The Voice before the Void: Arcana, Story, Poetry

Few things are as fun as Lovecraft at the height of his powers. Nary a word in excess here. A wonderful evocation of the atmosphere of the End of the World. -The Voice before the Void “Nyarlathotep” H.P. Lovecraft Nyarlathotep… the crawling chaos… I am the last… I will tell the audient void… I do not recall distinctly when it began, but it was months ago. The general tension was horrible. To a season of political and social upheaval was added a strange and brooding apprehension of hideous physical danger; a danger widespread and all-embracing, such a danger as may be imagined only in the most terrible phantasms of the night. I recall that the people went about with pale and worried faces, and whispered warnings and prophecies which no one dared consciously repeat or acknowledge to himself that he had heard. A sense of monstrous guilt was upon the land, and out of the abysses between the stars swept chill currents that made men shiver in dark and lonely places. There was a demoniac alteration in the sequence of the seasons the autumn heat lingered fearsomely, and everyone felt that the world and perhaps the universe had passed from the control of known gods or forces to that of gods or forces which were unknown. And it was then that Nyarlathotep came out of Egypt. Who he was, none could tell, but he was of the old native blood and looked like a Pharaoh. The fellahin knelt when they saw him, yet could not say why. He said he had risen up out of the blackness of twenty-seven centuries, and that he had heard messages from places not on this planet. Into the lands of civilisation came Nyarlathotep, swarthy, slender, and sinister, always buying strange instruments of glass and metal and combining them into instruments yet stranger. He spoke much of the sciences of electricity and psychology and gave exhibitions of power which sent his spectators away speechless, yet which swelled his fame to exceeding magnitude. Men advised one another to see Nyarlathotep, and shuddered. And where Nyarlathotep went, rest vanished, for the small hours were rent with the screams of nightmare. Never before had the screams of nightmare been such a public problem; now the wise men almost wished they could forbid sleep in the small hours, that the shrieks of cities might less horribly disturb the pale, pitying moon as it glimmered on green waters gliding under bridges, and old steeples crumbling against a sickly sky. I remember when Nyarlathotep came to my city the great, the old, the terrible city of unnumbered crimes. My friend had told me of him, and of the impelling fascination and allurement of his revelations, and I burned with eagerness to explore his uttermost mysteries. My friend said they were horrible and impressive beyond my most fevered imaginings; and what was thrown on a screen in the darkened room prophesied things none but Nyarlathotep dared prophesy, and in the sputter of his sparks there was taken from men that which had never been taken before yet which shewed only in the eyes. And I heard it hinted abroad that those who knew Nyarlathotep looked on sights which others saw not. It was in the hot autumn that I went through the night with the restless crowds to see Nyarlathotep; through the stifling night and up the endless stairs into the choking room. And shadowed on a screen, I saw hooded forms amidst ruins, and yellow evil faces peering from behind fallen monuments. And I saw the world battling against blackness; against the waves of destruction from ultimate space; whirling, churning, struggling around the dimming, cooling sun. Then the sparks played amazingly around the heads of the spectators, and hair stood up on end whilst shadows more grotesque than I can tell came out and squatted on the heads. And when I, who was colder and more scientific than the rest, mumbled a trembling protest about imposture and static electricity,

Walpurgis Night Special: Visit North Dakota. “Sims, North Dakota” Wikipedia Sims is a ghost town in Morton County, North Dakota, United States. The town was founded in 1883, and Sims Scandinavian Lutheran Church was constructed the following year. Today, the church has been restored and still worships every other Sunday. The church parsonage has also been restored and is home to the Sims Historical Society Museum. During her trip to North Dakota in October 2008, First Lady Laura Bush visited Sims and toured its church. History Sims was founded in 1883 as a coal town. Coal mining and the town’s brickyard helped Sims grow to a population of more than 1,000 people. However, the 1910 Census recorded a population of just 86 people. The population fluctuated over the years, with an estimated 98 people in 1940. The post office was founded in 1883 and closed in 1947, with mail routed through Almont, North Dakota, to the south. Sims Scandinavian Lutheran Church was built in 1884 as a combination church and residence. A new church was built in 1896 next to the parsonage. The church is reportedly North Dakota’s oldest Lutheran church west of the Missouri River. The congregation still has roughly 50 members, even though they do not live in Sims. Locals report, however, that the town does have one remaining resident: a former pastor’s wife who died between 1916 and 1918. Dubbed the “Gray Lady Ghost,” her spirit is reported to haunt the old parsonage, wandering the rooms and playing the organ.

Walpurgis Night Special: Totally genuine; no doubt. “A Genuine Ghost” The Philadelphia Press Dayton, O., 1884 March 25.—A thousand people surround the grave yard in Miamisburg, a town near here, every night to witness the antics of what appears to be a genuine ghost. There is no doubt about the existence of the apparition, as Mayor Marshall, the revenue collector and hundreds of prominent citizens all testify to having seen it. Last night several hundred people, armed with clubs and guns, assaulted the specter, which appeared to be a woman in white. Clubs, bullets and shot tore the air in which the mystic figure floated without disconcerting it in the least. A portion of the town turned out en masse to-day and began exhuming all the bodies in the cemetery…. The town is visited daily by hundreds of strangers and none are disappointed, as the apparition is always on duty promptly at 9 o’clock. The strange figure was at once recognized by the inhabitants of the town as a young lady supposed to have been murdered several years ago. Her attitude while drifting among the graves is one of deep thought, with the head inclined forward and hands clasped behind.

Some pointed pulp science fiction from Master Dick. -The Voice before the Void “The Gun” Philip K. Dick The Captain peered into the eyepiece of the telescope. He adjusted the focus quickly. “It was an atomic fission we saw, all right,” he said presently. He sighed and pushed the eyepiece away. “Any of you who wants to look may do so. But it’s not a pretty sight.” “Let me look,” Tance the archeologist said. He bent down to look, squinting. “Good Lord!” He leaped violently back, knocking against Dorle, the Chief Navigator. “Why did we come all this way, then?” Dorle asked, looking around at the other men. “There’s no point even in landing. Let’s go back at once.” “Perhaps he’s right,” the biologist murmured. “But I’d like to look for myself, if I may.” He pushed past Tance and peered into the sight. He saw a vast expanse, an endless surface of gray, stretching to the edge of the planet. At first he thought it was water but after a moment he realized that it was slag, pitted, fused slag, broken only by hills of rock jutting up at intervals. Nothing moved or stirred. Everything was silent, dead. “I see,” Fomar said, backing away from the eyepiece. “Well, I won’t find any legumes there.” He tried to smile, but his lips stayed unmoved. He stepped away and stood by himself, staring past the others. “I wonder what the atmospheric sample will show,” Tance said. “I think I can guess,” the Captain answered. “Most of the atmosphere is poisoned. But didn’t we expect all this? I don’t see why we’re so surprised. A fission visible as far away as our system must be a terrible thing.” He strode off down the corridor, dignified and expressionless. They watched him disappear into the control room. As the Captain closed the door the young woman turned. “What did the telescope show? Good or bad?” “Bad. No life could possibly exist. Atmosphere poisoned, water vaporized, all the land fused.” “Could they have gone underground?” The Captain slid back the port window so that the surface of the planet under them was visible. The two of them stared down, silent and disturbed. Mile after mile of unbroken ruin stretched out, blackened slag, pitted and scarred, and occasional heaps of rock. Suddenly Nasha jumped. “Look! Over there, at the edge. Do you see it?” They stared. Something rose up, not rock, not an accidental formation. It was round, a circle of dots, white pellets on the dead skin of the planet. A city? Buildings of some kind? “Please turn the ship,” Nasha said excitedly. She pushed her dark hair from her face. “Turn the ship and let’s see what it is!” The ship turned, changing its course. As they came over the white dots the Captain lowered the ship, dropping it down as much as he dared. “Piers,” he said. “Piers of some sort of stone. Perhaps poured artificial stone. The remains of a city.” “Oh, dear,” Nasha murmured. “How awful.” She watched the ruins disappear behind them. In a half-circle the white squares jutted from the slag, chipped and cracked, like broken teeth. “There’s nothing alive,” the Captain said at last. “I think we’ll go right back; I know most of the crew want to. Get the Government Receiving Station on the sender and tell them what we found, and that we—” * * * He staggered. The first atomic shell had struck the ship, spinning it around. The Captain fell to the floor, crashing into the control table. Papers and instruments rained down on him. As he started to his feet the second shell struck.

World War I: Soldier’s war poetry. Crushing, wrenching, unmatchable poetry. -The Voice before the Void “The Rainbow” Leslie Coulson Watch the white dawn gleam, To the thunder of hidden guns. I hear the hot shells scream Through skies as sweet as a dream Where the silver dawn-break runs. And stabbing of light Scorches the virginal white. But I feel in my being the old, high, sanctified thrill, And I thank the gods that the dawn is beautiful still. From death that hurtles by I crouch in the trench day-long, But up to a cloudless sky From the ground where our dead men lie A brown lark soars in song. Through the tortured air, Rent by the shrapnel’s flare, Over the troubleless dead he carols his fill, And I thank the gods that the birds are beautiful still. Where the parapet is low And level with the eye Poppies and cornflowers glow And the corn sways to and fro In a pattern against the sky. The gold stalks hide Bodies of men who died Charging at dawn through the dew to be killed or to kill. I thank the gods that the flowers are beautiful still. When night falls dark we creep In silence to our dead. We dig a few feet deep And leave them there to sleep — But blood at night is red, Yea, even at night, And a dead man’s face is white. And I dry my hands, that are also trained to kill, And I look at the stars — for the stars are beautiful still.

World War I: Influential early poetry of the war. -The Voice before the Void “Under Fire” (later retitled “Breakfast”) Wilfrid Wilson Gibson We eat our breakfast lying on our backs, Because the shells were screeching overhead. I bet a rasher to a loaf of bread That Hull United would beat Halifax When Jimmy Stainthorpe played full-back instead Of Billy Bradford. Ginger raised his head, And cursed, and took the bet — and dropt back dead. We eat our breakfast lying on our backs, Because the shells were screeching overhead.

We were sitting around the kitchen table, telling stories. -The Voice before the Void Lights in the North Dakota Night Sky The Voice before the Void

World War I: Soldier’s war poetry. “The Wind in the Trees” S. Donald Cox Wind! Wind! what do you bring? With the whirling flake and the flying cloud? A victor’s bays and a song to sing? —Nay, but a hero’s shroud! Wild wind! what do you bear— A song of the men who fought and fell, A tale of the strong to do and dare? —Aye, and a tolling bell! Wind! wind! what do you see— The flying flags and the soldiers brave, The marching men, the bold and free? —Nay, but a new-dug grave! Wild wind! what do you moan To the frosty night and the cloud-wracked sky? —A soldier’s cross, a father’s groan, And a mother’s hopeless cry!

One of the greatest of the great stories. In masterful narrative form, juxtaposing world upon world, Norris delivers the quintessence of the American civilization. -The Voice before the Void “A Deal in Wheat” Frank Norris I. The Bear – Wheat at Sixty-Two As Sam Lewiston backed the horse into the shafts of his buckboard and began hitching the tugs to the whiffletree, his wife came out from the kitchen door of the house and drew near, and stood for some time at the horse’s head, her arms folded and her apron rolled around them. For a long moment neither spoke. They had talked over the situation so long and so comprehensively the night before that there seemed to be nothing more to say. The time was late in the summer, the place a ranch in southwestern Kansas, and Lewiston and his wife were two of a vast population of farmers, wheat growers, who at that moment were passing through a crisis—a crisis that at any moment might culminate in tragedy. Wheat was down to sixty-six. At length Emma Lewiston spoke. “Well,” she hazarded, looking vaguely out across the ranch toward the horizon, leagues distant; “well, Sam, there’s always that offer of brother Joe’s. We can quit—and go to Chicago—if the worst comes.” “And give up!” exclaimed Lewiston, running the lines through the torets. “Leave the ranch! Give up! After all these years!” His wife made no reply for the moment. Lewiston climbed into the buckboard and gathered up the lines. “Well, here goes for the last try, Emmie,” he said. “Good-by, girl. Maybe things will look better in town to-day.” “Maybe,” she said gravely. She kissed her husband good-by and stood for some time looking after the buckboard traveling toward the town in a moving pillar of dust. “I don’t know,” she murmured at length; “I don’t know just how we’re going to make out.” When he reached town, Lewiston tied the horse to the iron railing in front of the Odd Fellows’ Hall, the ground floor of which was occupied by the post-office, and went across the street and up the stairway of a building of brick and granite—quite the most pretentious structure of the town—and knocked at a door upon the first landing. The door was furnished with a pane of frosted glass, on which, in gold letters, was inscribed, “Bridges & Co., Grain Dealers.” Bridges himself, a middle-aged man who wore a velvet skull-cap and who was smoking a Pittsburg stogie, met the farmer at the counter and the two exchanged perfunctory greetings. “Well,” said Lewiston, tentatively, after awhile. “Well, Lewiston,” said the other, “I can’t take that wheat of yours at any better than sixty-two.” “Sixty-two.” “It’s the Chicago price that does it, Lewiston. Truslow is bearing the stuff for all he’s worth. It’s Truslow and the bear clique that stick the knife into us. The price broke again this morning. We’ve just got a wire.” “Good heavens,” murmured Lewiston, looking vaguely from side to side. “That—that ruins me. I can’t carry my grain any longer—what with storage charges and—and—Bridges, I don’t see just how I’m going to make out. Sixty-two cents a bushel! Why, man, what with this and with that it’s cost me nearly a dollar a bushel to raise that wheat, and now Truslow—” He turned away abruptly with a quick gesture of infinite discouragement. He went down the stairs, and making his way to where his buckboard was hitched, got in, and, with eyes vacant, the reins slipping and sliding in his limp, half-open hands, drove slowly back to the ranch. His wife had seen him coming, and met him as he drew up before the barn.

World War I: A work unto itself, the first chapter of A Farewell to Arms is a great war story. Like other works of devastating power, it can serve as a denunciation of the societal institution of war. Like other of Hemingway’s works, it is constructed with a punchline. The immensity of war’s tragedy arrives with the realization that the incident referenced is but one of many incidents, of many wars. -The Voice before the Void First chapter of A Farewell to Arms Ernest Hemingway Fair use of the text is claimed under U.S. copyright law for the not-for-profit purposes of education and commentary.

World War I: During the First World War, Zeppelins bombed cities in France, Britain, Belgium, Russia, Greece, Romania, and Italy. -The Voice before the Void “Song of the Zeppelin” Violet D. Chapman The night-wind is humming, My engines are thrumming, Swift as a spark Through the night and the dark I am silently speeding; Hovering grim and gray Over my human prey, Sowing the seeds of dearth Over the stricken earth, Where nations lie bleeding. Ship without sails am I, Bird without wings am I, Lord of the gales am I, Terror of Kings am I,– I am the Zeppelin! The cities are sleeping, Their searchlights are sweeping, Into the skies I advance, I arise, Where the distance grows vaster; See where the sky grows red, Lit by the bombs I shed– Stealthy and swift, I fling them my gift, Death and disaster! Mark well the flight of me, Ships! Have a care of me! Shrink at the sight of me! Cities! Beware of me! I am the Zeppelin!

World War I: American volunteer pilots in the Lafayette Escadrille of the French air service target German observation balloons behind enemy lines in Hall’s wry – and, at times, beautiful – first-hand account of flying in the First World War. -The Voice before the Void “A Balloon Attack” from High Adventure: A Narrative of Air Fighting in France James Norman Hall “I’m looking for two balloonatics,” said Talbott, as he came into the messroom; “and I think I’ve found them.” Percy, Talbott’s orderly, Tiffin the steward, Drew, and I were the only occupants of the room. Percy is an old légionnaire, crippled with rheumatism. His active service days are over. Tiffin’s working hours are filled with numberless duties. He makes the beds, and serves food from three to five times daily to members of the Escadrille Lafayette. These two being eliminated, the identity of the balloonatics was plain. “The orders have just come,” Talbott added, “and I decided that the first men I met after leaving the bureau would be balloonatics. Virtue has gone into both of you. Now, if you can make fire come out of a Boche sausage, you will have done all that is required. Listen. This is interesting. The orders are in French, but I will translate as I read:— On the umteenth day of June, the escadrilles of Groupe de Combat Blank [that’s ours] will cooperate in an attack on the German observation balloons along the sector extending from X to Y. The patrols to be furnished are: (1) two patrols of protection, of five avions each, by the escadrilles Spa. 87 and Spa. 12; (2) four patrols of attack, of three avions each, by the escadrilles Spa. 124 [that’s us], Spa. 93, Spa. 10, and Spa. 12. The attack will be organized as follows: on the day set, weather permitting, the two patrols of protection will leave the field at 10.30 A.M. The patrol of Spa. 87 will rendezvous over the village of N——. The patrol of protection of Spa. 12 will rendezvous over the village of C——. At 10.45, precisely, they will start for the lines, crossing at an altitude of thirty-five hundred metres. The patrol furnished by Spa. 87 will guard the sector from X to T, between the town of O—— and the two enemy balloons on that sector. The patrol furnished by Spa. 12 will guard the sector from T to Y, between the railway line and the two enemy balloons on that sector. Immediately after the attack has been made, these formations will return to the aerodrome. At 10.40 A.M. the four patrols of attack will leave the field, and will rendezvous as follows. [Here followed the directions.] At 10.55, precisely, they will start for the lines, crossing at an approximate altitude of sixteen hundred metres, each patrol making in a direct line for the balloon assigned to it. Numbers 1 and 2 of each of these patrols will carry rockets. Number 3 will fly immediately above them, offering further protection in case of attack by enemy aircraft. Number 1 of each patrol will first attack the balloon. If he fails, number 2 will attack. If number 1 is successful, number 2 will then attack the observers in their parachutes. If number 1 fails, and number 2 is successful, number 3 will attack the observers. The patrol will then proceed to the aerodrome by the shortest route. Squadron commanders will make a return before noon to-day, of the names of pilots designated by them for their respective patrols. In case of unfavorable weather, squadron commanders will be informed of the date to which the attack has been postponed. Pilots designated as numbers 1 and 2 of the patrols of attack will be relieved from the usual patrol duty from this date. They will employ their time at rocket shooting. A target will be in place on the east side of the field from 1.30 P.M. to-day. “Are there any remarks?” said Talbott, as if he had been reading the minutes at a debating-club meeti...

Some of the most challenging of ideas. -The Voice before the Void “Sex and sexuality in speculative fiction” Wikipedia The examples and perspective in this article may not represent a worldwide view of the subject. Sexual themes are frequently used in science fiction or related genres. Such elements may include depictions of realistic sexual interactions in a science fictional setting, a protagonist with an alternative sexuality, or exploration of the varieties of sexual experience that deviate from the conventional. Science fiction and fantasy have sometimes been more constrained than non-genre narrative forms in their depictions of sexuality and gender. However, speculative fiction also offers the freedom to imagine societies different from real-life cultures, making it an incisive tool to examine sexual bias and forcing the reader to reconsider his or her cultural assumptions. Prior to the 1960s, explicit sexuality of any kind was not characteristic of genre speculative fiction. In the 1960s, science fiction and fantasy began to reflect the changes prompted by the civil rights movement and the emergence of a counterculture. New Wave and feminist science fiction authors imagined cultures in which a variety of gender models and atypical sexual relationships are the norm, and depictions of sex acts and alternative sexualities became commonplace. There also exists science fiction erotica, which explores sexuality and the presentation of themes aimed at inducing arousal. Contents 1. Critical analysis 1.1 Themes explored 2. SF literature 2.1 Proto SF 2.2 The pulp era (1920–30s) 2.3 The Golden Age (1940–50s) 2.4 The New Wave era (1960–70s) 2.5 Modern SF (post-New Wave) 3. See also 1. Critical analysis As genres of popular literature, science fiction and fantasy often seem even more constrained than non-genre literature by their conventions of characterization and the effects that these conventions have on depictions of sexuality and gender. Science fiction in particular has traditionally been a puritanical genre oriented toward a male readership. Sex is often linked to disgust in science fiction and horror, and plots based on sexual relationships have mainly been avoided in genre fantasy narratives. On the other hand, science fiction and fantasy can also offer more freedom than do non-genre literatures to imagine alternatives to the default assumptions of heterosexuality and masculine superiority that permeate many cultures. In speculative fiction, extrapolation allows writers to focus not on the way things are (or were), as non-genre literature does, but on the way things could be different. It provides science fiction with a quality that Darko Suvin has called “cognitive estrangement”: the recognition that what we are reading is not the world as we know it, but a world whose difference forces us to reconsider our own world with an outsider’s perspective. When the extrapolation involves sexuality or gender, it can force the reader to reconsider his or her heteronormative cultural assumptions; the freedom to imagine societies different from real-life cultures makes science fiction an incisive tool to examine sexual bias. In science fiction, such estranging features include technologies that significantly alter sex or reproduction. In fantasy, such features include figures (for example, mythological deities and heroic archetypes) who are not limited by preconceptions of human sexuality and gender, allowing them to be reinterpreted. Science fiction has also depicted a plethora of alien methods of reproduction and sex. 1.1 Themes explored

World War I: Soldier’s war poetry. “Who Made the Law?” Leslie Coulson Who made the Law that men should die in meadows? Who spake the word that blood should splash in lanes? Who gave it forth that gardens should be bone-yards? Who spread the hills with flesh, and blood, and brains? Who made the Law? Who made the Law that Death should stalk the village? Who spake the word to kill among the sheaves, Who gave it forth that death should lurk in hedgerows, Who flung the dead among the fallen leaves? Who made the Law? Those who return shall find that peace endures, Find old things old, and know the things they knew, Walk in the garden, slumber by the fireside, Share the peace of dawn, and dream amid the dew — Those who return. Those who return shall till the ancient pastures, Clean-hearted men shall guide the plough-horse reins, Some shall grow apples and flowers in the valleys, Some shall go courting in summer down the lanes — THOSE WHO RETURN. But who made the Law? the Trees shall whisper to him: “See, see the blood — the splashes on our bark!” Walking the meadows, he shall hear bones crackle, And fleshless mouths shall gibber in silent lanes at dark. Who made the Law? Who made the Law? At noon upon the hillside His ears shall hear a moan, his cheeks shall feel a breath, And all along the valleys, past gardens, crofts, and homesteads, HE who made the Law, He who made the Law, He who made the Law shall walk along with Death.

St. Valentine’s Day Special “The Glory of the Day was in her Face” James Weldon Johnson The glory of the day was in her face, The beauty of the night was in her eyes. And over all her loveliness, the grace Of Morning blushing in the early skies. And in her voice, the calling of the dove; Like music of a sweet, melodious part. And in her smile, the breaking light of love; And all the gentle virtues in her heart. And now the glorious day, the beauteous night, The birds that signal to their mates at dawn, To my dull ears, to my tear-blinded sight Are one with all the dead, since she is gone.