The Scholar who came to Hobart

Why did Facebook suggest that page to me? If it hadn't I would never have known, never have seen ... it is useless to conjecture. I can only assume it was an algorithm and the rest was happen-chance. I mean, to suggest that some eldritch force was in play luring me to that place ... well that'd be crazy. You'd almost think ... I was using too many ellipses.

Fate-driven or otherwise it made the suggestion and, against my usual habit of not even noticing, I clicked the link. It was a bookstore, how could I ignore it? There on the page was the picture of a man. I could not see his face, it was hidden beneath a blue knitted mask covered with tentacles. Mad? ... I leave that to the ellipses to decide ... The man spoke of a gathering. An eminent scholar was coming to our city. I had heard of this gentlemen and read some of the Unutterable Horror he wrote. Why would someone so steeped in obscure lore come to our quiet city in the south? I had to know.

The gathering took place as the sun sunk beneath the mountain. Hobart plunged into twilight. I found the appointed place tucked away behind a church. Irony? I know not. It was a small room crowded with chairs. Books on child rearing were cornered one side. The man from the bookstore page was on the other, selling tomes of lore scribed by the visiting scholar or the madmen he studied. A dark-haired woman sold concoctions and brews to unwary patrons. Some were red, others white, still more came in cans. I knew only that drinking too much of any one of those elixirs would drive me wild. I'd probably end up laughing hideously in a corner.

The crowd that gathered was an odd mixture. Some older folk were there who could be termed "eccentric" by the undiscerning mind. Others wore flannelette shirts ... I feared these the most. A writer spoke first, he called himself Stephen Dillon, it is a name that irks me. I have seen it, I know I have seen it, but I cannot think why. He spoke of how he became involved with the tentacle-bringing prophet H.P. Lovecraft. The Call of Cthulu had reached him in a games shop in England in the 1980s. From there madness crept in. Now he writes tales of horror and insanity.

Next came a local man - one of the flannelette shirt wearers ... Andrew Harper his name was. He recalled a cartoon - one of which I was familiar - and told of an episode featuring Cathulu. He claimed the error in the name was because of a subeditor ... I was a subeditor. I also knew others, I let the insult pass. He spoke too of the past haunting the culture of the present. He spoke loudly. He ... gesticulated. He inspired ellipses ... He said the best Lovecraft was the Lovecraft that didn't try to be Lovecraft. And through the insanity that is context, that made sense to everyone present.

After a short interlude designed for patrons to imbibe the lady's brews or purchase the tomes of lore came the main act. The reason we were all there, the scholar took to the lectern. S.T. Joshi. There, I said it, that is his name. Be warned. He spoke of the tentacle-bringing prophet and his relationships with women. There weren't many so he could give a full history. His manner was friendly, his tone convivial. I tried not to be lured in, but found myself warming to his charm. I listened attentively as he shared his incredible knowledge about someone who, even as his tentacled creation grows famous in popular culture, remains largely obscure beyond the readers of horror and weird fiction.

The night finished with a "panel", where questions were put to the three speakers. They shared more information, joked, laughed and generally made for an interesting time. When that concluded I took out my copy of Joshi's Unutterable Horror to question his sense in publishing this madness. He smiled as I handed it to him and asked me if I wanted it personalised. His charm was too much. I said yes, told him my name. I confessed I had cited the work in my Masters thesis. He said that was interesting. Handed me back the book. I thanked him.

Next thing I knew I was outside, walking down near-abandoned streets in the middle of Hobart. It was after 9pm. If I went back, would that chamber be there ... I can't bring myself to look. Have I really used too many ellipses? Is that even ...

Keep dreaming!

Author Profile - Clark Ashton Smith

Clark Ashton Smith came from a poor background and spent much of his early life trying to earn money for his family. But even while young he displayed a love of story and a passion for language. Some of his earliest works were written as a teenager and they were strongly influenced by the Arabian Tales, an influence that would linger.

He abandoned prose for some years and was a fairly successful poet. After his first published volume he was taken under the arm by George Sterling and mingled with fellow poets of the time including Ambrose Bierce.

Nowadays he’s remembered for his short fiction works which he wrote primarily for pulp magazines like Weird Tales. In fact, in terms of the ‘weird’ fiction of the pulp era he was one of the three heavyweights along with Lovecraft and Robert E Howard, and while those two may be better known these days I would argue Smith is the better writer of the group.

The ties between the three, while primarily through letters, were highly influential however as they borrowed names and ideas from each other frequently. So the building and weaving of certain famous or infamous mythos began. Smith set many tales in Hyboria which shared and helped build Howard’s Hyperborean setting where Kull, Conan and Red Sonja ran about; and he used names from Lovecraft’s Cthulu mythos thus building on their renown and our knowledge of them within that crazy mixed-up universe.

Smith’s stories I must admit are not strong in plot, some of them barely even have one. Take The Abomination of Yondo, it tells of a man exiled from a harsh country into a desert known to contain horrors. We learn a little of why he was exiled but not a great deal, otherwise he simply walks on, encounters one monstrosity, continues on then encounters something so utterly terrifying he flees back to face torture and execution to escape the mad fear. Not much of a plot, but as we read it we drink in the details of the desert and its horrors, we sense the dread and the unnatural atmosphere of the place.

And that’s the key to Smith’s fiction – atmosphere. He creates the world we are reading about so vividly it really is like visiting the places ourselves. His use of language is rich and exorbitant, you may need a dictionary at times I know I did, and he clear took great delight in playing with words to build up these fantastic vistas and horrific scenes of death and worse. Make no mistake, these stories can be highly macabre, some seem to exist for no other reason than creeping you out. In that regard he was something of a successor to Poe.

I could say lots more about him of course but the best way to experience his writing is for yourself and I highly, highly recommend you do.

Keep dreaming!