R. H. Barlow

H. P. Lovecraft (1890-1937) is almost as famous for his letters as for his supernatural fiction. Of the estimated one hundred thousand letters that he wrote, one hundred and fifty-nine of them collected for the first time in this volume were written to Robert H. Barlow (1918-1951) . . . . Barlow was only a teenager, living with his family in DeLand, Florida, when the famous writer began corresponding with him. He was enthusiastic for all things related to weird fiction, the pulp magazines and the people who wrote for them, and the emerging community of active fans. Like other fans of the period, Barlow published a fanzine, wrote stories and poems, and even tried his hand at printing. The equally precocious Lovecraft encouraged all of these endeavors. The reader will find references to familiar names like Weird Tales, Robert E. Howard, Clark Ashton Smith, and Harry Houdini. Lovecraft's letters to Barlow record much about that vanished time and prove to be among the liveliest of all his published correspondence . . . . While the letters in this volume touch mainly on literary matters, they also record Lovecraft's love of Florida. He visited the state several times twice as Barlow's guest and was enthralled by the vistas of live oaks and Spanish moss. He occasionally felt homesick for Florida when he was at home in Rhode Island, and he never yearned more to be in the Sunshine State than during cold New England winters. There was no doubt where he wished to be when he addressed a letter to Barlow, during the depths of one winter, as "O Floridian More Fortunate than you can Realise". . . . In addition to letters, the reader will find an insightful introduction by the editors providing details and anecdotes about the friendship between Lovecraft and Barlow. The book is further enriched by Barlow's poignant memoir of Lovecraft in Florida, a glossary of notable people mentioned in the letters, autobiographical pieces by Barlow, and an invaluable index.

The Night Ocean is a classic American horror story by H. P. Lovecraft. I went to Ellston Beach not only for the pleasures of sun and ocean, but to rest a weary mind. Since I knew no person in the little town, which thrives on summer vacationists and presents only blank windows during most of the year, there seemed no likelihood that I might be disturbed. This pleased me, for I did not wish to see anything but the expanse of pounding surf and the beach lying before my temporary home.