For an illustration of weird fiction, Gerald, let us take Clark Ashton Smith's most superb tale, "The Double Shadow." Here we have one of the most beautiful weird tales in the English language. When we read it we experience the sensation of a sweeping and stirring symphony. We read of Pharpetron, "the last and most forward pupil of the wise Avyctes," and how he and his master live in the marble house above the "loud, ever-ravening sea." We see the wind-swept sea, the white towers, the eerie demonisms and necromancies, the Double Shadow. It creates for us a life which we would wish to live, and fills us with a sense of eternal, majestic beauty of which we have been ignorant. All of this is so beautifully weird. Is not this more appealing than science fiction? Gerald: Of course it all depends upon the individual. But I suppose the weird and macabre is more appealing, and rightfully, perhaps, it is. But you mentioned and inferred that the weird tale, as executed by Lovecraft and Smith, is the most worthwhile of the whole. Personally, I like Robert E. Howard the best of them all. Sidney: My dear boy, all three are great writers. We know that, but it cannot be denied that Smith is a truer artist, and that makes him the greatest. Oh, Gerald, if more people could only appreciate and understand the significance of the weird tale! And if scribes could only emulate Smith or Lovecraft or Howard! If they would only strive for originality and beauty! But no! We poor and insignificant readers of the weird tale must continue to be plagued with time-worn vampires, witches, rituals, and other weird senilities! Gerald: Well, why don't you try to write a weird tale, Sidney? You seem to know all its merits and demerits. Sidney: Well, because I--er--well, I just haven't the time. * * * * * If you have any articles about weird or science fiction which you think might interest the readers of TFF, send them in, we'll be glad to look them over. * * * * * SHADOWS by William Lumley There's a city wrought of shadows That I glimpse at fall of night, And its streets are filled with phantoms Flitting furtively from sight. They are of no stable semblance That our fancy might devise, But a baleful light is burning In their slanting, almond eyes. Every brow is pale and misty, With a thin-lipped mouth beneath, And the grinding jaws are ratlike-- Set with long and pointed teeth. Neither rage nor ancient evil Nor a curse bequeaths its stain, But each face is wryly twisted In a silent grin of pain. Not a sign of hope or hatred In that dull grimace is blent-- Like the fishes four accursed, With their pain they are content.