| We're all out of issues for May and Sept., 1940; so we'd be very glad to hear from readers who have copies of these issues which they wish to sell—or who would like to trade them in for newer issues, or any back numbers that they may have missed and would like to read.
If you're interested, please get in touch with the Subscription Department, WEIRD TALES, 9 Rockefeller Plaza, New York, N. Y. |
A Dreamer and His Dream
In tune with Edmond Hamilton's novelette of dreams and dreamers, is this interesting, very revealing letter to Seabury Quinn from Russell E. Nihlean, of Chicago, Illinois. For Mr. Nihlean, like Henry Stevens in the fantasy Dreamer's Worlds, has a dream which is as real, as true to life as life itself. Here, then, is his story, a story which—because he feels, as we do, that it will prove of real and genuine interest to every reader of the magazine—he has kindly consented to let us publish in the Eyrie:
Dear Mr. Quinn:
Fourteen years have passed since I read the first of your writings, and I still buy WEIRD TALES, eager to devour your next tale.
Often I have wished that I might know you, and find out what sort of a man wrote these stories, but I feared that if I did write to you in my youth, you would toss the article aside with a smile, thinking that "here was just another young admirer." So I have waited fourteen or fifteen years to write, and I am now thirty-three.
Of late you have buried the good Doctor Trowbridge, and the Good Jules, to tell of other tales. Of these, the last two were best. And choosing between them, I think your Song Without Words (July, 1941, issue) was the better. I say this because the story struck a resounding cord within me.
You see, like Chester Gunnerson in this story, I also am handicapped. I have been a victim of Infantile Paralysis since I was thirteen months old. I get around with the aid of a crutch and cane, and am able to earn my own living. I have worked at everything from newspaper reporting to selling automobiles. I have been on WPA and on Relief. And have come up with a grin on my puss, ready to start anew. I hate a whiner. I think that the world don't owe anybody a damn thing but a man has a right to take from the world if he can.
I, like Chester Gunnerson, have loved women and they have laughed at me when my back was turned, as they did him, for a filthy cripple. And it has hurt me as it hurt him. That is why I could not help but to extend to him my fullest sympathy.
In your tale a ghost brings solace to Chester Gunnerson. When I am wounded to the quick, a dream brings rest to me. It has been so ever since I was a child of about five.
Listen. In the dream I seem to be in an ancient land of hot sands and palm trees. There is a broad brown river, and a ship of many oars and a striped sail. I am aboard this boat clad in a white purple trimmed toga. With me is a woman. The woman is young and beautiful. Beautiful with jet black hair, azure blue eyes, a sweet prideful mouth. The hair is straight and falls square cut across a wide brow over thick eyebrows that almost meet. The nose is short and straight. Proud is this woman's carriage and she wears the diadem of Ancient Egypt At least that is what I found it to be when I discovered it in my history.
In my dreams she and I seem to be made for each other. And when I was a little boy suffering overly much in the ten years I spent in the hospital, she was always there to comfort me.
When I came to man's estate I became involved in several unfortunate affairs of the heart. After each one, in my dreams, she would comfort me again. And last year, when I had a major operation, I lost all desire to live before I went under ether. SHE sent me back to the land of the living, saying that although she had waited a lifetime for me, my time was "Not yet, not yet!"
Now this tale of mine might sound like a bit of your own fiction, but I swear that it is true, Mr. Quinn, and I'm telling it to you because I have a feeling that you, perhaps, would understand it. Can you? Oh, yes, I forgot to say that the lady's name seems to be Iona. That is all I can tell you of my strange dream. I hope you don't get the idea that I'm wacky.
However, I feel that because I know you in a distant, friendly way, you will give me your diagnosis of it.
In the meantime, let me again congratulate you on your Song Without Words. I'll remember it a long time.
Now please excuse it because I close so abruptly. The whistle snorted 11 p.m. and I have to be off to bed. That is, if I want to work tomorrow. I am a map tracer in government service, and Uncle Sammy likes well-rested employees. So until I hear from you,
RUSSELL E. NIHLEAN
