Tag Archives: politics

[November 23, 1963 cont.] After a fashion


by Gwyn Conaway

I'm hungry for answers, but more than anything, simply heartbroken. We will forever relive this day through Jackie Kennedy's watermelon pink Chanel suit. Make no mistake, our First Lady's ensemble will live forever. Rather than being the symbol of strength, compassion, and grace, as both Coco Chanel and Jackie Kennedy would have wanted, the suit has been transformed into a symbol of tragedy and death.

I am heartbroken, not because it is a beautiful piece of fashion tarnished by the fall of a great man. I am heartbroken because we will all experience today over and over in the decades to come. Fashion will lash out and redefine the watermelon pink suit as a symbol of the crumbling American Dream. Its visage will become sour, like rotten fruit, as our nation's loss fades away. More than that, I mourn for Jackie Kennedy, who will stand by as her suit is redefined in the years to come and see the ghosts of today rise anew. 




[November 23, 1963 cont.] Give sorrow words


by Lorelei Marcus

It was around 11:30 AM, just before lunch. The PA system crackled to life and every head turned from their desks towards the speaker. It was my 10th grade English class.

“The President has been shot!” said the tinny voice. We had just been wrapping up our unit on Shakespeare’s Macbeth, all about the death of a nation's leader, but I didn’t really have the chance to appreciate the synchronicity at the time.

My teacher wheeled in a portable TV. I looked to my left at my good friend Cecilia. She was German, and only just moved here a couple years ago. She was shaking real bad, a sharp contrast to the cold stillness I’d been shocked into. I didn’t, couldn’t believe what I was hearing. In fact I’d expected the class to erupt into a sea of whispers, but all that was there was a faint crackle and Walter Cronkite's strong voice repeating over and over.

“In Dallas Texas this morning President Kennedy was assassinated at 1:30 Eastern Time, 10:30 Western Time. Three shots were fired-”

The school couldn’t let us out early, but they might as well have. The rest of my classes were a hazy tear-filled blur, punctuated by the continuous drone of Cronkite’s voice. When I was walking home that day across the softball field, I saw the football coach, one of the toughest men I know, with a wet handkerchief blanketing his face. Even the trees seemed to be weeping as their leaves crackled in the autumn wind.

Even in the fall it doesn’t get cold in Southern California. Yet under a pile of blankets in the living room, snuggled up to my parents with a cup of cocoa, I couldn’t ease the chilling squeeze on my heart. Even writing this now it’s like a subtle blizzard is raging inside me. If the President was shot, how can we say any of us are safe?

November 22nd, 1963 will always be a day to remember. Everything’s changed, I’ve changed. We’ve found now that Lee Harvey Oswald was responsible for this… horrendous act. He’ll be put in jail for life, where he belongs.

Even so, I think I would trade a lot to have my dad come in and tell me it was all a misunderstanding. During the live coverage, Cronkite kept saying “The president is dead… but not officially.” I think he was hoping so too.

Instead, he and we were left with loss. A loss to Jackie, a loss to the nation, a loss to the world. At this point, I think the only thing left to do is grieve, quietly and together.

And try to understand. Oswald, a U.S. Marine, started an innocent flower, but the serpent was beneath it. MacBeth's motives were plain and old as humanity. But Oswald's..

Why?




[November 23, 1963] President Kennedy returns to D.C. one last time

[Early this morning, the body of our slain President was flown back to Washington D.C.  Now he lies in state in the East Wing of the White House, where he will remain until 24 hours have passed.  Then will come the funeral.

Where do we go from there?]


by Jason Sacks

Camelot is over. A titan no longer walks the earth.

John F. Kennedy is dead.

Will our country — will our world? — ever be the same?

President Kennedy represented the dreams of all us. Manifested in his success and the shimmering images of his family, we saw the dreams of a perfected post-war world. In watching JFK and his family, we became participants in a triumphant America reaching its full potential, spreading our secular gospel of capitalism and freedom throughout the world.

For all of us born during or after the War, Kennedy represented everything our parents fought for, everything we aspired to as a nation, and everything the world dreamed of becoming.

And now he is gone.

Will America survive?

Of course we will. Our country is more than a single man, no matter how influential or important he is.

But JFK’s savage assassination, in front of his beloved wife Jackie, our country has lost some of its innocence. We will always feel his loss. After all, when we lose a titan, we lose a lot of what makes America its greatest self.

President Johnson is a great American, a man who I’m sure will help America transcend its weaknesses and become a more perfected version of itself.

But we will never be the same again.

Goodbye, President Kennedy. Goodbye, Camelot. We will always miss you.




[November 22, 1963 cont.] Highest indictment for Presidential assassin

[Lee Harvey Oswald, who shot and killed President Kennedy this afternoon, has been charged with murder of a President.

In other news, Erica Frank offers her thoughts on today's events:]


by Erica Frank

My cousin has a job with a restaurant supply company. While making deliveries yesterday, a woman told him, "The president's been shot and taken to the hospital." He tried to absorb that and finish out his workday, but during his next delivery, he looked at a school nearby – and saw the flag at half-mast. That's how he knew.

He says he knows several other people told him in the afternoon, as he finished his route, but he doesn't remember the details. He only remembers the shock of seeing that flag.

I was at work all day in the records department, so I heard nothing until I went home. I'm still trying to get caught up on the news.

Some people feel they have inside information, though. The John Birch Society is already saying that that yesterday's murder was part of a Russian communist plot. It seems awfully quick for them to say they have answers, especially since they've been spreading such vile lies about him.


Propaganda poster put up across Dallas by the John Birch Society on Nov. 21

I can understand wanting closure in such a terrible time, but with a crime of this magnitude, it is important that we find the truth of the matter rather than jumping to conclusions.




[November 22, 1963 cont.] Ripples down under

[Science fiction author, David Rome wired us his reaction to today's news:]


by David Rome

This is the day never to be forgotten. I am returned from England where I had been writing science fiction and comics, and am staying for a short time at my parents' home in Sydney while I wonder about my future survival in the dying pulp market.

On This Day, for no reason at all, I suddenly feel an impulse to turn on the TV set – and the news is coming through in these dreadful moments.

The world psyche perhaps, somehow influencing us all.

A day of loss which I believe will only intensify as the years go on.

Vale JFK. God help the world.




[November 22, 1963 cont.] Murder charge for Lee Harvey Oswald

[The name of President Kennedy's assassin is now known to the world: Lee Harvey Oswald, once a Marine, a defector to the Soviet Union.  We also know the name of the Dallas police officer that he killed: J.D. Tippit.  Oswald was just formally charged for the policeman's murder, and we understand more charges will be forthcoming,

In other news, Texas Governor John Connally, injured in the same attack that claimed the President, is in serious but stable condition.

We now bring you the first of the reports from the Journey's correspondents…]


by Victoria Lucas

I do not think I shall ever forget these 4 words: "Texas School Book Depository." 

I hardly know what they mean.  It's a building.  The building in which the shooter hid to kill.  I can't say it, can't write the name of the man he killed.

My mother called me at work to tell me that he had been taken to the hospital, but we have no radio and of course no TV at work.  No news except what is brought to us from outside.  People with car radios, with a portable radio brought to work somewhere else. 

My mother called back.  He is dead.  Our president is dead.  Johnson has been sworn in.  I can't really take it in.  I'm crying.  People who come into my office have wet faces. 

What can I say?  I feel as if my own life has been taken away from me, and I don't know why.  Why am I writing you today?  I know no one else to write.  I guess I just want to let you know how it is here in Tucson, Arizona, hearing the news. 

My mother says that when I get home tonight I will see nothing else on the television.  There will be nothing else on except repeated footage from the assassination.  Yes, assassination.  And how the government is in transition.  Just as now there is nothing else to talk about.

He is dead.

He Is Dead.




[November 22, 1963] President Kennedy has been assassinated


by Gideon Marcus

We interrupt the Journey's normal publication schedule to bring you breaking news.

According to several television, radio, and wire services, John F. Kennedy was shot twice, at around 12:30 p.m., CST, as his motorcade traveled through Dealey Plaza in Dallas.  The gravely injured President was rushed to Parkland Memorial Hospital where he was pronounced dead of his wounds shortly thereafter.  Vice President Lyndon B. Johnson was sworn in as Kennedy's successor one hour later. 

At about the same time, President Kennedy's assailant was apprehended by local law enforcement, but not before the killer slew a Dallas police officer. 

We will have more details on this event as they come in.  In addition, several of the Journey staff will be submitting observations on the events: their impact on themselves and those around them.  We welcome yours as well.

Please stay tuned.  Be strong.  We are all in this crisis together. 

Together, we will get through it.




[July 28, 1963] Africa: From End to End A Beautiful Garden; A Swan Dive into Vogue’s New Grand Tour

[P.S.  Did you take our super short survey yet?  There could be free beer/coffee in it for you!]


by Gwyn Conaway


Seydou Keïta, a Malian photographer, is known for his portraiture, particularly of women that simultaneously become a part of their environment and assume command of it.

The newest Vogue offers a refreshing departure from the traditional venues of Paris, London, and New York.  Its pages have let me peek into the lives of people in places I’d never thought much about. For this summer’s Vogue embarks on a grand tour of Africa. It offers glimpses of Nigeria and Uganda, worlds wholly different from and beyond our own.  Much like when Alice follows the White Rabbit to Wonderland, I’ve found myself both in awe of this new adventure and questioning my place within it.

The words of Mary Roblee Henry struck a lasting chord with me when she wrote “Africa, in fact, has everything – except a frame of reference.” As of fifty years ago, the African continent, with the exception of the Empire of Ethiopia, was entirely colonized by Europe. As a result, our American eyes have always seen Africa as an extension of our own desire for adventure, not a continent with its own rich point of view.


Marchesa Sieuwke Bisleti on her farm Marula in the Kenyan highlands with two leopard cubs. She wears a grass green linen Serengeti shirt, khaki slacks, and earthy brown leather boots.

In addition to touring Nigeria and Uganda, this issue of Vogue documents the daily life of Marchesa Sieuwke Bisleti in Kenya, where she cares for many exotic animals on her farm, Marula. Western women in their 30s crave her practical elegance. She embodies the windswept beauty of a woman who has seen adventure and now lives comfortably within that frame of mind.

As romantic as this notion is, our sense of adventure may be a double-edged sword. On one hand, wearing bush jackets, Gurkha shorts, and khaki freesuits gives us a taste of discovering those distant, ancient, untouched places. On the other hand, it revives imperialist sentiments just as the continent Churchill once called “from end to end one beautiful garden” gains its independence.


Above: Abubakar Tafawa Balewa on leave with his children on his farm in northern Nigeria. Below: Finance Minister Okotie-Eboh and his wife, both wearing Iro skirts. Okotie-Eboh was also an Itsekiri chief near the Benin River.

After devouring every page of Vogue, I turned to current events. I needed more than Western fantasies to quench my curiosity. Luckily, Queen Elizabeth II has been busy on the continent, working closely with the soon-to-be Federal Republic of Nigeria to recall the British protectorate.

I was struck by the big personalities of Prime Minister Abubakar Tafawa Balewa and Finance Minister Festus Okotie-Eboh. How had I never paid attention to Nigerian politics before! Although, in the picture above, Tafawa Balewa is sitting in a casual setting, far from the pomp and circumstance of the capitol, he still exudes authority, as if he belongs to the country as much as it belongs to him. Perhaps the simple, large, billowing shapes of his agbada emphasize his assumption of power.

Okotie-Eboh, however, truly uses Nigerian fashion and tradition to make a grand statement. He and his wife in the image above are breathtaking, adorned in many yards of traditional Nigerian textiles, peacock feathers, and coral beads. While part of me is giddy for Okotie-Eboh’s bold choices, I’m also concerned for the burgeoning republic’s image. Do his people see the grandeur as a statement of pride, or do they see indulgence and excess? This is a question I have no answer to for the moment, but leaves me feeling uneasy for the future.


Nigerian women standing for a portrait. Note that the woman in the center is wearing an English dress suit while the ladies on either side are wearing the traditional iro (skirt), buba (shirt), and gele (headwrap)

Beyond Nigeria’s politicians, her people possess a breathtaking strength of character. More so than in any fashion line or runway show, Nigerians’ personal power and charisma is interwoven into their textiles and fashion. In the clamour to define the modern Nigerian identity, traditional and European aesthetics are caught in a fiery dance for domination. 

The younger generation in particular is visually torn between their new independence and the allure of western style. Men here combined sports jackets of the finest linens and tweeds with their white or brightly colored, airy agbadas and Oxford brogues. Girls wear western polka dotted blouses with their iros and beaded jewelry.



Photography by J.D. ‘Okhai Ojeikere

Photographers like J.D. ‘Okhai Ojeikere and Seydou Keïta explore this in their portraiture. One moment, Ojeikere will photograph wealthy Nigerians dressed head-to-toe as fashionable young British women, donning pumps, sundresses, and pearl earrings. The next, he’ll snap a photo of two men leaning against an enviable Rambler Ambassador parked on rich Nigerian red earth roads, one in a dress shirt and tie, the other in a traditional agbada, with a backdrop of Coca Cola trucks, stressing the country’s identity crisis.


Sade Thomas-Fahm sources local Nigerian textiles to create her own take on European fashions.

Considering the events in Nigeria right now, I was shocked to learn how difficult it has been for these artists to blaze their creative trails. Take Sade Thomas-Fahm, for example. She’s an up-and-coming fashion designer from Nigeria, and the first woman to open her own boutique in the country. Her designs combine tradition and modernism, reinventing British silhouettes with Nigerian textiles. Although it’s a perfect marriage, the public is a hard sell. It seems to me that the European influence over the African continent will be strong for many years to come.

Circling back to Mary Roblee Henry, I now find myself wary of style icons such as Marchesa Sieuwke Bisleti after exploring some of Africa’s “missing” frame of reference (which I now know is not so much “missing” as covered by a veil of European colonialism). Although I can’t help but feel the call to adventure, the romance of bush jackets and Gurkha shorts comes with a dash of bitterness now. Instead, I think I’ll find my practical elegance elsewhere, and look to lift up the voices of those like Sade Thomas-Fahm.

Now there is a true adventure.

Special Thanks to Nigerian Nostalgia Project for images from their archives.




[July 14, 1963] JFK gets a Ph.D.


by Victoria Lucas

[Would you believe that the Traveller got scooped in his own home town?  I knew JFK had been downtown, but I didn't know he'd been to (one of my) alma maters…]


(a thank you to SDSC for providing these pictures)

I really wish I had been able to be there.  Fortunately my friend in San Diego came through again, and I’ve been drooling over the prints and tape she sent.  She was at the commencement ceremonies on the 6th of June at San Diego State College (SDSC) when President John F. Kennedy was presented with an honorary doctorate in the Aztec Bowl.  Kennedy is one of my favorite people, and I look forward to voting for him when I vote in my first presidential election next year.

Not for the first time, Kennedy was the star of a motorcade.  This one went down a main drag (El Cajon Boulevard) in San Diego
as he sat and stood in a limousine and rode from the airport on his way to San Diego State as Marines pushed the crowd back.  His primary reason for this trip to San Diego was the inspection of local military installations, so he just picked up a degree on his way to Pendleton Hall for a ceremonial inspection of the nearby Marine Corps base.

Kennedy was accompanied in the limo by California Governor “Pat” Brown, Senator Thomas Eagleton, and Lionel Van Deerlin (whom you've read about here), the local member of the House of Representatives.  Once at the college, he was nearly smothered in academics as he was hurriedly dressed in a cap and gown to join the academic procession to the officials’ platform.

It seems that in 1960 the California State Legislature authorized schools in the California State College system to grant honorary doctoral degrees "to individuals who have made unusual
contributions toward learning and civilization."  This conferral of an honorary Doctor of Laws degree on JFK is the first time that power has been used to grant a degree.

There was quite a crowd, but anyone could stand at the top of the Aztec Bowl and watch the program, and photographers could sneak up and snap away if they could find a spot not already occupied by a dozen newsmen.

Of course every politician and dignitary for hundreds of miles wanted to be a part of this.  With the Governor of California, “Pat” Brown, watching, it was California State College Chancellor Glenn Dumke and San Diego State College President Malcolm A. Love who performed the academic hooding ceremony with Kennedy.  They then presented the newly minted doctor of laws to the faculty and officials on the platform and the commencement crowd.

The academic hood is a device that, despite its name, is not currently designed to be worn over the head.  If you look closely at the color photo below, you will see that the President has something with a red trim across the front of his shoulders.  That’s the hood.  (The back is more colorful.) It carries the colors of the conferring institution, in this case red and black.  Above you will see that both Dumke and Love are putting the “hood” over Kennedy’s head—that isn’t normally done.  It really only takes one person (generally the academic advisor who worked with the student to earn the degree), but in this case it’s a wonder there were only two and there weren’t people fighting over it.

Once the “hood” was on his shoulders, Kennedy was introduced as the commencement speaker by California Governor Pat Brown and gave a thrilling commencement speech before being whisked away in a helicopter to the Marine Corps base for ceremonies there. 

At least I found the speech thrilling.  The tape I received of the short (20-minute) oration has some memorable quotes that I transcribed (which is something I do for money or even fun). 

For those of you who couldn't be there, here's what the President had to say:

As an “instant graduate” of SDSC, Kennedy speaks about “the recognition by the citizens of this State [California] of the importance of education as the basis for the maintenance of an effective, free society.” He addresses the citizens of California before him, saying, “You recognize that a free society places special burdens upon any free citizen.  To govern is to choose and the ability to make those choices wise and responsible and prudent requires the best of all of us.” Again, he emphasizes, “no free society can possibly be sustained, unless it has an educated citizenry whose qualities of mind and heart permit it to take part in the complicated and increasingly sophisticated decisions that pour … upon all the citizens who exercise the ultimate power. “

Moving on to a related but equally urgent problem, he asks “The first question, and the most important—does every American boy and girl have an opportunity to develop whatever talents they have?  All of us do not have equal talent, but all of us should have an equal opportunity to develop those talents.  Let me cite a few facts to show that they do not.”

These “few facts” include the inequality of spending on public schools in various states, the inequality of graduation rates among whites and the “nonwhite population,” and the inequality of age of the school buildings they attend.  He states the obvious, then, that “American children today do not yet enjoy equal educational opportunities for two primary reasons: one is economic and the other is racial.“

The next bit, it seems to me, indicates a direction for public policy that Kennedy advocates: “ If our Nation is to meet the goal of giving every American child a fair chance, because an uneducated child makes an uneducated parent who, in many cases, produces another uneducated child, we must move ahead swiftly in both areas.  And we must recognize that segregation and education and I mean de facto segregation in the North as well as the proclaimed segregation in the South, brings with it serious handicaps to a large proportion of the population.”

He went on to speak about the resulting “increasingly unskilled labor available,” which, along with an “increasing population” of young people, forms “one of the most serious domestic problems that this country will face in the next 10 years.”

Worse than that, the illiteracy rate “in this rich country of ours” is so high that illiterate people “constitute the hard core of our unemployed.  They can’t write a letter to get a job, and they can’t read, in many cases, a help-wanted sign.” He quotes Francis Bacon: “Knowledge is power."

Yes, he does mean to make policy:

“Government must play its role in stimulating a system of excellence which can serve the great national purpose of a free society.  And it is for that reason that we have sent to the Congress of the United States legislation to help meet the needs of higher education …. We have to improve, and we have so recommended, the quality of our teachers … and … to strengthen public elementary and secondary education ….  And finally, we must make a massive attack upon illiteracy in the year 1963 in the United States ….”

Lastly:

“I recognize that this represents a difficult assignment for us all, but I don’t think it is an assignment from which we should shrink.” He pointed out how the birth rate is “going to pour into schools and our colleges in the next 10 or 20 years and I want this generation of Americans to be as prepared to meet this challenge as our forefathers did in making it possible for all of us to be here.”

In short, he called his privileged audience to account for its advantages and challenged them to bring others up to their level. 

It’s about time.




[March 20, 1963] TIME TRAVEL (1962 from the perspective of SFF-writer, David Rome)

[I am very pleased to present an article that just arrived by post from David Boutland (a.k.a. David Rome), whose stories have been the subject of review several times.  It marks the first time this fanzine has been graced with presence of a current SFF writer.  It is written in the form of a retrospective, at the big end of a 55-year long telescope…]


by David Rome

In Chester I went exploring the remembered years, turning left into a cul-de-sac of terraced houses and here is the corner shop on the right and ahead the low brick wall topped by the rusty spiked iron railings.

And on the other side of the railings the railway shunting yard with shrill whistle of shunting engine.

A clatter of running feet, two small boys racing each other and the echo of my own voice ringing out after the troops returned from the war and my old man had quit his job at the dairy, taken us out of Sodhouse Bank Gateshead, and brought us here to start a new life.

And I stand looking at number 8 Gresford Avenue then walk the few strides to the end of the street. How short the distance and how small the houses. I look down over waist-high rusty spikes into the place of old adventures. A trickling flow of what couldn't even be called a stream scummy with weed and rubbish and along there where the old gasometer had been that kid went fishing with jamjar on a long string and had fallen screaming and drowned under stagnant water.

I turned my back on the railway wasteland and stood looking at the little windows of crowded little houses. How different to the low, tiled bungalows of the Great South Land. Maybe I don't belong here. Maybe I don't fit.

But I found a flat over a butcher's shop and settled in. Early each morning I was woken by the pounding of cleavers as bloody carcasses were dismembered. Nightly, the tv set showed scenes of protest in Trafalgar Square where truncheon-wielding London bobbies were doing what cops all over the world do, enforce the will of their masters. They charged into peaceful crowds of CND demonstrators with thudding truncheons.

In Russia, America, and Britain missiles with atomic warheads stood ready to end all war.

And in the U.S. Kennedy told Khrushchev to get his missiles the hell out of Cuba. Khrushchev's reply was go to hell. Kennedy blockaded Cuba.

There's a kind of hush

was the mood.

The Earth spins through space. Our home. Infinite space surrounds us. No known habitable world to escape to. The tests of the pre-Cuba crisis had already exposed half a million people to radiation as politicians and glory-hungry generals sought to gain the edge. Two million workers in nuclear weapons plants were preparing to seed the environment with life-wasting emissions. Human guinea pigs were reported to have been tested in the Nevada desert. Their skin peeled loose and their hair fell out. Kennedy urged Congress to build fallout shelters.

The world turned.

While murder was contemplated on a scale beyond human imagination. While secret underground bunkers were readied for our Rulers so the Administration could preserve what it always preserves: itself. 

Meanwhile a judge sat on high and looked down on the likes of James Hanratty, a young petty criminal convicted of shooting dead another young man and raping his victim's girlfriend before shooting her, and leaving her paralyzed. His trial went on for twenty one days, the longest and one of the most expensive in the history of murder in England. The jury took almost ten hours to bring in their verdict of guilty. Hanratty was put to death.

And even as nuclear stand-off in Cuba paralyzed the world, new evidence emerged that persuaded many of us that Hanratty was a victim of a state killing and was not a murderer.

Killers must be brought to account. What nightmare scenario would the fat cats, the smug politicians and their privileged families – privileged to live – look upon when, how many years afterward? they emerged into the landscape of a once green and pleasant land?

And when they walked out into the radiation-glow of endless night would we take the only weapons we had left to us to stab and club and hang those who commited the ultimate crime of laying an entire planet to waste?

In the blood-scented world above the butcher's shop I wrote comics now as well as pulp crime and science fiction.

On the pages of Romeo a young girl ran across a mystic country to meet her boyfriend orbiting overhead in starlit night in his space capsule. Mutating butterflies in a child's garden were a prelude to the changing world of The Pink Peril. Featured in Thomson Leng's Judy was Phillipa's Friend Finny, a porpoise tamed before the bottle nosed stars of television leapt across the screen. The war was fought in the air across Europe, and in the jungles of New Guinea, in Fleetway's Battle Picture series.

Millions of words sweated out, to earn a living, but no market be it pulp or comic-book that wasn't approached with respect.

Working on a comic script I used the carpeted floor of my upstairs flat to lay out roughly sketched pictures which, redrawn by an artist, would illustrate the story. I could shuffle their order, add 'boxes' at top or bottom, scribble in lines of dialogue, put in thought bubbles.

One morning I heard a sound I was attuned to, the clack of the letter box, and I broke off and went to the top of the stairs.

Rejections in their self-addressed manila envelopes lay on the doormat.

I opened the door and watched the postman moving away. We were into summer but a bleak wind was blowing down the street. I closed the door again and went into the kitchen and made a cup of tea.

I thought of my time here, and of the stories I had written. Some, a few, I had thought were special. Lately, I'd sold Foreign Body to New Worlds, the story of a science fiction pulp writer whose acceptance cheques stop arriving. The mag had come with the rejections and I opened it to the contents page, feeling nostalgia at the memories it evoked: of writing my first-ever story for Pocket Man, six years ago, of selling Time of Arrival to New Worlds, and of selling Parky in America.

Good days.

Now – New Worlds was in its seventeenth year of publication. It had been started by writers and fans who invested money and time, and dragged up by its bootstraps by the legendary editor John Carnell to become the front-ranking professional British science fiction magazine.

But the truth was that, like the pulp crime magazines, its days were coming to an end.

You've gotta have luck. Was mine running out?

'58, I rode aboard the men's magazines, learned my trade, comics earned a dollar when a dollar was needed. But now the market for short stories is on the skids.

I put the magazine aside and took up the letter I had left until last. A blue airmail letter from Sharon, the girl I had left behind in the land of Oz. I'd written and told her I was thinking of coming home, that I was near broke, and her reply was measured, and understanding, and held out hope that we might try again. She had her job at the bank, still, and was saving money, and maybe she could help me to keep writing.

And as the wider world closed in on me, I watched the anti-segregation marches in Montgomery Alabama, fire-hoses turned on blacks, kickings and clubbings; Governor George Wallace:

'"– Segregation now, segregation tomorrow, segregation forever – "

1960's. Freedom and Insanity in the air.

(Read more at David Rome: Pulp Writer!]