Born on this day January 13, 1893, Clark Ashton Smith, a pioneering figure in the realm of fantasy literature, is renowned for his distinctive style that combines richly textured prose with imaginative world-building. His contributions to the genre are marked by a deep fascination with the supernatural, the macabre, and the ancient, which he deftly wove into the tapestry of his works. Smith’s tales, often published in the pulp magazine “Weird Tales”, played an instrumental role in enriching the Cthulhu Mythos, a shared fictional universe based on the work of American writer H.P. Lovecraft.
Smith’s unique brand of fantasy fiction was not just confined to the landscapes of the Cthulhu Mythos but also extended to the creation of his own fantasy worlds. Among these, Zothique, a somber, decadent realm set in Earth’s far future, stands out for its haunting beauty and intricacy. Zothique serves as a backdrop for many of Smith’s tales, each narrative adding another layer to its intricate lore. The world he created is characterized by decaying cities, supernatural entities, and arcane magic – all painted in hues of melancholy and doom.
Smith’s writing is defined by its lyrical quality and profound thematic depth, establishing him as a master craftsman of fantasy literature. His work expands the boundaries of the genre, using it as a medium to explore complex themes such as mortality, despair, and the transient nature of existence. The darkly fantastical realms he crafted, including those within the Cthulhu Mythos and Zothique, remain immortal in their influence and resonance. They serve as testament to Smith’s artistry, his skill in creating vividly immersive worlds that continue to captivate readers with their timeless allure.
Exotique
Thy mouth is like a crimson orchid-flower
Whence perfume and whence poison rise unseen
To moons aswim in iris or in green,
Or mix with morning in an eastern bower.
Thou shouldst have known, in amarathine isles,
The sunsets hued like fire of frankincense,
And noontides fraught with far-borne redolence,
The mingled spicery of purple miles.
Thy breasts, where blood and molten marble flow,
Thy warm white limbs, thy loins of tropic snow—
These, these, by which desire is grown divine,
Were made for dreams in mystic palaces,
For love and sleep and slow voluptuousness,
And summer seas afoam like foaming wine.
-Clark Ashton Smith
Curated by Jennifer
