| THE EYRIE |
Still our readers continue to tell us what's wrong with our magazine—and also what's right with it.
Our Vox Pop mail is heavier than ever; and this indicates that WEIRD TALES is steadily widening its circle of readers. And that, you may be sure, doesn't displease us any.
Some of our correspondents are ecstatically delighted, some are only moderately satisfied, and some are woefully disappointed, with the magazine we're trying to edit. That doesn't irk us either. We shall never be troubled, in fact, so long as people write to us—either in praise or disparagement. That shows, at any rate, that WEIRD TALES is being read and discussed.
But if they cease to say what they think of the magazine—if they ever stop caring about it, one way or the other—why, then, of coarse we WILL begin to worry. We'll know then that something is wrong somewhere.
We've often remarked in these Columns of Canning that nobody can make us sore, no matter how hard he slams our magazine; and we've gone even further and declared that our calumnious letters are read with keener interest than those that flatter us. And, just to prove that we meant what we said, we're going to start The Eyrie this month with all the lampoons we've received in four weeks.
There are only three, as it happens, and here they are:
"My Dear Mr. Baird: 'The Invisible Terror,' in the June number of WEIRD TALES, is much like Bierce's 'The Damned Thing.' 'The Gray Death' is very like 'The Silver Menace,' published a decade ago. 'Penelope,' in May WEIRD TALES, is very like 'Phoebe' of some years ago—the better of the two. Phoebe was the malignant star, and the man married Pheobe.
"'One of the Bunch' wrote you that 'The Phantom Wolfhound’ was 'fairly well written, but mighty unconvincing.' I do not agree with 'One,' so far as unconvincing goes. The child grieved for her dog and dreamed about him. Mr. Ritsky was sensitive and received by telepathy the vibrating thoughts of the child, strongest when she was asleep. They disturbed his rest and probably pricked his conscience, causing distressing mental pictures. . . . The only criticism I have to make of the story is the 'white thing' floating from between the child's lips. Thoughts are invisible. . . .
. . . . . . . "I like 'The Evening Wolves,' 'The Two Men Who Murdered Each Other,' and 'The Guard of Honor.' I don't like brutal murder stories or stories of horrible crime."
That came from a young woman in Hayward, California, who, though signing her name, requested us to credit her criticism to "An Old Fashioned Woman." And the next was written by a gentleman of Jersey City, who likewise asked to have his name omitted:
"Dear Sir: Referring to Mr. Francis Steven's tale, 'Sunfire,' in the July-August issue of WEIRD TALES. This is a good tale, so far, but I would like to make the following comment: I have always understood that the great desideratum in all story telling was an appearance or effect of realism, truth or plausibility, brought about by the adherence of statements as close to actual facts as possible. Now, after several hundred, or possibly several thousand, years of mining, a diamond of half a ton weight, as the diamond in your story, is manifestly absurd; and do you not think that the story would have been better if, say, a nugget or ingot of silver, gold or platinum, all of which are also found in South America, had been mentioned, hammered and polished in mirror form?
"Half-ton (or, as they would say in Latin America, 300 kilograms), nuggets or ingots are not beyond the bounds of possibility, and may have actually been found, hammered or cast. Ingots can be cast of this weight. Or a slab or plate of this weight, set with large diamonds, somewhat on the manner of modern vault lights or sidewalk lights, would have imparted a touch of realism which would also have been sufficiently bizarre or outre to keep the story under the heading, 'Weird,' and furnished enough 'sunfire.'
"But having both the centipede and the diamond oversize to such an extent is piling it on a bit thick, although the centipede, being alive, might possibly have been developed in some way to help out on the weirdness—J. L."
And the third comes from Dick P. Tooker, of Minneapolis:
"I have purchased every issue of your magazine since it was begun, and I believe you are filling a position in the magazine field that has long needed filling. I was disappointed in not getting a complete July issue. Like some of the readers wrote in The Eyrie, I believe the first two issues of WEIRD TALES were the best. You are running a few stories every month that are as good as your first ones, but in the last two issues especially I have caught myself yawning when half way through several of them. But no one would think of yawning while reading 'Shades' or 'The Room of the Black Velvet Drapes.' Please keep on improving your covers."
And now, having disposed of that trio of roasts (which quite failed to blister us), let us turn to those letters another sort. First, we shall consider this one from Joel Shoemaker of 4116 Aiken Avenue, Seattle, Washington:
