Dan Clore
2005-06-05 23:34:41 UTC
The myth maker
HP Lovecraft was a kindly misanthrope and a visionary
materialist who disdained writing but created an astonishing
body of work that transcends its cult status, writes Michel
Houellebecq
by Michel Houellebecq
Saturday June 4, 2005
The Guardian (UK)
"Perhaps one needs to have suffered a great deal in order to
appreciate Lovecraft . . . " Jacques Bergier
Life is painful and disappointing. It is useless, therefore,
to write new, realistic novels. We generally know where we
stand in relation to reality and don't care to know any
more. Humanity, such as it is, inspires only an attenuated
curiosity in us. All those prodigiously refined notations,
situations, anecdotes . . . All they do, once a book has
been set aside, is reinforce the slight revulsion that is
already adequately nourished by any one of our "real life" days.
Now, here is Howard Phillips Lovecraft (1890-1937): "I am so
beastly tired of mankind and the world that nothing can
interest me unless it contains a couple of murders on each
page or deals with the horrors unnameable and unaccountable
that leer down from the external universes." We need a
supreme antidote against all forms of realism.
* * *
Those who love life do not read. Nor do they go to the
movies, actually. No matter what might be said, access to
the artistic universe is more or less entirely the preserve
of those who are a little fed up with the world.
As for Lovecraft, he was more than a little fed up. In 1908
at the age of 18, he suffered what has been described as a
"nervous breakdown" and plummeted into a lethargy that
lasted about 10 years. At the age when his old classmates
were hurriedly turning their backs on childhood and diving
into life as into some marvellous, uncensored adventure, he
cloistered himself at home, speaking only to his mother,
refusing to get up all day, wandering about in a dressing
gown all night.
What's more, he wasn't even writing.
What was he doing? Reading a little, maybe. We can't even be
sure of this. In fact, his biographers have had to admit
they don't know much at all, and that, judging from
appearances -- at least between the ages of 18 and 23 -- he
did absolutely nothing.
Then, between 1913 and 1918, very slowly, the situation
improved. Gradually, he re-established contact with the
human race. It was not easy. In May 1918 he wrote to Alfred
Galpin: "I am only about half alive -- a large part of my
strength is consumed in sitting up or walking. My nervous
system is a shattered wreck and I am absolutely bored and
listless save when I come upon something which peculiarly
interests me."
It is definitely pointless to embark on a dramatic or
psychological reconstruction. Because Lovecraft is a lucid,
intelligent and sincere man. A kind of lethargic terror
descended upon him as he turned 18 and he knew the reason
for it perfectly well. In a 1920 letter he revisits his
childhood at length. The little railway set whose cars were
made of packing-cases, the coach house where he had set up
his puppet theatre. And later, the garden he had designed,
laying out each of its paths. It was irrigated by a system
of canals that were his own handiwork, its ledges enclosed a
small lawn at the centre of which stood a sundial. It was,
he said, "the paradise of my adolescent years".
Then comes this passage that concludes the letter: "Then I
perceived with horror that I was growing too old for
pleasure. Ruthless Time had set its fell claw upon me, and I
was 17. Big boys do not play in toy houses and mock gardens,
so I was obliged to turn over my world in sorrow to another
and younger boy who dwelt across the lot from me. And since
that time I have not delved in the earth or laid out paths
and roads. There is too much wistful memory in such
procedure, for the fleeting joy of childhood may never be
recaptured. Adulthood is hell."
Adulthood is hell. In the face of such a trenchant position,
"moralists" today will utter vague opprobrious grumblings
while waiting for a chance to strike with their obscene
intimations. Perhaps Lovecraft actually could not become an
adult; what is certain is that he did not want to. And given
the values that govern the adult world, how can you argue
with him? The reality principle, the pleasure principle,
competitiveness, permanent challenges, sex and status --
hardly reasons to rejoice.
Lovecraft, for his part, knew he had nothing to do with this
world. And at each turn he played a losing hand. In theory
and in practice. He lost his childhood; he also lost his
faith. The world sickened him and he saw no reason to
believe that by looking at things better they might appear
differently. He saw religions as so many sugar-coated
illusions made obsolete by the progress of science. At
times, when in an exceptionally good mood, he would speak of
the enchanted circle of religious belief, but it was a
circle from which he felt banished, anyway.
Few beings have ever been so impregnated, pierced to the
core, by the conviction of the absolute futility of human
aspiration. The universe is nothing but a furtive
arrangement of elementary particles. A figure in transition
toward chaos. That is what will finally prevail. The human
race will disappear. Other races in turn will appear and
disappear. The skies will be glacial and empty, traversed by
the feeble light of half-dead stars. These too will
disappear. Everything will disappear. And human actions are
as free and as stripped of meaning as the unfettered
movement of the elementary particles. Good, evil, morality,
sentiments? Pure "Victorian fictions". All that exists is
egotism. Cold, intact and radiant.
Lovecraft was well aware of the distinctly depressing nature
of his conclusions. As he wrote in 1918, "all rationalism
tends to minimalise the value and the importance of life,
and to decrease the sum total of human happiness. In some
cases the truth may cause suicidal or nearly suicidal
depression."
He remained steadfast in his materialism and atheism. In
letter after letter he returned to his convictions with
distinctly masochistic delectation.
Of course, life has no meaning. But neither does death. And
this is another thing that curdles the blood when one
discovers Lovecraft's universe. The deaths of his heroes
have no meaning. Death brings no appeasement. It in no way
allows the story to conclude. Implacably, HPL destroys his
characters, evoking only the dismemberment of marionettes.
Indifferent to these pitiful vicissitudes, cosmic fear
continues to expand. It swells and takes form. Great Cthulhu
emerges from his slumber.
What is Great Cthulhu? An arrangement of electrons, like us.
Lovecraft's terror is rigorously material. But, it is quite
possible, given the free interplay of cosmic forces, that
Great Cthulhu possesses abilities and powers to act that far
exceed ours. Which, a priori, is not particularly reassuring
at all.
From his journeys to the penumbral worlds of the
unutterable, Lovecraft did not return to bring us good news.
Perhaps, he confirmed, something is hiding behind the
curtain of reality that at times allows itself to be
perceived. Something truly vile, in fact.
It is possible, in fact, that beyond the narrow range of our
perception, other entities exist. Other creatures, other
races, other concepts and other minds. Among these entities
some are probably far superior to us in intelligence and in
knowledge. But this is not necessarily good news. What makes
us think that these creatures, different as they are from
us, will exhibit any kind of a spiritual nature? There is
nothing to suggest a transgression of the universal laws of
egotism and malice. It is ridiculous to imagine that at the
edge of the cosmos, other well-intentioned and wise beings
await to guide us toward some sort of harmony. In order to
imagine how they might treat us were we to come into contact
with them, it might be best to recall how we treat "inferior
intelligences" such as rabbits and frogs. In the best of
cases they serve as food for us; sometimes also, often in
fact, we kill them for the sheer pleasure of killing. This,
Lovecraft warned, would be the true picture of our future
relationship to those other intelligent beings. Perhaps some
of the more beautiful human specimens would be honoured and
would end up on a dissection table -- that's all.
And once again, none of it will make any sense.
This desolate cosmos is absolutely our own. This abject
universe where fear mounts in concentric circles, layer upon
layer, until the unnameable is revealed, this universe where
our only conceivable destiny is to be pulverised and
devoured, we must recognise it absolutely as being our own
mental universe. And for whoever wants to know this
collective state of mind through a quick and accurate
survey, Lovecraft's success is itself a symptom. Today, more
so than ever before, we can utter the declaration of
principles that begins Arthur Jermyn as our own: "Life is a
hideous thing, and from the background behind what we know
of it peer demoniacal hints of truth which make it sometimes
a thousandfold more hideous."
The paradox, however, is that we prefer this universe,
hideous as it is, to our own reality. In this, we are
precisely the readers that Lovecraft anticipated. We read
his tales with the same exact disposition as that which
prompted him to write them. Satan or Nyarlathotep, either
one will do, but we will not tolerate another moment of
realism. And, truth be told, given his prolonged
acquaintance with the disgraceful turns of our ordinary
sins, the value of Satan's currency has dropped a little.
Better Nyarlathotep, ice-cold, evil, and inhuman.
It's clear why reading Lovecraft is paradoxically comforting
to those souls who are weary of life. In fact, it should
perhaps be prescribed to all who, for one reason or other,
have come to feel a true aversion to life in all its forms.
In some cases, the jolt to the nerves upon a first reading
is immense. One may find oneself smiling all alone, or
humming a tune from a musical. One's outlook on existence
is, in a word, modified.
Ever since the virus was first introduced into France by
Jacques Bergier, the increase in the number of readers has
been substantial. Like most of those contaminated, I myself
discovered HPL at 16 through the intermediary of a "friend".
To call it a shock would be an understatement. I had not
known literature was capable of this. And, what's more, I'm
still not sure it is. There is something not really literary
about Lovecraft's work.
To make this case, let us first consider the fact that 15 or
so writers (Belknap Long, Robert Bloch, Lin Carter, Fred
Chappell, August Derleth, Donald Wandrei, to name a few)
consecrated all or part of their careers to developing and
enriching the myths created by HPL. And not furtively so,
nor in hiding, but most avowedly. The filial lineage is even
further systematically reinforced by the use of the exact
same words. These take on the value of incantations (the
wild hills west of Arkham, Miskatonic University, the city
of Irem with its thousand pillars . . . R'lyeh, Sarnath,
Dagon, Nyarlathotep . . . and above all the unnameable, the
blasphemous Necronomicon whose name can only be uttered in a
whisper) . . .
In an age that exalts originality as a supreme value in the
arts, this phenomenon is surely cause for surprise. In fact,
as Francis Lacassin opportunely points out, nothing like it
has been recorded since Homer and medieval epic poetry. We
must humbly acknowledge that we are dealing here with what
is known as a "founding mythology".
* * *
To create a great popular myth is to create a ritual that
the reader awaits impatiently and to which he can return
with mounting pleasure, seduced each time by a different
repetition of terms, ever so imperceptibly altered to allow
him to reach a new depth of experience.
Presented thus, things appear almost simple. And yet, rare
are the successes in the history of literature. In reality,
it is no easier than creating a new religion.
To clearly understand what is at play, one would have had to
personally experience the sense of frustration that invaded
England with the death of Sherlock Holmes. Conan Doyle had
no choice: he had to resurrect his hero. Lovecraft, who
admired Conan Doyle, succeeded in creating a myth as
popular, as lively and irresistible.
The Sherlock Holmes stories are centred on a character,
whereas in Lovecraft one does not meet any truly human
specimens. Of course, this is an important distinction; very
important, but not truly essential. It can be compared to
what separates theist from atheist religions. The
fundamental character that brings them together, the
so-called religious character, is otherwise difficult to
define and to broach directly.
Another small difference that might be noted -- minimal to
literary history, tragic to the individual -- is that Conan
Doyle had ample occasion to realise that he was creating an
essential mythology. Lovecraft did not. At the moment of his
death he had the clear impression that his creative work
would plunge into obscurity along with him.
None the less, he already had disciples. Not that he
considered them as such. He did indeed correspond with young
writers (Bloch, Belknap Long, and others), but did not
necessarily advise them to take the same path as him.
He did not present himself as either a master or a model. He
greeted their first ventures with exemplary delicacy and
modesty. He was courteous, considerate and kind, a true
friend to them, never a teacher. Absolutely incapable of
leaving a letter unanswered, neglecting to request payment
when his literary-revision work went unpaid, systematically
underestimating his contribution to stories that without him
would never have seen the light of day, Lovecraft conducted
himself like an authentic gentleman throughout his life.
Of course, he liked the idea of becoming a writer. But he
was not attached to this above all else. In 1925, in a
moment of despondency, he writes: "I am well-nigh resolv'd
to write no more tales, but merely to dream when I have a
mind to, not stopping to do any thing so vulgar as to set
down the dream for a boarish Publick. I have concluded that
Literature is no proper pursuit for a gentleman; and that
Writing ought never to be consider'd but as an elegant
Accomplishment to be indulg'd in with infrequency, and
Discrimination."
Thankfully, he did continue, and his greatest stories were
written subsequent to this letter. But until the very end,
he remained, above all, as he liked to describe himself, a
kind old gentleman from Providence. And never, never a
professional writer.
Paradoxically, Lovecraft's character is fascinating in part
because his values were so entirely opposite to ours. He was
fundamentally racist, openly reactionary, he glorified
puritanical inhibitions, and evidently found all "direct
erotic manifestations" repulsive. Resolutely anticommercial,
he despised money, considered democracy to be an idiocy and
progress to be an illusion. The word "freedom," so cherished
by Americans, prompted only a sad, derisive guffaw.
Throughout his life, he maintained a typically aristocratic,
scornful attitude toward humanity in general coupled with
extreme kindness toward individuals in particular.
Whatever the case, all those who had dealings with Lovecraft
as an individual felt an immense sadness when they learned
of his death. Robert Bloch said that had he known the truth
about the state of his health, he would have dragged himself
on his knees all the way to Providence to see him. August
Derleth consecrated the rest of his existence to collecting,
compiling, and publishing the posthumous fragments of his
departed friend.
And, it is thanks to Derleth and a few others (but primarily
Derleth) that Lovecraft's body of work has reached the
world. Today, it stands before us, an imposing baroque
structure, its towering strata rising in so many layered
concentric circles, a wide and sumptuous landing around each
-- the whole surrounding a vortex of pure horror and
absolute marvel.
-- The first, outermost circle: the correspondence and
poems. These are only partially published, and even more
partially translated. The correspondence is rather
staggering: almost 100,000 letters, some of which are 30 or
40 pages long. As for the poems, a precise count does not
currently exist.
-- A second circle would contain those stories Lovecraft
participated in, either those conceived of as a
collaboration to begin with (like the stories he wrote with
Kenneth Sterling or Robert Barlow, for example) or others,
whose authors may have benefited from Lovecraft's revisions
(there are extremely numerous examples of these; the
substance of Lovecraft's collaborations varied and sometimes
went as far as a complete rewrite of the text). To these we
may also add the stories written by Derleth based on notes
and fragments left behind by Lovecraft.
-- With the third circle we come to the stories that were
actually written by Howard Phillips Lovecraft. Here,
obviously, each word counts; these have all been published
in French and we cannot expect their number to ever increase.
-- Finally, we can draw a definitive fourth circle, at the
absolute heart of HPL's myth, that contains what most rabid
Lovecraftians continue to call, almost in spite of
themselves, the "great texts". I will cite them here for the
pleasure of it alone, along with the date of their composition:
The Call of Cthulhu (1926)
The Colour Out of Space (1927)
The Dunwich Horror (1928)
The Whisperer in Darkness (1930)
At the Mountains of Madness (1931)
The Dreams in the Witch House (1932)
The Shadow Over Innsmouth (1932)
The Shadow Out of Time (1934)
Moreover, suspended above HPL's entire edifice, like a thick
unstable fog, is the strange shadow of his own personality.
One might find the cultlike atmosphere surrounding his
character, his actions and movements, and even his most
insignificant pieces of writing, somewhat exaggerated or
even morbid. But I guarantee that opinion is bound to be
revised quickly after a plunge into the "great texts". It's
only natural to initiate a cult to one who proffers such
benefits.
Successive generations of Lovecraftians have done just this.
As is always the case, the "recluse of Providence" has now
become almost as mythic a figure as one of his own
creations. And what is most startling is that all attempts
at demystification have failed. No degree of biographical
detail has succeeded in dissipating the aura of strange
pathos that surrounds the character.
Lovecraft's body of work can be compared to a gigantic dream
machine, of astounding breadth and efficacy. There is
nothing tranquil or discreet in his literature. Its impact
on the reader's mind is savagely, frighteningly brutal and
dangerously slow to dissipate. Rereading produces no notable
modification other than that, eventually, one ends up
wondering: how does he do it?
In the specific case of HPL there is nothing ridiculous or
offensive about such a question. In fact, what characterises
his work compared to a "normal" work of literature, is that
his disciples feel they can, at least theoretically, through
the judicious use of the same ingredients as those indicated
by the master, obtain results of an equal or higher quality.
No one has ever seriously envisioned continuing Proust.
Lovecraft, they have. And it's not a matter of secondary
works presented as homage, nor of parodies, but truly a
continuation. Which is unique in the history of modern
literature.
What's more, the role HPL plays as the generator of dreams
is not limited to literature alone. His work, at least to
the same extent as RE Howard's, although often less
obviously, has been a profound factor in the renaissance of
fantasy illustration. Even rock music, usually so
distrustful of all things literary, has made a point of
paying homage to him -- a homage, one might say, paid by one
great power to another, by one mythology to another. As for
the implications of Lovecraft's writing in the domains of
architecture or film, they will be immediately apparent to
the sensitive reader. This is the building of a new world.
Hence the importance of building blocks and of construction
techniques. To prolong the impact.
Translation by Dorna Khazeni. Edited extract from HP
Lovecraft: Against the World, Against Life, by Michel
Houellebecq (published by Believer Books this week)
--
Dan Clore
My collected fiction, _The Unspeakable and Others_:
http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/tg/detail/-/1587154838/thedanclorenecro/
Lord Weÿrdgliffe & Necronomicon Page:
http://www.geocities.com/SoHo/9879/
News & Views for Anarchists & Activists:
http://groups.yahoo.com/group/smygo
Strange pleasures are known to him who flaunts the
immarcescible purple of poetry before the color-blind.
-- Clark Ashton Smith, "Epigrams and Apothegms"
HP Lovecraft was a kindly misanthrope and a visionary
materialist who disdained writing but created an astonishing
body of work that transcends its cult status, writes Michel
Houellebecq
by Michel Houellebecq
Saturday June 4, 2005
The Guardian (UK)
"Perhaps one needs to have suffered a great deal in order to
appreciate Lovecraft . . . " Jacques Bergier
Life is painful and disappointing. It is useless, therefore,
to write new, realistic novels. We generally know where we
stand in relation to reality and don't care to know any
more. Humanity, such as it is, inspires only an attenuated
curiosity in us. All those prodigiously refined notations,
situations, anecdotes . . . All they do, once a book has
been set aside, is reinforce the slight revulsion that is
already adequately nourished by any one of our "real life" days.
Now, here is Howard Phillips Lovecraft (1890-1937): "I am so
beastly tired of mankind and the world that nothing can
interest me unless it contains a couple of murders on each
page or deals with the horrors unnameable and unaccountable
that leer down from the external universes." We need a
supreme antidote against all forms of realism.
* * *
Those who love life do not read. Nor do they go to the
movies, actually. No matter what might be said, access to
the artistic universe is more or less entirely the preserve
of those who are a little fed up with the world.
As for Lovecraft, he was more than a little fed up. In 1908
at the age of 18, he suffered what has been described as a
"nervous breakdown" and plummeted into a lethargy that
lasted about 10 years. At the age when his old classmates
were hurriedly turning their backs on childhood and diving
into life as into some marvellous, uncensored adventure, he
cloistered himself at home, speaking only to his mother,
refusing to get up all day, wandering about in a dressing
gown all night.
What's more, he wasn't even writing.
What was he doing? Reading a little, maybe. We can't even be
sure of this. In fact, his biographers have had to admit
they don't know much at all, and that, judging from
appearances -- at least between the ages of 18 and 23 -- he
did absolutely nothing.
Then, between 1913 and 1918, very slowly, the situation
improved. Gradually, he re-established contact with the
human race. It was not easy. In May 1918 he wrote to Alfred
Galpin: "I am only about half alive -- a large part of my
strength is consumed in sitting up or walking. My nervous
system is a shattered wreck and I am absolutely bored and
listless save when I come upon something which peculiarly
interests me."
It is definitely pointless to embark on a dramatic or
psychological reconstruction. Because Lovecraft is a lucid,
intelligent and sincere man. A kind of lethargic terror
descended upon him as he turned 18 and he knew the reason
for it perfectly well. In a 1920 letter he revisits his
childhood at length. The little railway set whose cars were
made of packing-cases, the coach house where he had set up
his puppet theatre. And later, the garden he had designed,
laying out each of its paths. It was irrigated by a system
of canals that were his own handiwork, its ledges enclosed a
small lawn at the centre of which stood a sundial. It was,
he said, "the paradise of my adolescent years".
Then comes this passage that concludes the letter: "Then I
perceived with horror that I was growing too old for
pleasure. Ruthless Time had set its fell claw upon me, and I
was 17. Big boys do not play in toy houses and mock gardens,
so I was obliged to turn over my world in sorrow to another
and younger boy who dwelt across the lot from me. And since
that time I have not delved in the earth or laid out paths
and roads. There is too much wistful memory in such
procedure, for the fleeting joy of childhood may never be
recaptured. Adulthood is hell."
Adulthood is hell. In the face of such a trenchant position,
"moralists" today will utter vague opprobrious grumblings
while waiting for a chance to strike with their obscene
intimations. Perhaps Lovecraft actually could not become an
adult; what is certain is that he did not want to. And given
the values that govern the adult world, how can you argue
with him? The reality principle, the pleasure principle,
competitiveness, permanent challenges, sex and status --
hardly reasons to rejoice.
Lovecraft, for his part, knew he had nothing to do with this
world. And at each turn he played a losing hand. In theory
and in practice. He lost his childhood; he also lost his
faith. The world sickened him and he saw no reason to
believe that by looking at things better they might appear
differently. He saw religions as so many sugar-coated
illusions made obsolete by the progress of science. At
times, when in an exceptionally good mood, he would speak of
the enchanted circle of religious belief, but it was a
circle from which he felt banished, anyway.
Few beings have ever been so impregnated, pierced to the
core, by the conviction of the absolute futility of human
aspiration. The universe is nothing but a furtive
arrangement of elementary particles. A figure in transition
toward chaos. That is what will finally prevail. The human
race will disappear. Other races in turn will appear and
disappear. The skies will be glacial and empty, traversed by
the feeble light of half-dead stars. These too will
disappear. Everything will disappear. And human actions are
as free and as stripped of meaning as the unfettered
movement of the elementary particles. Good, evil, morality,
sentiments? Pure "Victorian fictions". All that exists is
egotism. Cold, intact and radiant.
Lovecraft was well aware of the distinctly depressing nature
of his conclusions. As he wrote in 1918, "all rationalism
tends to minimalise the value and the importance of life,
and to decrease the sum total of human happiness. In some
cases the truth may cause suicidal or nearly suicidal
depression."
He remained steadfast in his materialism and atheism. In
letter after letter he returned to his convictions with
distinctly masochistic delectation.
Of course, life has no meaning. But neither does death. And
this is another thing that curdles the blood when one
discovers Lovecraft's universe. The deaths of his heroes
have no meaning. Death brings no appeasement. It in no way
allows the story to conclude. Implacably, HPL destroys his
characters, evoking only the dismemberment of marionettes.
Indifferent to these pitiful vicissitudes, cosmic fear
continues to expand. It swells and takes form. Great Cthulhu
emerges from his slumber.
What is Great Cthulhu? An arrangement of electrons, like us.
Lovecraft's terror is rigorously material. But, it is quite
possible, given the free interplay of cosmic forces, that
Great Cthulhu possesses abilities and powers to act that far
exceed ours. Which, a priori, is not particularly reassuring
at all.
From his journeys to the penumbral worlds of the
unutterable, Lovecraft did not return to bring us good news.
Perhaps, he confirmed, something is hiding behind the
curtain of reality that at times allows itself to be
perceived. Something truly vile, in fact.
It is possible, in fact, that beyond the narrow range of our
perception, other entities exist. Other creatures, other
races, other concepts and other minds. Among these entities
some are probably far superior to us in intelligence and in
knowledge. But this is not necessarily good news. What makes
us think that these creatures, different as they are from
us, will exhibit any kind of a spiritual nature? There is
nothing to suggest a transgression of the universal laws of
egotism and malice. It is ridiculous to imagine that at the
edge of the cosmos, other well-intentioned and wise beings
await to guide us toward some sort of harmony. In order to
imagine how they might treat us were we to come into contact
with them, it might be best to recall how we treat "inferior
intelligences" such as rabbits and frogs. In the best of
cases they serve as food for us; sometimes also, often in
fact, we kill them for the sheer pleasure of killing. This,
Lovecraft warned, would be the true picture of our future
relationship to those other intelligent beings. Perhaps some
of the more beautiful human specimens would be honoured and
would end up on a dissection table -- that's all.
And once again, none of it will make any sense.
This desolate cosmos is absolutely our own. This abject
universe where fear mounts in concentric circles, layer upon
layer, until the unnameable is revealed, this universe where
our only conceivable destiny is to be pulverised and
devoured, we must recognise it absolutely as being our own
mental universe. And for whoever wants to know this
collective state of mind through a quick and accurate
survey, Lovecraft's success is itself a symptom. Today, more
so than ever before, we can utter the declaration of
principles that begins Arthur Jermyn as our own: "Life is a
hideous thing, and from the background behind what we know
of it peer demoniacal hints of truth which make it sometimes
a thousandfold more hideous."
The paradox, however, is that we prefer this universe,
hideous as it is, to our own reality. In this, we are
precisely the readers that Lovecraft anticipated. We read
his tales with the same exact disposition as that which
prompted him to write them. Satan or Nyarlathotep, either
one will do, but we will not tolerate another moment of
realism. And, truth be told, given his prolonged
acquaintance with the disgraceful turns of our ordinary
sins, the value of Satan's currency has dropped a little.
Better Nyarlathotep, ice-cold, evil, and inhuman.
It's clear why reading Lovecraft is paradoxically comforting
to those souls who are weary of life. In fact, it should
perhaps be prescribed to all who, for one reason or other,
have come to feel a true aversion to life in all its forms.
In some cases, the jolt to the nerves upon a first reading
is immense. One may find oneself smiling all alone, or
humming a tune from a musical. One's outlook on existence
is, in a word, modified.
Ever since the virus was first introduced into France by
Jacques Bergier, the increase in the number of readers has
been substantial. Like most of those contaminated, I myself
discovered HPL at 16 through the intermediary of a "friend".
To call it a shock would be an understatement. I had not
known literature was capable of this. And, what's more, I'm
still not sure it is. There is something not really literary
about Lovecraft's work.
To make this case, let us first consider the fact that 15 or
so writers (Belknap Long, Robert Bloch, Lin Carter, Fred
Chappell, August Derleth, Donald Wandrei, to name a few)
consecrated all or part of their careers to developing and
enriching the myths created by HPL. And not furtively so,
nor in hiding, but most avowedly. The filial lineage is even
further systematically reinforced by the use of the exact
same words. These take on the value of incantations (the
wild hills west of Arkham, Miskatonic University, the city
of Irem with its thousand pillars . . . R'lyeh, Sarnath,
Dagon, Nyarlathotep . . . and above all the unnameable, the
blasphemous Necronomicon whose name can only be uttered in a
whisper) . . .
In an age that exalts originality as a supreme value in the
arts, this phenomenon is surely cause for surprise. In fact,
as Francis Lacassin opportunely points out, nothing like it
has been recorded since Homer and medieval epic poetry. We
must humbly acknowledge that we are dealing here with what
is known as a "founding mythology".
* * *
To create a great popular myth is to create a ritual that
the reader awaits impatiently and to which he can return
with mounting pleasure, seduced each time by a different
repetition of terms, ever so imperceptibly altered to allow
him to reach a new depth of experience.
Presented thus, things appear almost simple. And yet, rare
are the successes in the history of literature. In reality,
it is no easier than creating a new religion.
To clearly understand what is at play, one would have had to
personally experience the sense of frustration that invaded
England with the death of Sherlock Holmes. Conan Doyle had
no choice: he had to resurrect his hero. Lovecraft, who
admired Conan Doyle, succeeded in creating a myth as
popular, as lively and irresistible.
The Sherlock Holmes stories are centred on a character,
whereas in Lovecraft one does not meet any truly human
specimens. Of course, this is an important distinction; very
important, but not truly essential. It can be compared to
what separates theist from atheist religions. The
fundamental character that brings them together, the
so-called religious character, is otherwise difficult to
define and to broach directly.
Another small difference that might be noted -- minimal to
literary history, tragic to the individual -- is that Conan
Doyle had ample occasion to realise that he was creating an
essential mythology. Lovecraft did not. At the moment of his
death he had the clear impression that his creative work
would plunge into obscurity along with him.
None the less, he already had disciples. Not that he
considered them as such. He did indeed correspond with young
writers (Bloch, Belknap Long, and others), but did not
necessarily advise them to take the same path as him.
He did not present himself as either a master or a model. He
greeted their first ventures with exemplary delicacy and
modesty. He was courteous, considerate and kind, a true
friend to them, never a teacher. Absolutely incapable of
leaving a letter unanswered, neglecting to request payment
when his literary-revision work went unpaid, systematically
underestimating his contribution to stories that without him
would never have seen the light of day, Lovecraft conducted
himself like an authentic gentleman throughout his life.
Of course, he liked the idea of becoming a writer. But he
was not attached to this above all else. In 1925, in a
moment of despondency, he writes: "I am well-nigh resolv'd
to write no more tales, but merely to dream when I have a
mind to, not stopping to do any thing so vulgar as to set
down the dream for a boarish Publick. I have concluded that
Literature is no proper pursuit for a gentleman; and that
Writing ought never to be consider'd but as an elegant
Accomplishment to be indulg'd in with infrequency, and
Discrimination."
Thankfully, he did continue, and his greatest stories were
written subsequent to this letter. But until the very end,
he remained, above all, as he liked to describe himself, a
kind old gentleman from Providence. And never, never a
professional writer.
Paradoxically, Lovecraft's character is fascinating in part
because his values were so entirely opposite to ours. He was
fundamentally racist, openly reactionary, he glorified
puritanical inhibitions, and evidently found all "direct
erotic manifestations" repulsive. Resolutely anticommercial,
he despised money, considered democracy to be an idiocy and
progress to be an illusion. The word "freedom," so cherished
by Americans, prompted only a sad, derisive guffaw.
Throughout his life, he maintained a typically aristocratic,
scornful attitude toward humanity in general coupled with
extreme kindness toward individuals in particular.
Whatever the case, all those who had dealings with Lovecraft
as an individual felt an immense sadness when they learned
of his death. Robert Bloch said that had he known the truth
about the state of his health, he would have dragged himself
on his knees all the way to Providence to see him. August
Derleth consecrated the rest of his existence to collecting,
compiling, and publishing the posthumous fragments of his
departed friend.
And, it is thanks to Derleth and a few others (but primarily
Derleth) that Lovecraft's body of work has reached the
world. Today, it stands before us, an imposing baroque
structure, its towering strata rising in so many layered
concentric circles, a wide and sumptuous landing around each
-- the whole surrounding a vortex of pure horror and
absolute marvel.
-- The first, outermost circle: the correspondence and
poems. These are only partially published, and even more
partially translated. The correspondence is rather
staggering: almost 100,000 letters, some of which are 30 or
40 pages long. As for the poems, a precise count does not
currently exist.
-- A second circle would contain those stories Lovecraft
participated in, either those conceived of as a
collaboration to begin with (like the stories he wrote with
Kenneth Sterling or Robert Barlow, for example) or others,
whose authors may have benefited from Lovecraft's revisions
(there are extremely numerous examples of these; the
substance of Lovecraft's collaborations varied and sometimes
went as far as a complete rewrite of the text). To these we
may also add the stories written by Derleth based on notes
and fragments left behind by Lovecraft.
-- With the third circle we come to the stories that were
actually written by Howard Phillips Lovecraft. Here,
obviously, each word counts; these have all been published
in French and we cannot expect their number to ever increase.
-- Finally, we can draw a definitive fourth circle, at the
absolute heart of HPL's myth, that contains what most rabid
Lovecraftians continue to call, almost in spite of
themselves, the "great texts". I will cite them here for the
pleasure of it alone, along with the date of their composition:
The Call of Cthulhu (1926)
The Colour Out of Space (1927)
The Dunwich Horror (1928)
The Whisperer in Darkness (1930)
At the Mountains of Madness (1931)
The Dreams in the Witch House (1932)
The Shadow Over Innsmouth (1932)
The Shadow Out of Time (1934)
Moreover, suspended above HPL's entire edifice, like a thick
unstable fog, is the strange shadow of his own personality.
One might find the cultlike atmosphere surrounding his
character, his actions and movements, and even his most
insignificant pieces of writing, somewhat exaggerated or
even morbid. But I guarantee that opinion is bound to be
revised quickly after a plunge into the "great texts". It's
only natural to initiate a cult to one who proffers such
benefits.
Successive generations of Lovecraftians have done just this.
As is always the case, the "recluse of Providence" has now
become almost as mythic a figure as one of his own
creations. And what is most startling is that all attempts
at demystification have failed. No degree of biographical
detail has succeeded in dissipating the aura of strange
pathos that surrounds the character.
Lovecraft's body of work can be compared to a gigantic dream
machine, of astounding breadth and efficacy. There is
nothing tranquil or discreet in his literature. Its impact
on the reader's mind is savagely, frighteningly brutal and
dangerously slow to dissipate. Rereading produces no notable
modification other than that, eventually, one ends up
wondering: how does he do it?
In the specific case of HPL there is nothing ridiculous or
offensive about such a question. In fact, what characterises
his work compared to a "normal" work of literature, is that
his disciples feel they can, at least theoretically, through
the judicious use of the same ingredients as those indicated
by the master, obtain results of an equal or higher quality.
No one has ever seriously envisioned continuing Proust.
Lovecraft, they have. And it's not a matter of secondary
works presented as homage, nor of parodies, but truly a
continuation. Which is unique in the history of modern
literature.
What's more, the role HPL plays as the generator of dreams
is not limited to literature alone. His work, at least to
the same extent as RE Howard's, although often less
obviously, has been a profound factor in the renaissance of
fantasy illustration. Even rock music, usually so
distrustful of all things literary, has made a point of
paying homage to him -- a homage, one might say, paid by one
great power to another, by one mythology to another. As for
the implications of Lovecraft's writing in the domains of
architecture or film, they will be immediately apparent to
the sensitive reader. This is the building of a new world.
Hence the importance of building blocks and of construction
techniques. To prolong the impact.
Translation by Dorna Khazeni. Edited extract from HP
Lovecraft: Against the World, Against Life, by Michel
Houellebecq (published by Believer Books this week)
--
Dan Clore
My collected fiction, _The Unspeakable and Others_:
http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/tg/detail/-/1587154838/thedanclorenecro/
Lord Weÿrdgliffe & Necronomicon Page:
http://www.geocities.com/SoHo/9879/
News & Views for Anarchists & Activists:
http://groups.yahoo.com/group/smygo
Strange pleasures are known to him who flaunts the
immarcescible purple of poetry before the color-blind.
-- Clark Ashton Smith, "Epigrams and Apothegms"