Do you think it ever upset him that he could never match up to Lovecraft and Robert E. Howard?

Do you think it ever upset him that he could never match up to Lovecraft and Robert E. Howard?

He was literarily better than either, and that's precisely why he's less known. Horror fans are overwhelmingly illiterate morons, ever more pulpy of mind and ever less deserving of the golden age of cosmic horror.

whom exactly?

Clark Ashton Smith. On a related note, I just read "The Monster of the Prophecy" and it was fucken tite.

Bow down: I am the emperor of dreams;
I crown me with the million-colored sun
Of secret worlds incredible, and take
Their trailing skies for vestment when I soar,
Throned on the mounting zenith, and illume
The spaceward-flown horizons infinite.
Like rampant monsters roaring for their glut,
The fiery-crested oceans rise and rise,
By jealous moons maleficently urged
To follow me for ever; mountains horned
With peaks of sharpest adamant, and mawed
With sulphur-lit volcanoes lava-langued,
Usurp the skies with thunder, but in vain;
And continents of serpent-shapen trees,
With slimy trunks that lengthen league by league,
Pursue my light through ages spurned to fire
By that supreme ascendance; sorcerers,
And evil kings, predominanthly armed
With scrolls of fulvous dragon-skin whereon
Are worm-like runes of ever-twisting flame,
Would stay me; and the sirens of the stars,
With foam-like songs from silver fragrance wrought,
Would lure me to their crystal reefs; and moons
Where viper-eyed, senescent devils dwell,
With antic gnomes abominably wise,
Heave up their icy horns across my way.
But naught deters me from the goal ordained
By suns and eons and immortal wars,
And sung by moons and motes; the goal whose name
Is all the secret of forgotten glyphs
By sinful gods in torrid rubies writ
For ending of a brazen book; the goal
Whereat my soaring ecstasy may stand
In amplest heavens multiplied to hold
My hordes of thunder-vested avatars,
And Promethèan armies of my thought,
That brandish claspèd levins. There I call
My memories, intolerably clad
In light the peaks of paradise may wear,
And lead the Armageddon of my dreams
Whose instant shout of triumph is become
Immensity's own music: for their feet
Are founded on innumerable worlds,
Remote in alien epochs, and their arms
Upraised, are columns potent to exalt
With ease ineffable the countless thrones
Of all the gods that are or gods to be,
And bear the seats of Asmodai and Set
Above the seventh paradise.

>He was literarily better than either
BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHQJAJAJAJHAHAHAHAHHQHQHHQHQHQHQHQQHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH
*sucks in air*
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAGAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHHAHAHAHHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHA

read more, manchild

>doesn't rhyme
literally not poetry

HPL literally wrote CAS a fan letter, and was constantly praising him. Do you think you know better than the guy who you elevate so far above CAS?

muh dick.

And so on, and so on.

*sniff*