James Stoddart on Lin Carter

I met James Stoddart exactly once, at the convention when he was presented with the Crompton Crook award for excellence in fantasy, his book The High House. I have never met a more charming and unassuming man, one with whom I had so many shared interests. I deeply regret that he is not my nextdoor neighbor, so that we could spend our evenings talking over the back fence or sharing a barbeque or a cold beer.

That year, I had just published my first Everness book, which stars a faerie-haunted house quite similar to the High House of Stoddard; so he and I joked that we should start a society of chroniclers of fantastical mansions, if only we could get Mr John Crowley to join us and lend dignity to the project.

He was instrumental in getting published my ‘Night Land’ short stories to the generous editor Andy Robertson’s webzine, which allowed me to buy a new refrigerator, stove and microwave.

With considerable emotion, I read http://www.beyond49.ca/Carter/stoddard_trib.html“>Mr Stoddart’s tribute to Lin Carter. His opinions are as mine; his words would be mine were I as articulate as he:

For those of us who grew up in the late 60s and early 70s the years between 1969 and 1974 were the golden years in fantasy literature. It was during this six year period that Ballantine Books, under the auspices of Editorial Consultant Lin Carter, introduced the “Sign of the Unicorn” line of Adult Fantasy books, a series which was to publish some of the finest fantasy ever written. Although the series was based on the success of Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings, most of the books were classics predating Tolkien and owing nothing to his influence. At that time, under the ownership of Ian and Betty Ballantine, Ballantine Books seemed more like a quality, niche-marketing house than a mass marketer. A deep love of books pervaded their titles.

I was fourteen when my high school English teacher handed out an order form containing, among other books, The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings. I had heard they were good, so I ordered all four volumes on a chance. Four dollars was not an insignificant sum in those days, but I had scarcely left Bag End with Bilbo before I knew I was on to Something Big.

At the back of the Tolkien books was a modest request form for Ballantine’s catalog of current titles. As memory serves, the catalog turned out to be a 9 by 12 inch, glossy, first-class brochure with pictures of the book covers in black and white. Soon I was ordering titles through the mail and searching for them in local bookstores.

Throughout each book, Lin Carter served as host and guide. He was much more than just the Consulting Editor of the titles. Drawing on his extensive reading of fantasy literature, he chose works of beauty and power and grace that burned into my young heart. Because of his enthusiasm, his spirited introductions became very much part of my reading experience. Although I never met him, never exchanged correspondence or heard him speak, he became my friend and my mentor, a man who understood a literature that was very important to me. It was as if we were two long acquaintances, the older and the younger, he pointing here and there saying: “Have you seen this? Did you notice that? Now, look here.”

Together we saw it all. I remember as Lin and I climbed onto the back of a reptilian shrowk to fly above the mountains of the Ifdawn Marest with Maskull and the wild and beautiful Oceaxe in David Lindsay’s A Voyage to Arcturus. Or when we stood by the cairn with Rhiannon in the world of The Mabinogion, the Welsh Iliad, through the works of Evangeline Walton, a quartet of books beginning with Prince of Annwn. Parched with thirst, Lin and I crossed the burning deserts of the dying continent Zothique and stood frozen in fear with Ralibar Vooz in the caves of Hyperborea with Clark Ashton Smith. We crept down the seven hundred onyx steps and beyond the Gates of Deeper Slumber with H.P. Lovecraft in The Dream Quest of Unknown Kadath. We eyed one another in silent awe as we fled from the descending Powers of Evil, through the Utter Darkness toward the safety of the towering Great Redoubt of William Hope Hodgson’s The Night Land, that bizarre and beautifully flawed story of an earth whose sun has died. Swords in hand, we fought the bloody manticore upon Koshtra Pivrarcha with Lord Juss and Lord Brandoch Daha in E. R. Eddison’s The Worm Ouroboros, a work written with power and elegance in archaic English.

Exhausted, heads spinning, panting, we threw ourselves down to rest. But after a moment Lin and I looked at each other and nodded. He smiled and said, “Let’s do it all again.”

I would have followed him anywhere.

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Originally published at John C. Wright's Journal. Please leave any comments there.