Page:Weird Tales Volume 24 Issue 4 (1934-10).djvu/126

524 stronger and saner policy for Weird Tales As for the stories, we should like a little more atmosphere and slightly less science As for reprints, W. H. Hudson's Marta Riquelme is a knockout and Baudelaire has composed some little gems both in prose and poetry."

Edison Price, of New York City, writes: "Over a period of several years I have been a devoted reader of your fine publication. During this time its consistent high quality has seemed almost above improvement; but in the last several issues you have surpassed what was hitherto your best. Moore's Scarlet Dream seemed superior to both Shambleau and Black Thirst; his precise yet delicate handling of the plot, together with the exotic atmosphere—similar to the dreamy contentment of Tennyson's Choric Song—produced a masterpiece almost beyond comparison As for the August number, it takes my breath away. Howard's The Devil in Iron far excelled his other recent efforts. Dust of Gods did not appeal to me as much as Scarlet Dream; still it was very good. Moore never says more than should be said; much of his ability lies in the way he avoids any unnecessary explanations, with their attendant inhibitive effect upon the imagination; the air of mystery never lessens. One feels that the stranger who hired N. W. and Yarol could have told quite an interesting tale himself; but then there would have been less continuity, and a far less artistic result. Miss Counselman's The Three Marked Pennies was altogether unique and held the interest from beginning to end; but Ernst's The Marvelous Knife, perfectly constructed, was still better. I can recall no short weird that surpasses it, and few that equal it."

A. Merritt, one of the world's masters of fantastic fiction, and author of The Woman of the Wood, is anxious to get a complete file of from the first number in 1923 up to the last number of 1927, including the Anniversary Number. He will greatly appreciate letters from those who have single copies—or all copies—of WT for those years, quoting prices. Address your letters to A. Merritt, care of Weird Tales, 840 N. Michigan Ave., Chicago, and they will be immediately forwarded to him.

Robert W. Lowndes writes from Flagstaff, Maine: "Can't one of your authors, Clark Ashton Smith for instance, think up some appropriate form of punishment for mentally depraved readers who claim the covers on WT to be indecent? Or perhaps H. P. Lovecraft could work up some brew which would dispel their idiotic ideas and open their eyes so that they could appreciate M. Brundage's lovely girls in all their unhidden beauty. The very assumption that WT could be a sex magazine from the covers can be nothing less than the whisperings of some diabolic spirit within these readers. Quick, Watson, the exorcist! And while we are mixing the broth, why not have Harold Ward call down one of his soul-masters to do away quietly with those who howl for an author's page in WT? We also need the services of Jules de Grandin, Pierre d'Artois and Conan the Cimmerian to stand at all portals leading to the editor's desk and mow down all authors who come in with stories for WT that are not weird. Alas! their sorcery is potent, for full many times has our editor been enmeshed in their necromantic webs and we have had such stories as King Cobra and On Top. Don't forget to have Northwest Smith take personal charge of guarding the reprint department, as our heroes of the outer gates will have their hands full, and only a few issues ago we got one that was quite anemic. Well, Mr. Editor, I'll leave you now so that our friends can work out their campaign. The siege will be long and heavy. Our assailants are possessed by the most dire of dark helpers and the most powerful formulae. Here's to you for those fine serials we have had this year, the dandy covers (except for the March), the length of said serials (remember, no more than four installments), and for Northwest, Jules, Conan, Pierre, and a host of others. And here's more power to Brundage, may his tribe increase, may his nudes never know sackcloth as some would suggest."

Charles Minarcik, of Brooklyn, writes to the Eyrie: "In the August issue you reprinted a story called The Parasitic Hand, by R. Anthony. The story seemed to me at the time to be rather far-fetched. Imagine my surprize upon finding a similar case in real