Clark Ashton Smith and The Other Gods

A decent enough sketch on the themes and bio of Clark Ashton Smith, another early 20th C. weird tale writer, but I think what is more interesting is the implied stuff lurking in the background, from the approaching cliché of the idea that fantasy/sci-fi is declining because its idioms and tropes dominate mainstream culture’s ten poles and blockbusters as well as advertising and crass consumables (Threepio Crunch Cereal, etc.) to the more focused idea that, even though magazines were losing their mass media appeal, the pulp fiction/genre magazines flourished because the mass media of movies and radio didn’t cater to those audiences, establishing the weird tale as perhaps the iconic case of the long tentacle and 1000 True Fans, etc. Whether these things turn out to be true, etc., I think these are become part of the background understanding now, which, to me, is a little more interesting when moving forward than, say, CAS’ mother pouring hot water on her leg.

Personally, I am not as much a fan of CAS as I am of HPL or REH, and, to be honest, I only mostly know his Zothique and his Hyperborea "cycles," though I will admit to A Vintage from Atlantis being one of the stories that really stuck with me. His style, I'll admit, greatly grates me, and seems like every worst affectation of HPL taken to the next level. Still, I will also freely admit chagrin over him being too weird for my tastes. However, he wrote an oft-quoted piece that I admire the sentiments, if not the sounds:

The nostalgia of things unknown, of lands forgotten or unfound, is upon me at times. Often I long for the gleam of yellow suns upon terraces of translucent azure marble, mocking the windless waters of lakes unfathomably calm; for lost, legendary palaces of serpentine, silver and ebony, whose columns are green stalactites; for the pillars of fallen temples, standing in the vast purpureal sunset of a land of lost and marvellous romance. I sigh for the dark-green depths of cedar forests, through whose fantastically woven boughs, one sees at intervals an unknown tropic ocean, like gleams of blue diamond; for isles of palm and coral, that fret an amber morning, somewhere beyond Cathay or Taprobane; for the strange and hidden cities of the desert, with burning brazen domes and slender pinnacles of gold and copper, that pierce a heaven of heated lazuli.

"The nostalgia of things unknown, of lands forgotten or unfound" is wonderful, and rolls around the tongue like, well, a great Atlantian wine, I suppose. Now maybe it is unfair to compare to Melville's, er, ofter-quoted

Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people's hats off - then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can.

But in someways I see the weird tales responding to a similar call. I certainly don't want to suggest I can see the faces of these gods from some mountain top, but I think its an interesting comparison of Ishmael's call of the sea to the unnamed narrator of Innsmouth and the two very different kinds of growing madness in them, especially when we get over our genetic fallacies nebbishness.

There is more than a sly, dark humor in common "it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people's hats off" next to "Civilized men are more discourteous than savages because they know they can be impolite without having their skulls split, as a general thing," never mind all the damp, drizzly Novembers.

I'm not suggesting anything like a mash up of Obed Marsh commanding the Pequod... sorry, thinking about it though... but I do think nostalgia of things unknown is related to those Novembers in the soul, whether Queequeg or Yog-Sothoth, ultimately, is the key and guardian of the gate. Ultimately, I think part of the attraction I have for the weird tale is I no matter how I account, I can't get to lost, legendary palaces of serpentine, silver and ebony as soon as I can.

Which is just a loopy way to say I don't have much to say about CAS. Still, there's the whole Deep Ones versus the White Whale thing. It's no "It is a truth universally acknowledged that a zombie in possession of brains must be in want of more brains," but really, what is?