H. P. Lovecraft

by Michel Houellebecq

  And once again, none of it will make any sense.

  O humans at the end of the twentieth century, 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 pulverized and devoured, we must recognize 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 daemoniacal 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. Subb-haqqua Nyarlathotep!

  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 sixteen 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 fifteen 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), lâ! lâ! Shub-Niggurath! The Goat of the Woods with a Thousand Young!

  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.”

  Ritual Literature

  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 upon the death of Sherlock Holmes. Conan Doyle had no choice: he had to resurrect his hero. When, vanquished by death, he in turn laid down arms, the world was engulfed by a sad sense of resignation. We would have to make do with the fifty-odd existing “Sherlock Holmes” stories, reading and rereading them tirelessly. We would have to make do with those who would continue these stories and with commentators; and we would have to greet the inevitable (and at times amusing) parodies with a resigned smile, while all the while in our hearts we nourished the impossible dream that the central core, the very heart of the myth, would continue. An old Indian army trunk would turn up somewhere, and magically preserved therein, unpublished “Sherlock Holmes” stories…

  Lovecraft, who admired Conan Doyle, succeeded in creating a myth as popular, as lively and irresistible. One might even say that the two men had in common a remarkable talent for storytelling. Of course. But there is something else at work. Neither Alexandre Dumas nor Jules Verne were mediocre storytellers. And yet, nothing in their work comes close to the stature of the Baker Street detective.

  The “Sherlock Holmes” stories are centered 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 realize 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.

  Nonetheless, 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 in-dulg’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 and 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 one hundred thousand letters, some of which are thirty or forty 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, which 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. And five hundred pages into his book, Sprague de Camp is forced to admit: “I do not pretend to completely understand H. P. Lovecraft.” No matter who one imagines him to have been, Howard Phillips Lovecraft was truly a very unique human being.

  * * *

  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 characterizes his work in opposition 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 R. E. 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—an 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 construction techniques. To prolong the impact.

  PART TWO

  TECHNICAL ASSAULT

  The surface of the planet today is covered in a chain-linked mesh of associations that join together to form a man-made network of irregular density.

  Through this network, society’s lifeblood circulates. The transport of people, of merchandise, of commodities; multiple transactions, sales orders, purchase orders, bits of information, all pass each other by; there are also other, more strictly intellectual or affective exchanges that occur. This incessant flux bewilders humanity, engrossed as it tends to be by the cadaverous leaps and bounds of its own activities.

  But in a few spots where the network’s links are weakly woven, strange entities may allow a seeker, one who “thirsts for knowledge,” to discern their existence. In every place where human activity is interrupted, where there is a blank on the map, these ancient gods crouch, huddled, waiting to take back their rightful place.

  As in the terrifying interior Arabian desert, the Rub-al-Khalid, from whence a Mohammedan poet named Abdul Al-Hazred was returning around the year 731 after ten years of utter solitude. Having grown indifferent to the practices of Islam, he devoted the year that followed to writing an impious and blasphemous book, the repugnant Necronomicon (several copies of which escaped the pyre and traversed the ages) before being devoured by invisible monsters in broad daylight at the Damascus market square.

  As in the unexplored plains of Northern Tibet, where degenerate Tcho-Tchos lope around in adoration of unnameable deities they qualify as “the Great Old Ones.”

  And as in the huge expanses of the South Pacific, where the paradoxical trails of unexpected volcanic convulsions at times produce utterly inhuman sculptures and geometry which the abject and depraved natives of the Tuamotu archipelago worship, crawling forward on their upper bodies.

  At the intersections of these channels of communication, man has erected giant, ugly metropolises where each person, isolated in an anonymous apartment, in a building identical to the others, believes absolutely that he is the center of the world and the measure of all things. But beneath the warrens of these burrowing insects, very ancient and very powerful creatures are slowly awakening from their slumber. During the Carboniferous age, during the Triassic and the Permian ages, they were here already; they have heard the roars of the very first mammals and will know the howls of agony of the very last.

  Howard Phillips Lovecraft was not a theoretician. Jacques Bergier clearly understood that, by introducing materialism into the heart of fear and fantasy, HPL created a new genre. It is no longer a question of believing or not believing, as in certain vampire or werewolf tales; there is no possible reinterpretation, there is no escape. There exists no horror less psychological, less debatable.

  Nonetheless, he seems not to have been fully conscious of what he was doing. Although he actually consecrated a one-hundred-and-fifty-page essay to the subject of horror literature, in reading it over, “Supernatural Horror in Literature” is a little disappointing; frankly, it even feels mildly dated. And we finally understand why: it is simply because it does not take Lovecraft’s own contribution to the genre into account. We learn a lot about the wide range of his culture and about his tastes. We learn that he admired Poe, Dunsany, Machen, and Blackwood, but nothing in it portends what he
would write himself.

  The essay was written around 1925-1926, hence immediately before HPL embarked on writing the “great texts” series. This is probably not sheer coincidence; although not consciously, and perhaps not even unconsciously, one would almost tend to say organically, Lovecraft must have felt a need to recapitulate all that had been done in the domain of horror fiction before exploding its casing and setting off on radically new paths.

  In the quest for the compositional techniques used by HPL, we might also be tempted to look for clues in his letters, commentaries, and the advice he gave his young correspondents. But here too, the result is disconcerting and disappointing. In the first place because Lovecraft takes his correspondent’s personality into account. He always begins by trying to understand what it was the author had set out to do and only then does he formulate precise and punctual advice adapted exactly to the story he is writing about. What’s more, he frequently gives recommendations that he himself seems to be the first to disobey, such as “must not overuse adjectives such as monstrous, unnameable, and unmentionable.” Which, given his own work, is rather surprising. The only point of any general application is to be found in a letter to Frank Belknap Long: “The one thing I never do is sit down and seize a pen with the deliberate intention of writing a story. Nothing but hack work ever comes of that. The only stories I write are those whose central ideas, pictures, and moods occur to me spontaneously.”