Page:Weird Tales volume 30 number 06.djvu/107

 kept on reading it here, as enthusiastically as there. I never wrote to you before, mainly because the great distance between our countries discouraged me, but also because I think all these readers' letters must be a bore to you. So I shall be brief. I only want to congratulate you for the ever increasing quality of your magazine, which now stands as unique in its kind. Being an artist, though not a professional one, I am really delighted by the very good drawings that illustrate the stories. I wish to congratulate Madam Brundage in particular, for the splendid picture she made for the October issue. The girl is the most fascinating representation of a woman I have ever seen. You forget the ghastly thing she is doing, when you look at her loveliness. Generally speaking, the whole magazine is a priceless gift for all lovers of the unusual and weird. I hope I shall be able to read it for many years to come."

Orchids to Mr. Pryke

Pete Thompson, of Seattle, writes: "My first fan letter. I have been reading for about three years off and on and really think you have finally reached the acme of perfection. Tiger Cat by D. H. Keller was tops in the October issue, as was The Homicidal Diary Orchids to you, my dear Reginald A. Pryke of Kent, England—your harangue on reasons for not reviving Conan, or any of the other brain children of our past master WT authors, hits the spot. Really I've wanted to say the same things. Thanks for putting into words what I've wanted to but lacked the ability."

Poe Outshone

George W. Skora, of Tucson, Arizona, writes: "A devoted reader of weird and science fiction, I have been reading for the last eight years. Although I am a singularly imaginative person, I do not read our magazine for the revolting, shuddery, terrifying aspect of its stories, but for the occasional tales, becoming more numerous of late, which translate me, mind and body, to some other age, or to some other world, where I can indulge my fancy in sword's-play, in adventure, in the mystery, romance, and superstition of another time or another dimension. Perhaps such reading forms an escape for me from reality and allows me, in my mind at least, to indulge and participate in the action of other periods. I am most grateful to  for doing this for me. And these modern masters of weird fiction so far outshine Poe and his contemporaries that there is absolutely no comparison. It is as though a twenty-watt bulb were expected to shine die dazzling light of a carbon arc. Such tales as Shambleau, The Three Marked Pennies, The Black God's Kiss, all the barbaric adventures of Conan the Cimmerian, of Jirel of Joiry, of King Kull, and such others as the fascinating Globe of Memories, The Last Pharaoh, which was one of the greatest stories I have ever read, Red Nails, the masterful Clicking Red Heels, The Carnal God, The Hounds of Tindalos, all of the Northwest Smith stories, and in the present issue, the best of the Jules de Grandin stories, I believe, Pledged to the Death, which impressed me very favorably, all of these and numerous others will live for ever in my imagination, and I often go back and read them over to recapture their mood. Weird fiction has lost perhaps its two greatest masters, Howard Phillips Lovecraft and Robert E. Howard, and with them the heroes which they created have died. No more will Conan the barbarian fight from one end to the other of those mysterious half-legendary lands, no more will he woo and win fair maidens in his inimitable fashion, no more will he defy warrior and king alike, for the master pen which created him is no more and with that passing Conan is likewise gone for ever. I cannot conceive of his being recreated by anyone with the mastery of Robert E. Howard, and hence would rather see Conan dead as he had lived, a fighting-man who perished as he would have wished, sword in hand, the grim smile of desperate battle on his lips, in his ears the din of clashing blade and shouting men who felt its cunning edge. That world of his is gone. It would be blasphemy to attempt the rebuilding from dead ashes. And in closing, let me mention one more story which I will long remember: The Fire of Asshurbanipal, a thrilling story if ever there was one. On rereading this letter, I once more feel the futility of mere words to say the things or express the thoughts that I really feel. You have one of the finest magazines, one of the finest staffs of artists and authors, of any publishing company in this country. And I do not say this with intention of flattery. I really mean