"Ralph Nicholas Chubb"

The twentieth century is not one to cradle a prophet. The speed with which it moves, the fleshly things it covets and for which it works, the menace of annihilation with which it is constantly threatened—all deny a hearing to the idealist, the philosopher and the mystic.

Great publishing houses pour forth more and more books of less and less literary importance, and the mystic remains unpublished and unheard.

But if the twentieth century ignores a prophet, it shuns a paiderast. We may have become more broad-minded, think little of the importance of marriage—little, even, of the once-whispered love of man for man—but we still treat the lover of boys with scandalized whispers, out-of-hand condemnation, and an unwillingness to comprehend what often is to the lover and beloved the most natural thing in the whole unnatural world.

The adolescent boy, one of the most beautiful of God’s creatures, in whom love on all planes burns brightly in his young heart, must perforce be shunned as an object of love, and his lover must hang his head in shame and fear as the bright-eyed, long-legged creatures of his adoration flit across his day in street and park, and across his dreaming mind in the hours of night.

Silent he must stand for fear that he may one day be harshly judged and hounded from his already lonely world.

Ralph Nicholas Chubb (1892-1960) was both a prophet and a paiderast. His insistence on a hearing and his intense belief in the truth of his writings forced him to devote almost his entire life not only to writing down his philosophies but to printing, publishing and distributing them himself.

From 1924 until his death in 1960 he worked on his books alone and unaided, and never once faltered or tried to hide what he had to say.

Fearlessly, one thinks perhaps recklessly, he distributed the handsome prospectuses of his volumes, each of which blared forth his philosophy, a philosophy he knew in his heart was condemned by the world he was trying to convert.

Slowly and laboriously, when each page had reached the peak of technical perfection, the tall folios and the thick quartos would be published, each a clarion-call to the boy-lover. The world still knows little of Chubb and his work.

The necessary limitation in size of his editions and the luxury of the great volumes keep his work known to but few. However, he had the good sense to deposit a copy of each of his books in the great libraries of England, where they will remain accessible for all time.

Here below is a very rare artifact of Ralph Chubb's work indeed! A scholar researcher whose name for now is withheld. Found one of the thought 'lost' musical notations to Chubb's works. These were intended to be played at readings of his books.

(The editor of this page intends to have this piece recorded, and posted both here, and on his Pod-Cast page...see links.)

Here below is the opening page of "Autumn Leaves" a Chubb work from the 1940's. This was a gift to the editor in the late 1970's from a fellow artist.