What little remained was buried on the spot—at the foot of the eastern slop of Mont Kemmel in Belgium. The official report was forwarded to England, and most likely it specified that Hodgson was killed the previous week, since it was recorded on the official register in London, and the death certificate rolls, as 17 April. On 24 April the Germans attacked the right flank of the 84 th Battery and the following day they launched another large attack.
During all this confusion, it is not difficult to see how an error came to be made. In fact the C. This would seem to be a very straight forward account of the event. On the 18 th , Hodgson and another man set up the Forward Observation post. On the 19 th , a report is sent in and received. When no other word arrives from the post, the Commanding Officer himself goes in search of his men on April 20 th and is told that the two men were literally blown to pieces by a mortar shell on the 19 th. The primary confusion regarding this date comes from two sources: This would appear to be a case of the former creating the latter.
This notes the date of death as the 17 th and is supportive of the claims in the Everts article. John Adcock, describing the events as: Moskowitz, although quoting St. John Adcock, himself writes: It is confusing why, if Moskowitz had such evidence, he would repeat the erroneous date of April 17 th that St. John Adcock likely took from the official record. Why present the one date if you believe, and have supporting evidence, that it was a different date? Unfortunately, misinformation abounds and even more so in our electronic age.
Those who are simply looking for a quick answer to a date may take the first they see or what is presented on an official report. So, let me state for the record that, based on the information quoted by Everts and which I believe Moskowitz was also privy to , William Hope Hodgson was killed on April 19, Please join us in two days for a memorial to Hodgson on what will be the Centennial of his unfortunate death.
You can read the whole article here: This set me to looking for other instances of del Toro referencing Hodgson. Turns out that there are a few out there. The rest of the article is here: The movie comes from the Japanese Kaiju tradition. What I think was unique about Ishiro Honda is that he was very well versed in the fantastic.
It would have been an honor to meet him and to geek out with him. The rest of the interview is here: A summit of Cosmic horror. Scary, disturbing and magical. Uneven collection of stories but peppered w mind-blowing images. These are just the mentions I could find online during a routine search. If you know of any either in print, online or in dvd commentaries , please message me with the information and I will include it in a later update along with crediting you with the find.
This new edition is being published by Swan River Press as a hardcover with an introduction by legendary writer Alan Moore, an afterword from Iain Sinclair with art by John Coulthart. A cd of music inspired by the book is also included. This promises to not only be a landmark edition but to sell out very quickly! I would recommend pre-ordering as soon as possible! You can find ordering information here: With his devotion to physical culture, he could have achieved Immortality by now!
I certainly never expected to become so involved in the study of his life and work when I first that first book. Perhaps that is a result of the fact that, back then, it was a lot harder to find any of his books much less read about him.
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I first read Hodgson back around or so. Sadly, all of those, including bookstores selling new books, have all vanished by now. I chanced upon a copy of the Donald M. My good friend, S. Joshi, who was with me in the store at the time, saw me looking at the book and recommended it to me highly.
I loved the stories and wanted more! But, in those pre-internet days, I had to wait. I snapped them up immediately, not caring how much they cost.
- william hope hodgson | A blog about the writer of THE NIGHT LAND and HOUSE ON THE BORDERLAND.
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But, damn it all! What about the man? Where were the scholarly and critical articles about his work? Slowly, with the help of others like S. Joshi, I was starting to put together more information and soon found myself in the unexpected but welcomed role of Hodgson spokesman. Since those lean years of the s, Hodgson has become more well known and there are now more articles written about him along with doctoral thesis then ever before. I feel safe in the knowledge that Hodgson will endure and continue to attract new readers in the years and decades ahead. His work is far more available today than it has been at any time in his life and, above all else, I think that would make him very happy indeed.
Joey Z got us started with some excellent questions and Michael and Adam contributed a great deal of welcome literary analysis. Although that question might have technically been correct, the questioner was looking for more discussion about what influenced WHH. The Harder they Fall. At least he thought it was. Especially when he just made a deal with her that would have her moving into his place. Renee knew coming to see her brother Vengeance unannounced might not have been the best idea. I kind of hoping for Striker. All the books here are self-published with Jenika Snow You can find all our Crescent Snow Publishing books, and information here: Owned by the Bastard Series: Bent, Not Broken Series: Hard as Steel Series: Soldiers of Wrath MC Company: April 30th Blurb: This title does contain explicit adult themes.
The Soldiers of Wrath plus bonus short novella Series: Soldiers of Wrath Company: Ruin and Rise Series: Soldiers of Wrath Novella Company: Crescent Snow Publishing Buy Links: Can they really rise from the ashes and not get burned? Soldiers of Wrath Buy Links: The Soldiers of Wrath Volume 2 Series: January 10, at January 13, at February 1, at Yes, Jenika and I will be working on him after we finish King.
February 4, at July 20, at July 31, at Hi just read The Cure it was great. When are u writing more of the Dirty Fuckers? The last thing she wanted was to worry the maid. These days, Kinney was more friend than servant, and friends were in short supply. That was the least of her concerns, if she were to be completely honest. The late Earl of Banfield had been seventy-two at his death, and he had led a long and sane—if not entirely happy—life.
The loss of his young child years prior had not undone him as it had affected his wife. Kinney eyed her skeptically, seeing through her, as she always did. The maid had been with her since she was but a child. Bestowed upon her because at four years old she had only wanted to eat peaches, the silly appellation had carried through the years, becoming more a sign of the closeness between the two of them than any indication of her dietary contrariness.
Had she been born a lad instead, Kinney would have made a brilliant Bow Street Runner—she had a nose like a bloodhound for secrets. Speaking of which, you ought to have a nibble. The very idea of being so close to the coven made her stomach endlessly flip. Instinctively, her fingers closed around the pearl pendant around her neck, wishing that it would protect her. From the large portmanteau at her feet, Kinney pulled out a cloth-wrapped package. She undid the ties, revealing six biscuits from the tea tray at their last inn stop.
Claire had been too distracted to eat much, her thoughts on the will reading and seeing her distant family members. It was never good to admit how much she missed, even to Kinney. Instead, she took a biscuit from the cloth. They ate the remaining biscuits, staring out the windows of the carriage.
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The Cornwall countryside flashed before them, a seemingly endless monotony of moss-green forest and dank dirt. At least Papa was traveling separately. He rarely spent more than ten minutes in the same room as her now—she reminded him too much of his late wife. If Claire ever needed a chaperone, Kinney came with her. Yet even a fortnight in close confines with only Papa for company would not be the worst of torments. That dubious honor applied to the times she had spent visiting her mother in Ticehurst, a private lunatic hospital catering to those members of the aristocracy one never spoke of openly.
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Newington, who was supposed to be kind, better than the butchers at Bedlam that tended to the paupers. Newington, who should have known better than to allow his doctors to practice water therapy on her mother. Newington, who had met his own demise this year. He had not died in a windowless shower room, every part of his body bound and restrained in the special chair, whilst ice-cold water rained down upon him endlessly.
He had not tried to suck in breath after breath in a laudanum-induced haze, swallowing only water until he drowned. Claire leaned back against the squabs and closed her eyes. That was a mistake, for the blackness reminded her of how her mother must have slipped from consciousness, her throat relaxing, water flowing into her lungs. For a second, her breath came in fierce pants, as the image gripped her tight. The churn and fall of the carriage wheels against the dirt road did not steady her, for they were just another reminder of where she was going. She did not have much, but she had Kinney.
And that was enough for her. She would not yearn for more; she refused to. Love was not in the cards for her. The carriage swayed as they turned right, down the road that would take them finally to Castle Keyvnor. The maid gathered up the now-empty cloth that had held the biscuits and stuffed it back in her portmanteau. Those ghosts and goblins shall have nothing on you. She wanted to be strong, like Kinney saw her, but she knew her fate was already sealed.
And I expect the Priske clan will be there too. I do so like Lady Cassandra. But I do wish Lord Ashbrooke would come too. You shall have to visit him when you return. But you are not doomed. You, of all people, deserve happiness. Keyvnor is so large. Claire scooted closer to the window, pushing the curtains all the way back to give them a better view. Even in the bright light of day, Castle Keyvnor was intimidating. Made of the darkest stone, it retained much of its original Norman motte and bailey design.
With a wooden drawbridge, a barbican, and a gatehouse with a single rectangular tower, the castle screamed of the old and the long dead. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Kinney draw back and mumble a prayer. Theodore Lockwood, Earl of Ashbrooke and known as Teddy to his closest friends, had never liked leaving things to chance. He was a planner, a researcher, a scholar. Even when he tried to be courageous—as he attempted now—he went about it with a methodical approach. He had hunted down the original floor plans of the castle, making a special stop at the British Museum to consult with the leading expert on twelfth-century architecture.
His visit, and his reasoning for finding such a vast array of information necessary for a seven-day jaunt, had surprised the professor. But as in all things, Teddy believed preparation would be the key to success. He climbed higher, the wind whistling in his ears. Probably best not to have a full stomach when he got to the top of the castle. He paused on the steps, leaning back against the stone foundations. He told himself he was admiring the view, but really, he was marshaling his strength.
For most of his twenty-five years, every day faded into the next in a similar order. His life progressed according to plan. Until a year ago, when the letter arrived at his Half Moon Street townhouse. He still remembered how the cream-colored parchment had appeared upon the silver tray where the butler placed all of his mail, so innoxious, as if bad news could never be relayed with such an innocent piece of paper. In the span of a single day, he went from the spare intent on becoming a barrister to the new Earl of Ashbrooke.
His eldest brother, Gerald, was dead. Killed in the middle of the night by a bullet to the chest. The duel had happened so suddenly—both men were deep in their cups, and their equally foxed friends had been all-too-eager to offer themselves up as seconds. That, Teddy had learned, was the way of humanity. There was little men loved more than blood sport, and watching two young bucks fight over the affections of a well-known courtesan qualified as prime entertainment.
No time to stop him from this rash mistake.
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Not that Gerry would have listened to him—the two brothers had been as different as night and day, with Gerry being a proper rogue, and Teddy much preferring the company of his books to Society. According to the code of honor, duels were supposed to happen the next morning. Such a senseless death! So he climbed, each foot hitting a stone step until finally there were no more left. The stairwell bottomed out into the allure. He stood at the top of the left tower, surrounded by gray granite.
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The grayness faded into the equally dank sky, until he felt as though he was enveloped in a blob of watered-down ink. It was as if the sky was waiting—holding its breath before a great storm. Giles, had remarked as they leaned against the track guardrails at Newmarket.
Teddy had been friends with St. Giles since they were first enrolled at Eton as young lads, and unfortunately St. Giles knew him far, far too well. Beside Blackwater, Lord Michael Beck nodded vigorously. Giles had hit on the truth.