In good, really good company
- Intro post: “Here come the weirdos!”
- A is for Andre Breton (father of surrealism)
- B is for the Bobs (Ross and Haney)
- C is for Charles Cameron (Glass Bead Game maestro)
- D is for Donald Knuth (philosophical comp-sci prof)
- E is for Emmanuel Radnitsky (Man Ray, to his friends)
- F is for Florence Farr (mystical playwright)
- G is for George Carlin (but without the 7 dirty words)
- H is for Harlan Ellison (grand master of sci-fi)
- I is for Ithell Colquhoun (surrealist artist & magician)
- J is for Jacob Kurtzberg (comic visionary Jack Kirby)
- K is for Kenneth Grant (eclectic & shadowy magician)
- L is for Lorq and Lobey (really their author, Samuel Delany)
- M is for M. A. R. Barker (game designer & worldbuilder)
- N is for Narpet (Rush drummer/lyricist Neil Peart)
- O is for Octavia Butler (sci-fi author & religion founder)
- P is for Phyllis Seckler (teacher of true will)
- Q is for “Quien Mas?” (whom did I leave out?)
- R is for Rimbaud (dreamily evocative French poet)
- S is for Somtow Sucharitkul (author & dozens of other things)
- T is for Tyagi and Catherine (match made in a magic circle)
- U is for Unknown (anonymous 17th century manifestos)
- V is for Vienna (Slow down, you crazy child)
- W is for Walt (Oh Whitman, my Whitman!)
- X is for Xenophanes? (not really; Xena’s got nothin today)
- Y is for Yates, Dame Frances (historian of lost mysteries)
- Z is for Zindell, David (author of my favorite sci-fi novel)
**
So that’s Cygnus’ list — quite a dinner party! You’ll recognise some members of your own constellation of creatives here, perhaps — feast on some of those you’re not yet familar with! Cygnus blogs about games and such at Servitor Ludi.
As for me, I’ll simply offer you William Bulter Yeats‘ great poem Leda and the Swan, to celebrate the company I just found myself in, and close out a memorable evening:
Leda and the Swan
A sudden blow: the great wings beating still
Above the staggering girl, her thighs caressed
By the dark webs, her nape caught in his bill,
He holds her helpless breast upon his breast.
How can those terrified vague fingers push
The feathered glory from her loosening thighs?
And how can body, laid in that white rush,
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