cry from the top of Sentinel Hill.

In contrast, it doesn't make much sense to talk about a regional science fiction. There are science fiction authors who have set their stories in a specific real-fictional place. Tales from the White Hart by Arthur C. Clark (1957) comes to mind, but that's not a perfect example. As I write, I can't think of a science-fictional place or region that is equivalent to the weird-fictional place or region, the perfect example of which is H.P. Lovecraft's New England. (Ramsey Campbell's Severn Valley is another. We're reading his stories for our book club meeting this evening.) The whole point of science fiction is to be expansive, to move forward and reach outward, not to be confined, isolated, inward, shrunken, or backward-looking as in weird fiction; to seem real and to be as plausible as possible; to be freed from the past and not in search of origins, as Gothic or Romantic fiction is, if Ronald Schleifer is correct. In other words, science fiction strives to be novelistic. That is my sense anyway.

If there was an era of weird fiction in American, British, and Irish literature, it might have begun in the 1870s or '80s and to have come to a close in the late 1930s or around the time that World War II began. That roughly seventy-year period (i.e., threescore-and-ten-years, or the biblical allotment of a man's life) corresponds roughly to the era of regionalism or local color in literature, at least in the United States. If the war brought an end to the era of weird fiction, it may also have brought an end to the era of regionalism, possibly for some of the same reasons.

I have looked for dates inclusive of regionalism in America, but I haven't found any such thing. I think of that period as from the post-Civil War period or Reconstruction to the post-Great Depression, specifically to the years of World War II, the Cold War, and the more homogeneous, nationwide culture of the 1950s and after. The 1930s seem to have been the last decade in which Americans stayed within their own locality, state, or region and to have thought of their world in those terms. There are historians who have posited or believe in cycles in American history. I wonder if there have also been cycles of genre fiction, from weird fiction or fantasy to science fiction, then to weird fiction or fantasy and so on; or periods of Gothic-Romantic fiction, followed by periods of Realistic-Novelistic fiction, followed by, etc. But that's something for another day.

Four cover illustrations by women artists, the first by Käthe Kollwitz (1867-1945), the next three by Margaret Brundage (1900-1976). The first has great power. The figure in black is amorphous and unidentifiable. The artist has captured an incredible struggle. Put the next three together and they have some of the same visual and compositional elements as the first. However, they lack its power. These pictures are not illustrative of regional fiction, but maybe they show in some small way that weird fiction--and by extension all of genre fiction--did not exist in a cultural vacuum. Maybe they also show, again in some small way, that weird fiction is a diminutive of Gothic or Romantic fiction, or of fiction as a whole.

Text and caption copyright 2026 Terence E. Hanley

Reactions and Reactionaries-Part Four

From December 2017, updated to 2026.

No natural science can hold its own in the struggle against the onslaught of bourgeois ideas and the restoration of the bourgeois world outlook unless it stands on solid philosophical ground. In order to hold his own in this struggle and carry it to a victorious finish, the natural scientist must be a modern materialist, a conscious adherent of the materialism represented by Marx, i.e., he must be a dialectical materialist.

--V.I. Lenin, The Significance of Militant Materialism (1922)

In 2011, Marvin Kaye and his partnership Nth Dimension Media acquired the rights or license to publish Weird Tales magazine. The editor, Ann VanderMeer, stayed on, but not for long. She left in August 2012. I don't know what her reaction was to the whole situation, but her husband, Jeff VanderMeer, was obviously upset by it. I can sympathize. On the other hand, if he had wanted Weird Tales to be a certain thing--his thing--he should have acquired the rights or the license himself. Instead, Marvin Kaye took over. Unfortunately, he and Nth Dimension Media published only four issues of their new charge from 2012 to 2019. There weren't any issues at all in the period 2015 to 2018.

Marvin Kaye's acquisition of the Weird Tales, effectively removing it from the VanderMeers' control, can be seen as a counterrevolution, as a reactionary attempt to restore the ancien régime. The Cthulhu Mythos issue, published in Fall 2012, can be seen as a shot through the heart of the attempted revolution against H.P. Lovecraft, his work, and older forms in general, what has been called "the Old Weird." It might also be seen as a move against the dissolution of what the VanderMeers and writers in their circle had seemingly judged to be a cohesive genre, governed by tradition and convention. In the pages of Weird Tales at least, there would be no more radical attempts at remaking "the Old Weird" into the genre-crossing, genre-bending, anything-goes "New Weird." We should note that Marvin Kaye was born less than a year after Lovecraft died, and so there was a kind of continuity in the life, if there is such a thing, of weird fiction.

To her great credit, Ann VanderMeer made sure that Weird Tales was published year after year, for six years anyway, from 2007 to 2012 inclusive. During her tenure, it was an award-winning magazine. The late Mr. Kaye was less successful in those two ways. Is that evidence that a more conservative approach to genre fiction was no longer viable? Was a "New Weird" approach better in commercial or artistic terms? I don't know. But in 2023, the new, new editor of Weird Tales, Jonathan Maberry, put out a Cosmic Horror Issue, and though he used stories by "New Weird"-type authors, that issue fell back on old--even old and moldy--concepts, themes, and conventions (e.g., Vril). Remember here that cosmic horror is a synonym for Lovecraftian horror, and so Lovecraft and "the Old Weird" had come back. I wonder what Ann and Jeff VanderMeer thought of that. I wonder what relationship, if any, they have with Mr. Maberry, who relied on his friends to provide him with content, like Andy Hardy putting on a show. Mr. VanderMeer is not represented in the Cosmic Horror Issue, nor is his name in Mr. Maberry's list of authors who write or wrote cosmic horror stories. I have never read any of Jeff VanderMeer's fiction, so I can't say whether he has written in that sub-genre or not.

Charles Fort's complaint against science was that scientists had set their facts--their data--as separate and discontinuous from all other data. Those other data, then, were excluded. They were damned. Before he wrote The Book of the Damned (1919), Fort wrote science fiction stories, all of which he destroyed. Maybe he became a gadfly of science because of his own struggles with the nascent genre of science fiction. In any case, if scientists and science-minded people are correct in their worldview, and science fiction is the fiction of science, then it would follow that science fiction is discontinuous with all other genres. If science is purely materialistic, then any fiction based on science must also be purely materialistic. No fantasy, ghosts, spirits, or non-material forces of any kind, including psychic powers, allowed. And if V.I. Lenin, a thoroughgoing materialist, was right and the natural sciences must be Marxist in orientation, then from the Marxist point of view, science fiction can't be anything but Marxist.

Unfortunately for the science fiction author oriented towards Marxism, that would mean the end of his genre, for Marxism is demonstrably and has repeatedly been a failure of epic and murderous proportions. What artist--not propagandist but artist--would want any part of that? If writers of "the New Weird" or any other "new" genre or sub-genre or sub-sub-genre would hope to model their beliefs on Marxism or its offshoots, or perhaps on any codified a priori or gnostic system, then they, too, will fail in artistic or intellectual terms--and almost certainly in commercial terms. Editors, publishers, distributors, and sellers of books work for corporations. The vast majority of readers are middle class, in other words, part of the Marxist's hated bourgeoisie. Why would any of them want to read about how terrible they are or why they should be torn down and cast upon the ash heap of History? On the other hand, there are those who despise themselves and everything they have come from, including their own families, the middle class, Christianity, Western civilization, and the European-style nation-state. Maybe they like reading stories of destruction. Maybe that's why so much genre fiction is dark, depressing, violent, bloody, gory, and nihilistic. Even H.P. Lovecraft, a supposed materialist, spared humanity in "The Call of Cthulhu." He didn't hate us enough to destroy us just yet. And so people keep reading Lovecraft, despite his frequent darkness and pessimism. Meanwhile, "the New Weird" has grown old and gray. Maybe at this point it has one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel.

Anyway, I would wager that any science fiction or other genre or sub-genre based on Marxist, materialistic, or atheistic ideas will wither and die because we as human beings have an undeniable non-material and spiritual aspect. It is a lie to say that we are merely material. Although lies can live, they are mortal, whereas the truth is eternal and imperishable--the truth will out, while lies can live only in the dark, including in the dark heart of the hateful, despairing, and vengeful Marxist.

Red Menace #47, "War-Maker," from a trading card issued by Bowman in 1951. Note the ape with a scimitar, wading in blood. This is not Poe's orangutan. If you're a Marxist, Mao Tse-tung is one of your buddies. You might as well own him. In this picture he has a green face, like Frankenstein's monster or Cthulhu or an alien from space. The unknown artist could not have anticipated the current Red-Green coalition that seeks to tear down Western civilization. Or maybe I should call it a Red-Green-Green coalition.

Text copyright 2017, 2026 Terence E. Hanley

The New Weird Anthology-Part Two

From December 2017, updated for 2026.

The New Weird is an anthology of fiction and essays published in 2008 by Tachyon Publications and edited by Ann VanderMeer and Jeff VanderMeer. There are in this book fifteen stories, plus a seven-part round-robin story, eleven essays, a list of recommended reading, and biographical notes on the contributors. Eleven of the fifteen stories were published previously. A twelfth, "Crossing into Cambodia: A Story of the Third World War" by Michael Moorcock, was originally published in 1979. evidently written in 1979 but not published until in this book. [See the comment below. Thank you, Mr. Trepniak for the correction.] The point here is to get at what is called "the New Weird." I'm not convinced there is such a thing, but I'm only just beginning. Already, in reading about Michael Moorcock, the first writer on the list to follow, I'm starting to see into the phylogeny of this supposedly new sub-genre or sub-sub-genre of fantasy. ["The New Weird" is obviously not new anymore in 2026, but then it may never have been new.]

I asked a friend what is "the New Weird." He said that it's weird fiction that departs from the supposed racism, sexism, misogyny, etc., of a previous era. I take that to mean that it is specifically a reaction to H.P. Lovecraft. In reading about "the New Weird," I have also gotten the idea that it's a general reaction to the conservatism of twentieth-century fantasy in the work not only of Lovecraft but also of J.R.R. Tolkien, and to a lesser extent, C.S. Lewis.

I have already written at length about the inherent conservatism in fantasy vs. the implicit progressivism of science fiction. They are, after all, genres about opposites: fantasy is about the past, while science fiction is about the future. Of course, racism, sexism, misogyny, etc., are not necessary parts of weird fiction. Yes, there are weird fiction stories that include these things, but they don't have to be in there in order for it to be proper weird fiction. If you doubt, that, read, for example, the stories of C.L. Moore. To go more deeply, though, I suppose that to readers and writers of certain political persuasions, anything that is conservative is necessarily racist, sexist, and so on. I guess the idea is that if we're going to rid weird fiction of these things, the past must be overthrown and weird fiction remade, hence "the New Weird."

I don't think Lovecraft goes very easily into the same basket as Tolkien and Lewis. Although he was a Tory, Lovecraft's conservatism seems to me a kind of default position, sometimes an affectation, perhaps also a psychological response to the facts of his childhood. It's worth pointing out, too, that Lovecraft loosened up as he aged. He even had nice things to say about socialism, as so many people did in the 1930s. By socialism, I mean both types--those two angry bedfellows known as international and national socialism, that, although they may hate each other, also can't live without each other.

Lovecraft was also a materialist and an atheist. He would seem to have philosophical sympathizers among today's readers and writers of fantasy, especially of "the New Weird." Tolkien and Lewis on the other hand were devout Christians. It seems to me that their conservatism came more naturally to them than Lovecraft's and that it was less a reaction to loneliness and alienation than it was a choice, certainly in the case of the ex-atheist Lewis, who consciously and joyously converted to a new faith.

Jim Morrison was onto something when he sang, "Women seem wicked/When you're unwanted." Replace "women" with "black people," "brown people," "foreigners," "Jewish people," etc., and you might have a better idea of where Lovecraft's fear of and hostility towards these groups came from. People who perceive themselves at the bottom of the ladder are always looking to get one rung up. They often do that by trying to push another guy down. Those who feel inferior often try to boost themselves by talking down someone else. In any case, I would like to write about the authors represented in The New Weird in chronological order by their work. In writing about the first author, I believe I'll get pretty quickly to the origins and essence of this supposedly new sub-genre (or sub-sub-genre or . . .)

To be continued . . .

Copyright 2017, 2026 Terence E. Hanley

100 Years of Amazing Stories

In April 1926, H.P. Lovecraft returned from Brooklyn to his Providence home. In New York, he had been an outsider. Once in Rhode Island again, he was an insider, at least in his own life and his own home. Weird Tales published "The Outsider" in its issue of April 1926. Lovecraft could easily have read it on his train ride home. If he had, would he have seen any irony in his situation? After all, he had gone out into the world, just like his narrator, and now he was on his way home again. Except that he was happy.

I have written before about "The Outsider." I wrote then about Frankenstein's monster and Kaspar Hauser, two other outsiders who only wanted to be in. But they never could be. And now I think that Grendel could have been an outsider made bitter and murderous by his awareness of his situation. He was a march-stepper, a wanderer along borderlands, like Lovecraft. Could he have once seen himself in a mirror? Could that have driven him away to lurk in fen and fastness? Probably not, for Grendel was not a modern man.*

Lovecraft could have read another magazine on the way home that spring. That one was the first issue of Amazing Stories, published in New York City by Hugo Gernsback. Weird Tales is supposed to have been the first American magazine devoted entirely to fantasy fiction. I'm not sure that that's true. It would take a lot of reading through the first thirty issues of the magazine, published from March 1923 to March 1926, to find out whether it is so. But we can be sure that the first issue of Amazing Stories was full of fantasy and nothing else. It was the first fully science-fictional magazine in America. I wonder if Lovecraft read it at all. He must have. But how early in its history of publication?

Here are the contents of Amazing Stories #1, adapted from the Speculative Fiction Database:

• "A New Sort of Magazine," editorial by Hugo Gernsback
• "Off on a Comet, or Hector Servadac," part one of a two-part serial by Jules Verne (1877)
• "The New Accelerator" by H. G. Wells (1901)
• "The Man from the Atom" by G. Peyton Wertenbaker (1923)
• "The Thing from -- 'Outside'" by George Allan England (1923)
• "The Man Who Saved the Earth" by Austin Hall (1919)
• "The Facts in the Case of M. Valdemar" by Edgar Allan Poe (1845)

All of these stories were reprints. Wells, Hall, and Poe also had stories in Weird Tales. Note that Hall's story is of "The Man Who . . ." type, while England's is of "The Thing . . ." type. England's story is also about "the outside," just as Lovecraft's story in Weird Tales that month was. I'm sure his was a different type of outside. The cover art and three interior illustrations of that inaugural issue were by Frank R. Paul. F.S. Hynd illustrated Poe's story.

Amazing Stories is still around, although it isn't currently in print but only on line. Unfortunately, it allows its contributors to use AI tools in the writing of their stories. I don't have to tell you that I hate AI in writing and art. Even so, I'll say: 

Happy 100th Anniversary to Amazing Stories!

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*There is another outsider who looks in on and raids the celebrations of men. He is the Grinch. Could his name and Grendel's have come from the same root? Most obviously: grin, from the Old English grennian, "to show the teeth (in pain or anger)," or the Old Norse grenja, "to howl."

Amazing Stories, April 1926, with cover art by Frank R. Paul. Those are skaters, I presume on one of the moons of Saturn. Have they arrived on sailing ships? Update (Apr. 2, 2026): Good old me, comment below, has pointed out that the illustration is for "Off on a Comet, or Hector Servadac" by Jules Verne. Thank you, Good old me.

Original text copyright 2026 Terence E. Hanley

H.P. Lovecraft, Cosmic Horror, & August Derleth-Part Two

August Derleth quoted Harold Farnese on H.P. Lovecraft, putting words at the tip of Lovecraft's pen that were never there.

Derleth also misquoted Lovecraft in a newspaper column called "The New Books," published in the Madison, Wisconsin, Capital Times on August 2, 1942. His subject was Clark Ashton Smith and his new book Out of Space and Time (Arkham House, 1942). Derleth wrote:

"None strikes the note of cosmic horror so well as Clark Ashton Smith," wrote the late great master of the macabre H.P. Lovecraft.

It's nice that Smith was getting some press. Somewhat questionable is the idea that Derleth the reviewer was promoting in his column a book that Derleth the publisher had just made available for sale. Unacceptable is the fact that Derleth misquoted his "late great master," for what Lovecraft actually wrote, in "Supernatural Horror in Literature," is this:

Of younger Americans, none strikes the note of cosmic terror so well as the California poet, artist, and fictionist Clark Ashton Smith [. . .].

Emphasis added in both quotes.

So Derleth replaced "terror" with "horror." You might call that a quibble. Someone else might see it differently. After all, terror and horror are not the same thing. More to the point, by 1942, "cosmic horror," perhaps already synonymous with Lovecraftian horror, at least in the fan's imagination, had probably become or was beginning to become a thing.* Clark Ashton Smith may have written Lovecraftian tales of cosmic horror, but Lovecraft didn't say that. Derleth did, thereby putting words into Lovecraft's mouth. Again we have to wonder whether this was a simple mistake or misinterpretation, or something done because it suited Derleth's purposes. Did he seek to make a claim to "cosmic horror" as a concept in the way that he seems to have done to the ideas and works of H.P. Lovecraft? Answering that question would take more research than what I can accomplish right now. I'll just add that in her review of Out of Time and Space, Gail Stackpole of the Oroville (California) Mercury-Register was original in describing Smith's collection as "these tales of cosmic horror" (Nov. 12, 1942).

In misquoting Lovecraft in print, Derleth once again propagated an inaccurate idea about his subject, in this case Clark Ashton Smith. When Robert Elder wrote his obituary of Smith (Auburn [California] Journal, Aug. 17, 1961), he perpetuated that idea, using Derleth's exact words--"cosmic horror"--from 1942. Elder may have used Derleth's previous review as a source for his quote. Again, this might be just so much quibbling, but if "cosmic horror" is a real category, we should use the term describing it with as much precision as possible. A larger principle is that we should be as assiduous in our research and as accurate in our quotations as we can be.

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*The first use of the modifier Lovecraftian in newspapers that I have found was by William T. Evjue, writing in the Capital Times on November 28, 1945, in regards to an essay ("Tales of the Marvellous and Ridiculous") by Edmund Wilson in The New Yorker (Nov. 24, 1945). The first of its opposite, un-Lovecraftian, is in R.S. Devon's review of The Lurker at the Threshold by August Derleth (1945), in the same paper on December 31, 1945. I agree with Devon that Derleth's book is un-Lovecraftian, possibly even anti-Lovecraftian. I have written before on Wilson and The Lurker at the Threshold. Click on the name and title for a link.

Original text copyright 2026 Terence E. Hanley

H.P. Lovecraft, Cosmic Horror, & August Derleth-Part One

The phrase "cosmic horror" or "cosmic horrors" was in use as early as 1879, though not in the way scholars, fans, and readers of genre fiction use it today. That kind of meaning came later, perhaps around the turn of the nineteenth century, certainly by the pulp fiction era of the 1920s through the 1940s. I base all of this on an online search of newspaper articles from the nineteenth and twentieth centuries.

The word cosmic is in "Supernatural Horror in Literature" by H.P. Lovecraft (1927; 1933-1935; 1939). The exact phrase "cosmic horror" appears five times in his essay. There are other "cosmic" phrases as well:

• "cosmic mystery"
• "cosmic fear"
• "cosmic terror"
• "cosmic tragedy"
• "cosmic setting"
• "cosmic unreality"
• "cosmic panic"
• "cosmic malignity"
• "cosmic adumbrations"
• "cosmic space"
• "cosmic alienage"
• "cosmic aberration"
• "cosmic fright"
• "the . . . cosmic"

It's clear that Lovecraft took what he thought of as a cosmic view of things and that he did it pretty early on in the history of pulp fiction. I guess that's why cosmic horror is now also called Lovecraftian horror and is so closely associated with him. I'm not sure how much cosmic horror as a sub-genre has changed in the one hundred and one years since Lovecraft first sat down to write. It seems like many authors still compose under a Lovecraftian spell.

"Supernatural Horror in Literature" was first reprinted in book form in The Outsider and Others (1939). Lovecraft's first book, published posthumously, was also the first volume issued by Arkham House, then owned and run by August Derleth and Donald Wandrei. Derleth was an acolyte of Lovecraft. As I have written before, Derleth seems to have loved what Lovecraft did so much that he wanted to make it his own, even if that meant altering it from its original form. Maybe a wise thing to do is to be suspect of everything that Derleth wrote about his master until you can confirm that his words were indeed Lovecraft's own.

It was August Derleth who coined the phrase "Cthulhu mythos." That phrase does not appear in Lovecraft's oeuvre as far as I know. Derleth, a devout Catholic, also tried to turn Lovecraft's material, amoral, indifferent, and even malignant cosmos (and its opposite, chaos) into a battleground between good and evil. At least that's how I understand it. I don't know the exact location of that idea. Maybe there isn't just one location. In any case, Lovecraft scholar S.T. Joshi put a torch to that and other ideas by and about Derleth in his review of A Look Behind the Derleth Mythos: Origins of the Cthulhu Mythos by John B. Haeffle (Odense, Denmark: H. Harksen Productions, 2012). You can read what Mr. Joshi wrote on his own website by clicking here.

One of Derleth's ideas came from a supposed quotation of Lovecraft's words in a letter from Lovecraft to Los Angeles-based musician, composer, and teacher Harold Farnese. Farnese had lost track of Lovecraft's letter to him, and so when Derleth wrote to Farnese after Lovecraft's death, Farnese attempted a paraphrase. That paraphrase, the infamous "black magic quotation" or BMQ, originated with Farnese. (The phrase "black magic quotation" and acronym BMQ are in Mr. Haeffle's book and Mr. Joshi's review.) Derleth wasn't responsible for it as far as anyone knows. But he propagated the "black magic quotation" to a point that we still have it today. Some people may even still believe it. I think I can speak for everyone when I say that the "black magic quotation" should never have been put into print unless it had come with a disclaimer. Harold Farnese was after all legitimately a correspondent of Lovecraft, and we should know something about him, including that the BMQ was in his words and not in Lovecraft's. Anyway, if Mr. Joshi is correct in his analysis, then Derleth's propagation of the "black magic quotation" seems to have a been a sin of commission instead of omission, for it would seem to have served his purposes by way of his passing it off as a direct quotation from Lovecraft. It would seem to impute a moral dimension--and to apply Derleth's interpretation--to Lovecraft's cosmic vision.

I have found another misquote of Lovecraft's words, made by Derleth. This one, about Clark Ashton Smith, may be unknown today, but we should know about it now if only because it helps to confirm a pattern. By the way, if you want to read what I wrote previously on Harold Farnese and the "black magic quotation," click here.

To be concluded . . .

Copyright 2026 Terence E. Hanley

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

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

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

More Views of the Hudson River-Part Five

Like I said, I did not set out on a reading program about the Hudson River as it appears in literature. Instead, I began thinking about the subjects of this series simply by reading the stories in a small volume called Ghosts, edited by Grant Overton and published in 1927. I found Ghosts at a garage sale this summer, along with a booklet about George Rogers Clark's victory at Vincennes in 1779, also published in the 1920s. That's a story every fourth-grader in Indiana learns in history class--and remembers thereafter if only because of the account of Clark and his men wading through miles of the flooded Wabash River bottom in the winter of 1779. Next year will mark the 250th anniversary of the birth of our country. I hope to write about that at the same time that I write about Weird Tales in 1926, which was, of course, the American sesquicentennial year. I'm not sure that I will find very much to write about in regards to Weird Tales in the year of our sesquicentennial, but I'll at least give it a try.

* * *

I enjoyed many of the stories in Ghosts, even if not all are actually ghost stories. The first is "The Red Room" by H.G. Wells (1896). It's a somewhat weak story, but then Wells was a materialist, I think, and not very convincing as a believer in ghosts, which is what would have been required of him if he was going to write successfully a story like this one. The last story is "Quality" by John Galsworthy (1912). If there is a ghost in Galsworthy's story, he is only a human ghost. "Quality," as well as "The Man Without a Country" by Edward Everett Hale (1863), would seem out of place in a volume like this one, the difference being that I enjoyed Hale's story but didn't think very much of Galsworthy's.

"The Legend of Sleepy Hollow" by Washington Irving (1819, 1820) is the second story in Ghosts. Right away, as I was reading it, I was struck by the similarity of stories by H.P. Lovecraft to "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow." More specifically, I noticed a similar kind of setting and the establishment of a sense of place. I quoted earlier in this series from "The Dunwich Horror" (Weird Tales, Apr. 1929). Although I wrote a note to myself about "The Colour Out of Space" (Amazing Stories, Sept. 1927), I didn't mention it or quote from it in this space. I'll make up for that now:

West of Arkham the hills rise wild, and there are valleys with deep woods that no axe has ever cut. There are dark narrow glens where the trees slope fantastically, and where thin brooklets trickle without ever having caught the glint of sunlight. On the gentler slopes there are farms, ancient and rocky, with squat, moss-coated cottages brooding eternally over old New England secrets in the lee of great ledges; but these are all vacant now, the wide chimneys crumbling and the shingled sides bulging perilously beneath low gambrel roofs.

     The old folk have gone away, and foreigners do not like to live there. French-Canadians have tried it, Italians have tried it, and the Poles have come and departed. It is not because of anything that can be seen or heard or handled, but because of something that is imagined. The place is not good for the imagination, and does not bring restful dreams at night. It must be this which keeps the foreigners away, for old Ammi Pierce has never told them of anything he recalls from the strange days. Ammi, whose head has been a little queer for years, is the only one who still remains, or who ever talks of the strange days; and he dares to do this because his house is so near the open fields and the travelled roads around Arkham.

     There was once a road over the hills and through the valleys, that ran straight where the blasted heath is now; but people ceased to use it and a new road was laid curving far toward the south. Traces of the old one can still be found amidst the weeds of a returning wilderness, and some of them will doubtless linger even when half the hollows are flooded for the new reservoir. Then the dark woods will be cut down and the blasted heath will slumber far below blue waters whose surface will mirror the sky and ripple in the sun. And the secrets of the strange days will be one with the deep's secrets; one with the hidden lore of old ocean, and all the mystery of primal earth.

Compare that to similar passages in "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow" and "The Dunwich Horror."

I went in one direction in my series comparing Lovecraft to Irving's hero Ichabod Crane. All the while, I was preparing to write in another direction, for not long after reading Ghosts, I came upon a book, entirely by accident, that includes other views of the Hudson River. That book is A Fan's Notes: A Fictional Memoir by Frederick Exley (1929-1992). A Fan's Notes was published in 1968. I read it in the Vintage Books edition of twenty years after.

Now, at last, I have arrived at the last two views of the Hudson River about which I will write in this series. First, from page 81 of A Fan's Notes:

     That hospital (the word is frightfully harsh) was lovely. Its buildings--château-like houses--commanded a high, green hill, and its shrubbed, carpet-like lawns ran sweepingly down between ancient, verdant trees. It was spring then, the spring just preceding my autumn commitment to Avalon Valley; and the azure sky seemed always mottled with sailing, billowing clouds, which, when we turned our eyes heavenward, seemed to caress and cool our faces. Beneath us in the valley, deep blue and turgid and heart-stopping, was the Hudson River.

Second, from page 129:

With the top down on the Mercedes and the chillness of the season cutting our faces a fierce pink, we shot through the autumn-lemon hills of Putnam County, and across the snakelike mountain roads into that valley. Beyond the river, its waters flat blue and cold now, rose the mountains, rose just as Irving had said they did, now purple, now russet, now shrouded in mist. I especially liked the antiquated towns where the the old limestone houses sat flush with the streets beneath the fall trees. Looking at them, one thought of cavernous hearths opening onto great, smoldering logs, of huge copper kettles, of the odor of things baking, of family reunions, of rooted people with a sense of the past, warm, loyal, dignified people who endured in a kind of unending autumn--I could not, and cannot, imagine that valley save in autumn.

Like Ichabod Crane, Frederick Exley was a teacher. He seems to have been well read, and he made references and allusions to other authors and books, mostly American, including, as in the second passage above, Washington Irving. A Fan's Notes is something of a horror story. I'll have more on that next time. (The hospital mentioned in the first passage was a mental hospital.) But Exley's approach in describing settings is similar to Irving's and not at all like Lovecraft's, for Lovecraft wanted to let us know that he was writing of terrible places and terrible events. Irving and Exley actually liked the places and people of which they wrote.

To be continued . . .

Original text copyright 2025 Terence E. Hanley

Ichabod Lovecraft-Part Six

The fictional Dunwich lies in the valley of the fictional Miskatonic River, but that river has a different and more ominous appearance than does the larger Hudson River in "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow":

The thin, shining line of the Miskatonic's upper reaches has an oddly serpent-like suggestion as it winds close to the feet of the domed hills among which it rises.

As with Dunwich, maybe you don't want to go there.

In contrast, here's an example of how the narrator feels about the Hudson in "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow":

     Thus feeding his mind with many sweet thoughts and "sugared suppositions," he journeyed along the sides of a range of hills which look out upon some of the goodliest scenes of the mighty Hudson. The sun gradually wheeled his broad disk down in the west. The wide bosom of the Tappan Zee lay motionless and glassy, excepting that here and there a gentle undulation waved and prolonged the blue shadow of the distant mountain. A few amber clouds floated in the sky, without a breath of air to move them. The horizon was of a fine golden tint, changing gradually into a pure apple green, and from that into the deep blue of the mid-heaven. A slanting ray lingered on the woody crests of the precipices that overhung some parts of the river, giving greater depth to the dark gray and purple of their rocky sides. A sloop was loitering in the distance, dropping slowly down with the tide, her sail hanging uselessly against the mast; and as the reflection of the sky gleamed along the still water, it seemed as if the vessel was suspended in the air.

A few years ago, I drove to Maine for a funeral. Along the way, I crossed the Hudson River by way of Bear Mountain Bridge, northwest of Peekskill. I stopped at a scenic overlook above Iona Island and read about the history of the area. This is above Tarrytown, above Washington Irving country, but I could see for myself the charm, mystery, and great beauty of the place, and I understand why people would have been drawn to it in his time and still are today. Not far to the northeast is Sunken Mine, about which I wrote on May 11, 2023. I wrote then that someone should give Putnam County, New York, the Lovecraft treatment, but the Irving treatment might do just as well.

* * *

H.P. Lovecraft lived in Brooklyn in 1924-1926. I have been to New York City only once, on a train, in the dark of night. I'm not qualified at all to write about the city. But in looking at a map, I believe it correct to say that Brooklyn is near or across from the outlet of the Hudson River. That river is not mentioned in "The Horror at Red Hook," but here are a couple of passages referring to water:

Red Hook is a maze of hybrid squalor near the ancient waterfront opposite Governor's Island, with dirty highways climbing the hill from the wharves to that higher ground where the decayed lengths of Clinton and Court Streets lead off toward the Borough Hall. 

And:

Somewhere dark sticky water was lapping at onyx piers, and once the shivery tinkle of raucous little bells pealed out to greet the insane titter of a naked phosphorescent thing which swam into sight, scrambled ashore, and climbed up to squat leeringly on a carved golden pedestal in the background.

(Another warning to writers: "leeringly" and words, or non-words, like it are bad. Don't use them. Think better, write better, use a dictionary.)

Although Lovecraft was from a harbor town--Providence, Rhode Island--he seems to have been a landlubber, and I believe he found the smell of fish intolerable. Jay Gatsby, on the other hand, hails from the interior of a continent, and yet he wears or wore a yachting costume, earned in service on board a wealthy man's yacht. "To the young Gatz," writes Nick Carraway, "resting on his oars and looking up at the railed deck, the yacht represented all the beauty and glamor in the world." Lovecraft lived in poverty, in Brooklyn, next to New York Harbor, a place of commerce. Gatsby lived in great wealth, at the fictional West Egg, next to Long Island Sound, a place for yachting and sailboating. In 1925, these two men were an island and worlds apart.

* * *

There is an unfortunate racial aspect in "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow." Here is an example:

He was the admiration of all the negroes; who, having gathered, of all ages and sizes, from the farm and the neighborhood, stood forming a pyramid of shining black faces at every door and window, gazing with delight at the scene, rolling their white eyeballs, and showing grinning rows of ivory from ear to ear.

Someone should have told Washington Irving that white people have white eyeballs, too.

There is almost the same image in The Great Gatsby:

As we crossed Blackwell's Island a limousine passed us, driven by a white chauffeur, in which sat three modish Negroes, two bucks and a girl. I laughed aloud as the yolks of their eyeballs rolled toward us in haughty rivalry.

One hundred and five years separated the publication of those two narratives. How little some things change.

"The Horror at Red Hook" is about race. There's no getting around that. Others have written about the racial aspect of that story in particular and Lovecraft's oeuvre in general. I'll leave that alone for now. But I'm not done with the Hudson River; or Irving, Lovecraft, Fitzgerald, or Nathaniel Hawthorne; or American literature, including weird fiction and horror fiction.

The first-day of issue of the U.S. postage stamp "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow," from 1974. The artists are of course unidentified.

Original text copyright 2025 Terence E. Hanley

Ichabod Lovecraft-Part Five

Whip-poor-wills call in weird fiction. They call in "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow," too:

     Then, as he wended his way by swamp and stream and awful woodland, to the farmhouse where he happened to be quartered, every sound of nature, at that witching hour, fluttered his excited imagination,--the moan of the whip-poor-will from the hillside, the boding cry of the tree toad, that harbinger of storm, the dreary hooting of the screech owl, or the sudden rustling in the thicket of birds frightened from their roost. The fireflies, too, which sparkled most vividly in the darkest places, now and then startled him, as one of uncommon brightness would stream across his path [. . .].

They are all through "The Dunwich Horror." Here is a similar passage from that story by H.P. Lovecraft:

     Gorges and ravines of problematical depth intersect the way, and the crude wooden bridges always seem of dubious safety. When the road dips again there are stretches of marshland that one instinctively dislikes, and indeed almost fears at evening when unseen whippoorwills chatter and the fireflies come out in abnormal profusion to dance to the raucous, creepily insistent rhythms of stridently piping bull-frogs. The thin, shining line of the Miskatonic's upper reaches has an oddly serpent-like suggestion as it winds close to the feet of the domed hills among which it rises.

A weird and supernatural atmosphere prevails in several parts of "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow." After all, it was first in print during the Romantic period in America when logic and reason were placed on the back burner in favor of mystery and emotion.

We think of Nathaniel Hawthorne as having been influenced by Puritanism and one of its exemplars, Cotton Mather (1663-1728). As it turns out, Hawthorne's great-great-grandfather was Judge John Hathorne (1641-1717), who, like Mather, was involved in the Salem witch trials of 1692-1693. But Cotton Mather is mentioned in Washington Irving's "Legend of Sleepy Hollow," too. Ichabod Crane is described as "a perfect master of Cotton Mather's 'History of New England Witchcraft.'" Mather is also mentioned in the works of H.P. Lovecraft, including in "The Unnamable," published in Weird Tales in July 1925 while its author was living near Red Hook and about to write about his perceived horrors of that place. If the works of Cotton Mather are a kind of early-American grimoire, then there are grimoires in the form of his books in both Irving and Lovecraft.

To be concluded . . .

"Just then he heard the black steed panting and blowing close behind him; he even fancied that he felt his hot breath. Another convulsive kick in the ribs, and old Gunpowder sprang upon the bridge; he thundered over the resounding planks; he gained the opposite side; and now Ichabod cast a look behind to see if his pursuer should vanish, according to rule, in a flash of fire and brimstone. Just then he saw the goblin rising in his stirrups, and in the very act of hurling his head at him."

A painterly illustration of "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow" by American artist William J. Wilgus (1819-1853).

Original text copyright 2025 Terence E. Hanley

Ichabod Lovecraft-Part Four

H.P. Lovecraft moved to Brooklyn, New York, on March 3, 1924. Early the following year, he moved again, this time to a place near Red Hook, a waterfront neighborhood of Brooklyn. He set his short story "The Horror of Red Hook" (Weird Tales, Jan. 1927) in Red Hook and Rhode Island. Like his police detective, Thomas F. Malone (uncharacteristically Irish for a Lovecraftian hero), Lovecraft repaired to Rhode Island after his own personally horrific experiences in New York City.

Not long after Lovecraft moved to his apartment near Red Hook, Charles Scribner's Sons published a short novel that has proved an American classic. Some think of it as the Great American Novel. That book was of course The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald, published on April 10, 1925, now more than one hundred years in the past.

H.P. Lovecraft and Jay Gatsby lived opposite of each other. Lovecraft, struggling and living in obscurity and poverty in or near a run-down and squalid neighborhood in Brooklyn, resided at one end of Long Island. Jay Gatsby, bearing the posthumous epithet "The Great," lived at the other in immense wealth and among some very rich people. Like H.P. Lovecraft and Ichabod Crane, Gatsby journeys into an alien culture. Lovecraft didn't want to be there. He didn't want to break in as much as out and return to his New England home. Ichabod Crane has other ideas, though. Like Gatsby, he wants to gain entry into a society and culture in which he is an outsider, there to win the heart of a beautiful and wealthy (by proxy) woman. Both characters fail. Gatsby's failure is in fact an utter and fatal disaster.

Unlike Ichabod and Lovecraft, Gatsby is not Anglo-Saxon at all, but German and Midwestern in origin. His journey to New York is eastward rather than westward and from a young society and culture into an older one, even if his New York is the bustling place of the 1920s. The tragedy of Jay Gatsby is that, try as he might, he would always have been an outsider, and he never knew it. His dream of breaking into what he must have imagined was a higher society and winning Daisy Buchanan was never possible. As for Ichabod Crane, well, he faced a more physical man than himself--a man of action rather than of words--in Brom Bones. Like Tom Buchanan is to Jay Gatsby, Brom Bones is a rival to Ichabod Crane. Like H.P. Lovecraft, who did not have a romantic rival, Tom has questionable ideas about race.

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There is cult activity in "The Horror at Red Hook." There is cult activity, too, in the 1943 film The Seventh Victim. Both are set in New York City, the former among low-class people, the latter among the middle class. I wrote a not long ago about the alien-invasion movie The Faculty (1998) and its references to other stories and movies. Bebe Neuwirth's long, black hair with bangs cut straight across and curled under reminded me of the woman with the same kind of hair, played by Jean Brooks, in The Seventh Victim. There is also a swimming pool scene in The Faculty. That one reminded me of a like scene in Cat People (1942). Both films were produced by Val Lewton, who also had a story in Weird Tales, "The Bagheeta," from July 1930.

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Lovecraft created cults among peasants and poor people. What he didn't realize is that cults and other fringe belief systems are far more likely to form and spread among the upper and middle classes, maybe especially in the middle class. The middle class radical should be a cliché or stereotype by now. Supposedly intelligent and well-educated people should recognize him when they see him. Instead they fall for his spiel and vote for him in droves, as they did in New York City earlier this month.

Poor people and peasants tend to be more conservative or traditional in their outlook. They have too much to lose when change and upheaval, or what people call "progress," comes along. When the shooting, murdering, burning, and destruction begin, they know that they will disproportionately pay the price. One dead Trotsky, millions of dead peasants and proles. The makers of The Seventh Victim had it right. Lovecraft--and Marx--had it wrong.

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I'll refer again to other things I wrote about earlier this year: if you take away the place names and prepositions from the titles "The Dunwich Horror" and "The Horror at Red Hook," you have "the horror, the horror."

To be continued . . .

An etching of an illustration by F.O.C. Darley for "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow." This image is reversed from the previous color version. I don't think it reads as well. 

Text copyright 2025 Terence E. Hanley