The Fantasy Fan, Volume 2, Number 2, October 1934: The Fan's Own MagazineVarious
History
The Fantasy Fan, Volume 2, Number 2, October 1934: The Fan's Own Magazine
Various
Fan magazines; Fantasy fiction -- History and criticism -- Periodicals; Fantasy fiction -- Periodicals
Within a week two more attacks appeared, but from them the doctors
learned little. On the _source_ of Slater's visions they speculated at
length, for since he could neither read nor write, and had apparently
never heard a legend or fairy tale, his gorgeous imagery was quite
inexplicable. That it could not come from any known myth or romance
was made especially clear by the fact that the unfortunate lunatic
expressed himself only in his own simple manner. He raved of things he
did not understand and could not interpret; things which he claimed
to have experienced, but which he could not have learned through any
normal or connected narration. The alienists soon agreed that abnormal
dreams were the foundation of the trouble; dreams whose vividness
could for a time completely dominate the waking mind of this basically
inferior man. With due formality Slater was tried for murder, acquitted
on the ground of insanity, and committed to the institution wherein I
held so humble a post.
I have said that I am a constant speculator concerning dream life, and
from this you may judge of the eagerness with which I applied myself
to the study of the new patient as soon as I had fully ascertained
the facts of his case. He seemed to sense a certain friendliness in
me; born no doubt of the interest I could not conceal, and the gentle
manner in which I questioned him. Not that he ever recognised me during
his attacks, when I hung breathlessly upon his chaotic but cosmic
word-pictures; but he knew me in his quiet hours, when he would sit
by his barred window weaving baskets of straw and willow, and perhaps
pining for the mountain freedom he could never again enjoy. His family
never called to see him; probably it had found another temporary head,
after the manner of decadent mountain folk.
By degrees I commenced to feel an overwhelming wonder at the mad and
fantastic conceptions of Joe Slater. The man himself was pitiably
inferior in mentality and language alike; but his glowing, titanic
visions, though described in a barbarous and disjointed jargon, were
assuredly things which only a superior or even exceptional brain could
conceive. How, I often asked myself, could the stolid imagination of a
Catskill degenerate conjure up sights whose very possession argued a
lurking spark of genius? How could any backwoods dullard have gained
so much as an idea of those glittering realms of supernal radiance
and space about which Slater ranted in his furious delirium? More and
more I inclined to the belief that in the pitiful personality who
cringed before me lay the disordered nucleus of something beyond my
comprehension; something infinitely beyond the comprehension of my more
experienced but less imaginative medical and scientific colleagues.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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