The New York Review of Science Fiction

A photographic exploration of the world of H. P. Lovecraft, by Lomig Perrotin




Howard Phillips Lovecraft is one of the fathers of modern fantasy literature, though he is better known for his contributions to horror. Born in 1890 in Providence, he died in poverty in 1938, never having known success in his lifetime. His work, which was the first to link scientific materialism and the supernatural, is characterized by the idea that behind the apparent banality of our existence lies a sickening and blasphemous truth. This truth cannot be revealed to the world, and Lovecraft himself shared it with us only in fragments to protect us from our own curiosity. There is resistance, opposition, even rebellion in the author’s inability to testify about the cosmic horrors that seem to watch humanity from beyond. To convey this resistance, I needed to explore the limits of the photographic medium. So I used cliché-verre, a technique of etching photographic material to create a mixed negative, blending the realistic aspect of photography with the graphic effects of drawing. Neither photographs alone nor illustration could reproduce this particular blend of horror and oneirism that characterizes the work of the master of Providence.

This work was displayed in November 2012 at Galerie 154: 154, rue Oberkampf, 75011, Paris.

—Lomig Perrotin, Les Lilas, France

I.

That place was very old, and the ceiling-high shelves full of rotting volumes reached back endlessly through windowless inner rooms and alcoves. There were, besides, great formless heaps of books on the floor and in crude bins; and it was in one of these heaps that I found the thing. I never learned its title, for the early pages were missing. . . .

—“The Book,” 1934

Notes on the Origins of the Term “Scientific Romance” and Its Implications for the Development of Science Fiction, by Brian Stableford




It is impossible to determine with any certainty who coined the term “scientific romance” or when it was first used in print. The earliest use of the phrase that it was possible to find in December 2012 by searching for it among the digital documents indexed by the Hathi Trust and Google Books is in a footnote to a dissertation on Saxon law by the barrister James Ibbetson, first published in 1780. In that essay, Ibbetson refers scathingly to a suggestion that a medieval Saxon legal custom might have originated in Troy, and the corollary account of its importation to Britain, as “the dreams of prejudice and scientific romance” (36).

NYRSF Issue 297 (April 2013) Table of Contents

ISSUE #296 April 2013 Volume 25, No. 8 ISSN #1052-9438

ESSAYS

• Lomig Perrotin: I Will Whisper in the Dark


• Brian Stableford: Notes on the Origins of the Term “Scientific Romance” and Its Implications for the Development of Science Fiction


• Darrell Schweitzer: Rusty’s Space Ship Flies Again


• Christopher S. Kovacs and Susan M. MacDonald: A Third Sampling of Medical Myths and Errors in Genre Fiction


• Maarten Nellestijn: Doctor Atomic: Science Fiction Opera


• Thomas A. Easton: The Prime Error

PLUS

• More on possession in HPL, photos, and an editorial.

April 2013 Editorial: How the Game Is Played in Atlantic City




Back in June 2011, John Perich wrote on Overthinking It about an emerging genre. His basic premise was this:

You’d be forgiven for confusing the many, many period dramas that have aired on premium cable in the last six years. . . . Rome, The Tudors, Deadwood, Spartacus, Boardwalk Empire, The Borgias, Camelot, Game of Thrones, and doubtless others. The historical eras depicted by these films span thousands of years—and even enter the realm of fantasy—and several continents. But they all share one genre. In this genre, familiar stories are retold with an emphasis on violence, sex, and dishonest scheming. If there’s not a better name for this genre, I’m calling it Blood, Tits and Scowling. . . .

The beauty is that, when you put them all together, it creates a perpetual engine for drama. www.overthinkingit.com/2011/06/28/blood-Tits-and-scowling.

The whole essay is worth reading for anyone interested in the mechanics of storytelling. In addition to discussions of the particularities of telling stories at extended length, he goes on to discuss precisely why the BT&S mode is such a comfortable fit for stories set in either fantasy worlds or historical periods so distant they “might as well be another world.”

A fine example of the similarities came that year. The Game of Thrones episode “Cripples, Bastards, and Broken Things” concludes with a chance encounter at a crossroads inn: Tyrion Lannister, a dwarf, the king’s brother-in-law, meets Catelyn Stark, a lady of house Tully, wife of the king’s most trusted advisor. Catelyn believes that Tyrion has attempted to murder her son. In George R. R. Martin’s novel, the scene unfolds thus:

“You in the corner,” she said to an older man she had not noticed until now. “Is that the black bat of Harrenhal I see embroidered on your surcoat, ser?”

The man got to his feet. “It is, my lady.”

“And is Lady Whent a true and honest friend to my father, Lord Hoster Tully of Riverrun?”

“She is,” the man replied stoutly.

Ser Rodrik rose quietly and loosened his sword in its scabbard. The dwarf was blinking at them, blank-faced, with puzzlement in his mismatched eyes.

“The red stallion was ever a welcome sight in Riverrun,” she said to the trio by the fire. “My father counts Jonos Bracken among his oldest and most loyal bannermen.”

The three men-at-arms exchanged uncertain looks. “Our lord is honored by his trust,” one said hesitantly.

“This man came a guest into my house, and there conspired to murder my son, a boy of seven,” Catlyn proclaimed to the room at large, pointing. Ser Rodrik moved to her side, his sword in hand. “In the name of King Robert and the good lords you serve, I call upon you to seize him and help me return him to Winterfell to await the king’s justice.”

Six months later, the second episode of the second season of Boardwalk Empire featured this scene. “Chalky” White, the undisputed leader of the black criminal gangs of Atlantic City, is held in a large, segregated, cell with several other prisoners. Dunn Purnsley, newly arrived from Baltimore, starts taunting White.

WHITE: . . . get your finger out of my face.

PURNSLEY: What I don’t like about you? . . . the uppity way you tell the world you better than Dunn Purnsley when all you be is another jigaboo in a jail cell.

WHITE (speaking past Purnsley to another prisoner): Harold C. Madison. How your daddy keeping?

HAROLD: Tolerable, sir. He thank you for the doctor bill.

WHITE (to a second prisoner): Noah Hookway. . . . Things good down at the gold room?

NOAH: Supposed to work today.

WHITE: I’ll talk to ’em. (to a third and fourth prisoner) Timothy. Cornelius.

TIMOTHY: Mama grateful for the turkey, sir.

WHITE: All righty then. (The others grab Purnsley from behind and beat him. Chalky returns to his bunk.)

Centuries, universes apart. History is a series of stories. The same words shape them; the same narratives flow around.

Stories repeat because the shapes of the bricks are all alike.

—Kevin J. Maroney and the editors

A PDF or ePub copy of the NYRSF issue in which this editorial first appeared is available for purchase at Weightless Books.

A printed copy of issues 295 and 296 is available for purchase from lulu.com.