From the nethermost profund of slumber, from a gulf beyond the sun and stars that illume the Lethean shoals and the vague lands of somnolent visions, I floated on a black unrippling tide to the dark threshold of a dream. And in this dream I stood at the end of a long hall that was ceiled and floored and walled with sable ebony, and was lit with a light that fell not from the sun or moon nor from any lamp. The hall was without doors or windows, and at the further extreme an oval mirror was framed in the wall. And standing there, I remembered nothing of all that had been; and the other dreams of sleep, and the dream of birth and of everything thereafter, were alike forgotten. And forgotten too was the name I had found among men, and the other names whereby the daughters of dream had known me; and memory was no older than my coming to that hall. But I wondered not, nor was I troubled thereby, and naught was strange to me: for the tide that had borne me to this threshold was the tide of Lethe. Anon, though, I knew not why, my feet were drawn adown the hall, and I approached the oval mirror. And in the mirror I beheld the haggard face that was mine, and the red mark on the cheek where the one I loved had struck me in her anger, and the mark on the throat where her lips had kissed me in amorous devotion. And, seeing this, I remembered all that had been; and the other dreams of sleep, and the dream of birth and of everything thereafter, alike returned to me. And thus I recalled the name I had assumed beneath the terrene sun, and the names I had borne beneath the suns of sleep and of reverie. And I marvelled much, and was enormously troubled, and all things were most strange to me, and all things were as of yore. * * * * * THE WEIRD TALE (A Diaglogue) by Robert Nelson Gerald: So you say that science fiction has fallen into decay? Sidney: Precisely. By its own outlandish and inflated ridiculousness it has been reduced to the tedium and monotony of everyday life. Gerald: Oh, but you make me laugh, Sidney! What of weird fiction? How can any one endure these everlastingly infernal vampire stories with their borish waving of crosses to defy and fight off the vampire! I dare say that if I should fling a putrid tomato at one of the accursed things it would run helter-skelter! Sidney: It is very true. Vampire stories are a bit worn, and deserve to have gone out of existence long ago. But it is the weird tale, Gerald, the sort of tale as produced by Lovecraft and Smith, that truly makes weird literature something far more noble and beautiful than most modern fiction, with its silly tea-lady romances, modern love, and high society twaddle.