Futuria Fantasia, Fall 1939

In Short

This collection acts as a time capsule, preserving the informal, mimeographed spirit of a 1939 science fiction fanzine. It brings together short fiction, biting satirical essays, and personal reports from the burgeoning fan community. Through its pages, readers encounter a young editor finding his footing, alongside contributions from authors who would go on to shape the field. It is a raw, unpolished, and intensely human artifact that captures the intersection of intellectual ambition, youthful bravado, and the eccentric joy of being a genre obsessive on the cusp of the Golden Age.

The Story

The narrative arc of this issue is one of movement—both physical and intellectual. It begins in Los Angeles, with the editor preparing for a life-changing journey to New York for a science fiction convention. The text is alive with the anticipation of this pilgrimage, reflecting the frantic, low-budget reality of "fan" life, where the main obstacles are not galactic empires, but the scarcity of time and the labor-intensive chore of mimeographing.

As the issue progresses, the focus shifts to the creative output of the community. Stories like "The Galapurred Forsendyke" and "The Pendulum" showcase the wild, surrealist leanings of the era’s writers. In "The Pendulum," a scientist’s quest to advance humanity ends in horrific irony when he is imprisoned within his own invention—a clock pendulum—only to outlive the human race entirely and be discovered, millennia later, as a skeleton by alien visitors. This theme of hubris and isolation recurs in "Return From Death," where a man dies, returns to life, and experiences the profound, alienating shock of finding that his reincarnation has rendered him a mere pet in the house of the woman he loves, now a literal giant to his feline form.

Interspersed with these tales are outbursts of intense, often humorous, intellectual conflict. An essay titled "I'M THROUGH!" serves as a dramatic centerpiece, with the author declaring his intellectual divorce from the genre, accusing fandom of smugness, shallowness, and a pathetic misunderstanding of what literature should be. This tension between the "serious" literary ambition of the contributors and their devotion to the "bastard child of science and the romantic temperament" creates a constant friction.

The issue concludes by grounding these grand ideas in the mundane realities of the Los Angeles fan scene. We see reports of ball games, movie theater pranks, and detailed, often irreverent character sketches of prominent writers like Henry Kuttner and Ross Rocklynne. The editor looks ahead to the future, promising more content and encouraging further submissions, even while acknowledging that they can pay in nothing but exposure. The final impression is one of a closed, tight-knit circle of young thinkers, constantly critiquing one another, refining their craft, and dreaming of the day when their niche hobby might command the world’s attention.

How It Unfolds

The Convention Pilgrimage The editor details the chaotic preparations for a trip to New York, framing the journey as a rite of passage for a fan. He balances his genuine excitement for the event with a sharp, gossipy critique of the "fools" who misbehaved at the gathering.

The Fiction of the Strange Short stories anchor the middle of the issue, exploring dark, surrealist premises like shifting dimensions and cosmic ironies. These narratives act as experiments in tone, shifting from the nightmarish to the melancholic.

The Great Debates Essays and critiques erupt, challenging the intellectual validity of the genre. These segments pull the curtain back on the internal conflicts that defined the early community, pitting those who demand scientific rigor against those who prioritize literary inspiration.

The Satirical Edge Humor and light-hearted mockery serve as the glue holding the disparate parts together. Through sketches of well-known writers and humorous rants against "weasels" or bad science, the magazine maintains a conversational, intimate rhythm.

The Final Vision The issue closes with notes on future publication and a continued emphasis on building a community. It leaves the reader with a sense of an ongoing, unfinished conversation that is as much about the people writing as it is about the stories they tell.

The People

The editor, a young man with a clear, ambitious, and slightly defensive personality, acts as the central consciousness. He is deeply invested in the reputation of his magazine and the stature of his friends, often acting as an agent for his peers while simultaneously engaging in petty, playful squabbles with his contributors.

Henry Kuttner emerges as a towering, almost mythic figure within this circle. Described by his peers as a "quiet-speaking, sincere" man who is also a "dead-pan jokester," he represents the professional ideal for these young writers—someone who can produce high-volume work for the professional markets while maintaining a sense of humor about the inherent absurdity of the genre.

John Layeville, the protagonist of "The Pendulum," stands as a tragic archetype of the visionary inventor. Driven by a desire to help humanity, he is undone by his own machine, transforming from a celebrated creator into a prisoner of his own creation. His journey from a man of intellect to a silent, grinning skeleton highlights the ultimate futility often explored in these pages.

Robert, the lead in "Return From Death," is defined by his desperate, romantic longing. His transformation into a cat is a jarring, surreal punishment for his desire to transcend death, illustrating the cruel indifference of the universe to the personal affections of the individual.

In Its Own Voice

"The reason for the scanty garb of our summer issue was TIME, that villain who holds his sword over all humanity."

The editor explains the logistical struggles behind the production of the magazine.

"The superiority complex found in group known as science fiction fans is probably unequalled anywhere."

A contributor delivers a sharp, polemical critique regarding the intellectual arrogance of the genre's readership.

"And in the gleaming light of the stars the skull face continued its weird grinning as if it knew that it had conquered something."

This line captures the grim, transcendent note on which the story of the prisoner of time finally concludes.

What It's Really About

At its core, this collection investigates the tension between intellectual aspiration and the reality of being an outsider. It asks whether science fiction can ever be "true" literature, or if it is inherently limited by its reliance on scientific symbols and adolescent wonder. The work grapples with the anxiety of being misunderstood, the desire for professional validation, and the fear that one’s chosen obsession might be intellectually vacant. Ultimately, it is a document about the struggle to find meaning in a world that often seems indifferent to the "soaring of one's soul," positioning the act of writing—even in a cheap, mimeographed fanzine—as a necessary rebellion against the mundane.

Why Read It Today

Readers who love the history of literature and the formative years of science fiction will find this essential. It is a rare, unvarnished look at the social and intellectual soil from which some of the 20th century’s greatest writers grew. Reading it feels like stumbling upon a secret correspondence; you hear the unfiltered voices of young, brilliant people before the weight of professional expectations took hold.

However, readers should be prepared for the raw, unrefined nature of the text. It contains the casual, often combative language of 1930s fan culture, which can be abrasive. The writing is frequently uneven, swinging wildly between moments of genuine, haunting prose and bouts of self-indulgent, dated slang. There is no polish here—only the messy, vital, and occasionally brilliant energy of a group of enthusiasts who were still learning how to be authors. It is not a book for those seeking a smooth, polished narrative, but rather for those who want to see the "gleaming moment" where the mind begins to move toward artistic maturity. What stays with you is not just the stories, but the spirit of the editor—a young man who refused to let "that villain" Time stop him from creating something he believed to be significant.