as you are undoubtedly recovering from what I remember to have been an extremely unwise weekend (I seem to recall it's the one where the woman you loved went away and you decided to neck every pollutant in the building in an attempt to fast forward through to her return; I also seem to remember that you ate those little squares of paper you'd hidden in that briefcase under your bed. It was the alien baby weekend wasn't it? The one where you couldn't make tea because your hands were luminous! Twat.), I shall keep this short.
William Hope Hodgson is some sort of god! From A Tropical Horror to that letter he wrote from the Somme before getting prematurely marmalised...he is the great green Sargasso God of all things creepy. We all love Lovecraft, and Lovecraft loved him.
That's a sentence I didn't think I'd be writing when I woke up this morning. It sounds like it should be a mnemonic, albeit one for something with many, many L's.
I am currently putting together the only leather bound set of his complete works. my biggest worry is that I won't be able to have on for myself and will have to sell them to the undeserving. By undeserving I mean anyone who picks up a book of inconceivable loveliness and says: "Let's talk about future profitability."
It's Galileo, you weapons grade cretin! In the future people will say he invented the past! Get out of my shop and go buy pork bellies!
Oh, and one other thing: you won't have heard of her yet, past me, but you will and she's super!
Miss Suzanne Gerber is looking for a few good men and women to shoo some flies away from little village below the border... no sorry, she's looking for scruffy, gifted artistic types to collaborate on some space. I take this to mean that she wants to create a haven of all things artistic in the glorious rookery that is East London, not that she wants help building a singularity in her living room, although I wouldn't put it past her.
No comments:
Post a Comment