Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. Futuria Fantasia, Fall 1939 by Ray Bradbury (inspirational books to read txt) 📖
- Author: Ray Bradbury
Book online «Futuria Fantasia, Fall 1939 by Ray Bradbury (inspirational books to read txt) 📖». Author Ray Bradbury
Hank's first story for Astounding was a disappointment, but he fully made up for that by turning in a sockerooo to Unknown called the misguided halo, written after the fashion of his most highly cherished author THORNE SMITH. What the fans don't know is that this little tale had a different ending than the one used by Campbell. Kuttner's finis to the halo was hysterically funny, but John W. thought otherwise and tagged a new finish on it—spoiling it as far as this author is concerned.
Kuttner is 24 years old. He's been writing most of his life—learned how to type at the age of eight and hasn't left it alone since. Was born with a type-bar in his mouth. Lives in a quiet catacomb called Beverly Hills, the first cemetery I've ever seen with street lamps. At present, though I have broached the subject on numerous occasions, Hank steadfastly refuses to write for slick magazines. His best excuse being his laziness.
Hanks is quiet-speaking, sincere. But he has a sense of humor, the kind that hits you amidriff abruptly. He is the perfect dead-pan jokester. His digs many times being too subtle for your correspondent to catch until several moments have passed, Kuttner is always ready to rush in mildly and put the immature fans to route. It is only when you see the ghastly pictures that he takes out at his charnal cave that you realize his true sense of comedy. He and Hodgkins and Shroyer, the fiends, get together in outre garb, in horrifying pose, and bring forth films that would shake the mind of even such a horror as Robert Bloch.
Kuttner likes the way C. L. Moore writes (and who doesn't). He wishes he could write like her—but claims that when he tries imitating it comes out so much trash. If you've read any of his stories you realize that Hank is a master of the bingety-boom type of fiction—but with feeling! He puts more Incident in ten pages of Elak than any other author in WEIRD, and makes you feel it. He paints his picture with masterfully abrupt dabs, while Moore lays on her horror with the touch of a mosaic master, building up. Kuttner knocks you down and keeps you bouncing. Moore swirls you in cobwebs and totes you away into infinity. Combining their efforts in '37 for QUEST OF THE STARSTONE they turned out something to remember ... with Hank's flair for lightning pace and Moore's for description they went to town.
That's about all we can say about Hank, He doesn't like New York because it's too dirty, noisy and big. He dotes on Thorne Smith. Rite now he's trying to crash Argosy with a story—and in the future you can expect some big things from this quiet author.
Oh, yes, and is it true what they say about Kuttner?
No, he doesn't use dope to get the effect in his stories. He has a massive painting of Art Barnes on his desk and when he prepares to write he squints once and once only at that painting to get gruesome atmosphere. Then he starts typing!
Take a bow, Mr. Kuttner.
(Jus bend over a little more, Hank! A' K' BARNES)
WHUMP!
Ouch! (KUTTNER)
The End (of Kuttner)
ANALYSIS
FROM J CHAPMAN MISKE: Pretty snappy cover on the 1st issue of fufa. At least I like it. Simple stuff looks best on mimeod covers. By the way, what, I'd like to know, is the sex of that Bokian creature? WHY MR. MISKE! WE THOT U ABHORED SEX! TSK! TSK! I'm for Technocracy. Personally I suspect Reynolds of being Kuttner NOPE.... TRY AGAIN, JACK. Your poetry not so hot. U wandered a bit and were melodramatic.
DALE HART POSTS: Bok cover good. Yerke and Reynolds interesting. Forrie's story unique. Yur poem full of thot but it didn't scan very well. MAYBE IT'S BECUZ I'M MORE BRITISH THAN I AM SCAN-DIN-AVIAN. (BRAD) How about an increase in pages—this issue much too small. HOPE YU LIKE THIS BIGGER SIZE, DALE.
GERTRUDE HEMKIN MUMBLES: Cover startling, technocracy article sounds sensible, ron reynolds satire amusing and contains a few kernels of logic, at that. And where hav I red 4SJ's RECORD bee4?
(WE Wonder) HENRY HASSE TYPES: "Hans Bok steals 1st honors 4 his cover. Hope yu can get Hans to do all yur illustrations each month." YES; HENRY, WE'LL HAVE BOK ON THE COVER EVERY ISSUE FROM NOW ON EVEN THO HE'S BUSY IN NEW YORK WITH HIS PANTING—SINCE THE EDITORIAL FOR FUFA WAS STENCILED THE DECEMBER ISSUE OF WEIRD TALES HAS APPEARED ON THE STANDS ALL OVER AMERICA WITH ITS COVER DONE BY BOK. IT WAS FUTURIA FANTASIA'S PLEASENT DUTY, THIS SUMMER; TO BRING ABOUT THAT DEAL BETWEEN BOK AND WEIRD AND WE ARE JUSTLY PROUD OF HANS AND HIS SUCCESS. HERE'S HOPING HE HITS ASTOUNDING NEXT. HASSE CONTINUES: "Best written feature was yur poem, Brad. Next is Reynolds piece and the one by Ackerman." DUE TO LACK OF SPACE IN THIS ISSUE WE ARE CONDENSING THE ABOVE LETTERS. IN THE WINTER EDITION THERE WILL BE A BIGGER LETTER DEPARTMENT—THAT IS, IF YU WRITE IN. WE'RE ANXIOUS TO KNOW HOW YOU LIKED OUR SPECIAL the pendulum. UNTIL THEN, FU, FAREWELL!
RETURN FROM DEATH by ANTONY CORVAISThey were seated in his parked, car, miles from the city, when Robert told Ellen; "I'll always love you, darling, forever and ever. I just can't help myself, and I don't want to."
The girl nestled closer without reply.
"And if something should happen to one of us, the other would wait—because love like ours will never know death—it must go on—for eternity," he continued. "I know that I'll love you even when I'm dead, and if there are such things as spirits, I'll come back to you—somehow. Or would it frighten you?"
Ellen pouted: "Don't be so funereal! It makes me feel strangely inside. Of course nothing can separate us. It's a beautiful nite and we're wasting it on—oh, dear!" Her eyes had glanced at the small clock on the paneling. "It's late, Robert. You must hurry me home now or mother will be furious!"
Sighing, Robert started the car. As they roared toward town over the twisting roadway, suddenly the car swerved.
"Lookout, Bob! A man!" It was Ellen's high voice screaming.
The car skidded sickeningly on loose gravel, crashed thunderously through the railing bordering the highway, and richocheted, turning over and over, halting as wreckage. Robert was crushed under the metal bulk, losing consciousness.
Thrown clear, Ellen scrambled to the man, bent over him. Something more than pain filmed his eyes; he heard himself muttering: "I'll come back?—you wait—" in a failing whisper as illimitable darkness swept over him, accompanied by dreadful nausea. A point of light appeared in the void, expanding into a dazzling rectangle which split into thousands of lesser planes; these shaped a geometric pattern which whirled dizzily, humming, the drone rising in pitch with every sickening revolution, becoming incessant mechanical scream——
"And this is death. This is past human endurance." With sudden omniscience he knew that he WAS dead and the meaning of the spinning pattern. The knowledge ebbed and carried with it all of his memories except for Ellen's face and her name.
The wheeling design parted like a curtain, and Robert observed beyond it a branching path spreading before him like a flattened tree. At the end of every fork was Ellen's face, wavering and blurred. He fixed his attention upon the nearest furcation, aspiring toward it desperately, and sensed himself hovering in space.
Shock, as of lightning coursing his veins, knotted him with agony. Involuntarily his eyes squeezed shut. Icy air tortured his lungs. As he raised his voice in weak protest, the pain ceased and he relaxed, spent. His eyes continued shut, as though the lids were gummed down. Failing in many attempts to open them, he quested food, found it, and consoled himself with it.
Occasionally plaintive voices babbled unintelligibly, arousing him. Always, if he listened, he heard a gentle murmur reply to the voices. And then everything was quiet. He felt very sleepy. Finally he dropped off into slumber, deep and restful.
Between periods of sleep, Robert struggled with his heavy eyelids. Memories might have associated his sightlessness with blindness—but he had none. There were only Ellen's face and her name which, when expecially desperate, he called again and again.
Gradually his vision became clear, and he stared in awe at a world of immensity which was peopled with Titans. The picture of Ellen in this gigantic place troubled him, for the colossal beings looked upon him as an animated toy. Often he was elevated to their reeking mouths, kissed, and dropped aside; if he were insistent upon attention, inquiring for Ellen, the giants beat him and thrust him from their presence.
Inert bare-surfaced looming things inclosed him, from some of which, when he approached them, he was kicked away. Incredibly huge portals barred egress to an outer world, from which seeped strange sharp odors. By calling his one word to the world beyond the doors, Robert endeavored to explain to the Titans that Ellen might possibly be outside. But they hushed him with amusement, sometimes with abuse.
There had been others prisoned here like himself while he had not seen, but they had vanished now, but this bothered him not in the least—his thoughts were of Ellen, and finally the giants lifted him and put him into a windowless room and clamped a fretted ceiling over it. The chamber rocked gently; he realized that it was being moved from one place to another. Leaping frantically he touched the ceiling's lattice, clung to it, struggling to force himself through its interstices. Unsuccessful, tiring, he fell back, crouched in a corner, weeping.
Motion of transit ended—the confining ceiling vanished. Robert scrambled over a wall, dropped to the ground of the outer world, whose heavy conflicting odors, dazzling lights and moving shadows alarmed him. Dim with distance was the withdrawing form of a giant, which he pursued, crying out his one word, "ELLEN!"
The giant vanished among weird wavering plants. Alone, Robert skulked nervously through tall rustling things, was terrified at times by an unexpected sound or motion. But the swaying things appeared unaware of him and he became self-confidant. Discovering a stretch of damp earth gemmed with puddles, he drank. His head cocked at a sound reminiscent of Ellen: her soothing voice.
A giantess had appeared over him. She was—ELLEN! At sight of her, Robert's pent memories burst free, overwhelming his consciousness with turbulent pageantry. He thrust up his arms; gently indulgent, the girl bent and drew him to her breast. She cuddled him, cooing to him. At the moment her monstrous size did not concern him.
"I've found you! I've found you!" he cried. "Oh, Ellen, if only you knew how lonely it has been—" He opened his glad heart to her in a stammering urgency, bliss in his eyes, tears in his voice. Breathless, he raised his face to the girl's; she hesitated. Then she kissed him and set him down at her feet. She strode away. Crying with hurt amazement, he followed. She shook her head. She kept walking swiftly. He could not keep up with her and he stopped forlornly as she disappeared behind an obstruction. He stared after her with unbelieving eyes. Tho mysteriously stunted, he had returned to her from death, and she had not accepted him. He stepped close to one of her prodigious footprints in the mud and surveyed it grimly. His eyes sought an impression of his own foot. And suddenly he cried in mingled grief and horror—for there in the mud was his footprint—small—strange—the footprint of a half-grown cat!
CONVENTIONAL NOTES or the report on THE S.F.L. BALL GAME by the editorscore: 27 sprained ankles to 3 cracked knees.
Ross Rocklynne: Tall, freckled, red haired, pleasent looking, good-natured and humorous—that is Rocklynne—and, by the way, in real life he spells it Rocklin. Makes the ideal traveling companion. Continually clicking away with his candid camera. Is versed in many subjects—likes plots about gigantic ideas, such as THE MOTH, giant men, and THE MEN AND THE MIRROR with an amorphous reflector, while JUPITER TRAP gave us a giant siphon. Rocklynne, 26, looks 22 or younger. Favorite expression, when agreeing with anyone is, "That's right." Spending most of my time after the convention with Ross, painting the town a delicate pink, I
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