The Fantasy Fan, October 1933: The Fan's Own Magazine

In Short

Published in 1933, this issue of The Fantasy Fan serves as both a literary journal and a community bulletin board for enthusiasts of weird and speculative fiction. It features short stories from titans like Clark Ashton Smith, critical essays on the nature of horror, and exhaustive guides for collectors seeking out back issues of pulp magazines. By bridging the gap between professional authors and their most dedicated readers, the magazine solidified the identity of the "fan" as a significant cultural participant, ensuring the genre’s survival through early grassroots organization and critique.

The Story

The narrative arc of the issue is one of expansion and intellectual debate. Editor Charles D. Hornig opens the proceedings by announcing a shift in editorial policy: moving away from a strict focus on "scientifiction" to embrace the weird, atmospheric fantasies of writers like H.P. Lovecraft and Clark Ashton Smith. This is not merely a change in content but a declaration of the magazine’s identity as a home for the fantastic in all its forms. The issue proceeds to lay out the intellectual foundations for this shift through H.P. Lovecraft’s seminal essay on supernatural horror, which argues that fear is the most primal of human emotions and thus provides a dignified, essential basis for literary art.

Following this theoretical grounding, the magazine moves into the practical and often contentious business of fandom. Readers engage in a spirited, ongoing argument—what the editor calls "the melee"—about the boundaries of the genre. Forrest J. Ackerman, a prominent voice, critiques the inclusion of fantasy in science fiction magazines, advocating for a stricter segregation of the two. This draws immediate, sharp rebuttals from Smith and others, who defend the weird tale as an essential, imaginative extension of the universe that science cannot fully capture.

As the issue progresses, the focus shifts from internal debates to the mechanics of the "fan" experience. Columns detail how to track down rare back issues, discuss the history of sequels that readers demanded, and provide lighthearted, satirical takes on the tropes of the field, such as the ubiquitous "science fiction alphabet." The issue concludes with a practical focus on the future: advertisements for new magazines, calls for trades of old pulp copies, and announcements of upcoming, highly anticipated stories. The arc ends not with a finality, but with an invitation to further conversation. It frames the community as a work in progress—a group of readers and writers actively building a canon, refining their tastes, and asserting that their shared passion for the impossible is a legitimate, serious, and permanent pursuit.

How It Unfolds

The editorial transition Hornig announces an increase in page count and a strategic pivot toward "weird" fiction to complement the existing focus on science fiction. He justifies this by noting that fans of both genres are fundamentally united by a love for the highly improbable.

The philosophical defense Lovecraft contributes a formal essay that elevates horror literature from "pulp" to an art form deeply rooted in human psychology. He posits that the fear of the unknown is a permanent fixture of our nervous system.

The community clash A series of letters and columns document a fierce debate between readers like Ackerman and creators like Smith. The tension revolves around whether "weird" tales belong in "scientific" magazines, revealing the growing pains of genre classification.

The practical manual The magazine shifts to the concrete needs of the hobbyist, providing lists of authors, publication dates, and advice on building a collection. This section transforms the reader from a passive consumer into an active participant in the preservation of the genre.

The culture of the fan The issue wraps up with a mix of poetry, satire, and advertisements for upcoming publications. It reinforces the idea that the magazine is a central hub for a geographically scattered group of people looking to sustain their interest together.

The People

The magazine is defined by a constellation of personalities who were both the creators and the primary consumers of the genre. Charles D. Hornig, the editor, acts as the facilitator and referee, managing the delicate balance between the demands of the readers and the creative output of the authors. Clark Ashton Smith emerges as the intellectual and emotional center of the issue; he is portrayed as a poet-author whose "dulcet prose" and "nightmarish visions" demand a place in the genre regardless of scientific rigor. He is articulate, defensive of his work, and clearly the hero of the magazine’s current editorial direction.

H.P. Lovecraft serves as the venerable, scholarly voice, providing the theoretical rigor that legitimizes the "weird" as an object of serious study. His letters and essays carry an air of authority, grounding the magazine’s enthusiasm in a long tradition of literary horror. Forrest J. Ackerman plays the role of the provocateur; his critical, often blunt interventions serve to stimulate debate and define the boundaries of the reader’s preferences. His persistence in challenging the inclusion of fantasy in science fiction magazines acts as the foil against which other contributors define their own, more inclusive views. Finally, the unnamed "fans" whose letters appear throughout serve as the collective heartbeat of the publication. They represent a wide spectrum of engagement, from the collector seeking specific issues to the reader who finds in these stories an escape from a "workaday existence."

In Its Own Voice

"The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear, and the oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown."

H.P. Lovecraft explains the psychological necessity of the weird tale in the opening of his essay on literature.

"Since horror and weirdness are integral elements of life (as is well known to those who have delved beneath the surface) and since, in all likelihood, the major portion of the universe is quite unearthly, I fail to understand the process of logic... by which he has arrived at this truly amazing proscription."

Clark Ashton Smith pushes back against Forrest J. Ackerman’s attempt to categorize weird fiction out of the science fiction genre.

What It's Really About

At its core, this book is about the legitimation of imagination. It seeks to answer why adults would dedicate their time to reading stories that are, by design, impossible. The contributors argue that the "fantastic" is not a frivolous distraction but a fundamental way of engaging with an infinite, mysterious universe that science has yet to map. The magazine serves as a manifesto for the "fan," asserting that the act of reading—and the communal act of talking about what one reads—is a profound way to bond with others who share a similar sensibility. It explores the tension between wanting to organize and classify these stories into neat boxes and the intuitive knowledge that the best tales always escape those boundaries.

Why Read It Today

Readers who find joy in the history of ideas or the origins of subcultures will find this a fascinating artifact. It provides an unvarnished look at the birth of modern fandom, showing how the now-standard practices of letter-writing columns, genre debate, and back-issue collecting were established in the early 1930s. Reading it feels like peering into a time capsule; the voices are earnest, sometimes prickly, and deeply sincere about their devotion to literature that the mainstream of the day often dismissed.

The writing varies from the polished, atmospheric prose of Smith to the informal, chatty style of the fan letters, making for an uneven but consistently engaging experience. One must be prepared for the dated, occasionally archaic attitudes of the era, which reflect the sensibilities of 1933. You will encounter a certain period-specific flair in the language and a lack of the polished professional polish found in modern journals. However, what stays with you is the sheer, infectious enthusiasm of these early fans. It is a striking reminder that before the internet, community was built on ink, postage, and a shared belief that the "inconceivably terrible unknown universe" was something worth exploring together.