Writings in the United Amateur, 1915-1922
Page 31
THE UNITED AMATEUR NOVEMBER 1920
Nyarlathotep
H. P. LOVECRAFT
Nyarlathotep ... the crawling chaos ... I am the last ... I will tellthe audient void....
I do not recall distinctly when it began, but it was months ago. Thegeneral tension was horrible. To a season of political and socialupheaval was added a strange and brooding apprehension of hideousphysical danger; a danger widespread and all-embracing, such a danger asmay be imagined only in the most terrible phantasms of the night. Irecall that the people went about with pale and worried faces, andwhispered warnings and prophecies which no one dared consciously repeator acknowledge to himself that he had heard. A sense of monstrous guiltwas upon the land, and out of the abysses between the stars swept chillcurrents that made men shiver in dark and lonely places. There was ademoniac alteration in the sequence of the seasons--the autumn heatlingered fearsomely, and everyone felt that the world and perhaps theuniverse had passed from the control of known gods or forces to that ofgods or forces which were unknown.
And it was then that Nyarlathotep came out of Egypt. Who he was, nonecould tell, but he was of the old native blood and looked like aPharaoh. The fellahin knelt when they saw him, yet could not say why. Hesaid he had risen up out of the blackness of twenty-seven centuries, andthat he had heard messages from places not on this planet. Into thelands of civilisation came Nyarlathotep, swarthy, slender, and sinister,always buying strange instruments of glass and metal and combining theminto instruments yet stranger. He spoke much of the sciences--ofelectricity and psychology--and gave exhibitions of power which sent hisspectators away speechless, yet which swelled his fame to exceedingmagnitude. Men advised one another to see Nyarlathotep, and shuddered.And where Nyarlathotep went, rest vanished; for the small hours wererent with the screams of nightmare. Never before had the screams ofnightmare been such a public problem; now the wise men almost wishedthey could forbid sleep in the small hours, that the shrieks of citiesmight less horribly disturb the pale, pitying moon as it glimmered ongreen waters gliding under bridges, and old steeples crumbling against asickly sky.
I remember when Nyarlathotep came to my city--the great, the old, theterrible city of unnumbered crimes. My friend had told me of him, and ofthe impelling fascination and allurement of his revelations, and Iburned with eagerness to explore his uttermost mysteries. My friend saidthey were horrible and impressive beyond my most fevered imaginings;that what was thrown on a screen in the darkened room prophesied thingsnone but Nyarlathotep dare prophesy, and that in the sputter of hissparks there was taken from men that which had never been taken beforeyet which shewed only in the eyes. And I heard it hinted abroad thatthose who knew Nyarlathotep looked on sights which others saw not.
It was in the hot autumn that I went through the night with the restlesscrowds to see Nyarlathotep; through the stifling night and up theendless stairs into the choking room. And shadowed on a screen, I sawhooded forms amidst ruins, and yellow evil faces peering from behindfallen monuments. And I saw the world battling against blackness;against the waves of destruction from ultimate space; whirling,churning; struggling around the dimming, cooling sun. Then the sparksplayed amazingly around the heads of the spectators, and hair stood upon end whilst shadows more grotesque than I can tell came out andsquatted on the heads. And when I, who was colder and more scientificthan the rest, mumbled a trembling protest about "imposture" and "staticelectricity," Nyarlathotep drave us all out, down the dizzy stairs intothe damp, hot, deserted midnight streets. I screamed aloud that I was_not_ afraid; that I never could be afraid; and others screamed with mefor solace. We sware to one another that the city _was_ exactly thesame, and still alive; and when the electric lights began to fade wecursed the company over and over again, and laughed at the queer faceswe made.
I believe we felt something coming down from the greenish moon, for whenwe began to depend on its light we drifted into curious involuntarymarching formations and seemed to know our destinations though we darednot think of them. Once we looked at the pavement and found the blocksloose and displaced by grass, with scarce a line of rusted metal to showwhere the tramways had run. And again we saw a tram-car, lone,windowless, dilapidated, and almost on its side. When we gazed aroundthe horizon, we could not find the third tower by the river, and noticedthat the silhouette of the second tower was ragged at the top. Then wesplit up into narrow columns, each of which seemed drawn in a differentdirection. One disappeared in a narrow alley to the left, leaving onlythe echo of a shocking moan. Another filed down a weed-choked subwayentrance, howling with a laughter that was mad. My own column was suckedtoward the open country, and presently felt a chill which was not of thehot autumn: for as we stalked out on the dark moor, we beheld around usthe hellish moon-glitter of evil snows. Trackless, inexplicable snows,swept asunder in one direction only, where lay a gulf all the blackerfor its glittering walls. The column seemed very thin indeed as itplodded dreamily into the gulf. I lingered behind, for the black rift inthe green-litten snow was frightful, and I thought I had heard thereverberations of a disquieting wail as my companions vanished; but mypower to linger was slight. As if beckoned by those who had gone before,I half-floated between the titanic snowdrifts, quivering and afraid,into the sightless vortex of the unimaginable.
Screamingly sentient, dumbly delirious, only the gods that were cantell. A sickened, sensitive shadow writhing in hands that are not hands,and whirled blindly past ghastly midnights of rotting creation, corpsesof dead worlds with sores that were cities, charnel winds that brush thepallid stars and make them flicker low. Beyond the worlds vague ghostsof monstrous things; half-seen columns of unsanctified temples that reston nameless rocks beneath space and reach up to dizzy vacua above thespheres of light and darkness. And through this revolving graveyard ofthe universe the muffled, maddening beating of drums, and thin,monotonous whine of blasphemous flutes from inconceivable, unlightedchambers beyond Time; the detestable pounding and piping whereunto danceslowly, awkwardly and absurdly the gigantic, tenebrous ultimategods--the blind, voiceless, mindless gargoyles whose soul isNyarlathotep.
Editorial
Editorial comment upon amateur journalism generally falls within one oftwo classes; complacent self-congratulation upon a mythical perfection,or hectic urging toward impossible achievements. It is our purpose thismonth to indulge in neither of these rhetorical recreations, but to makeone very prosaic and practical appeal which springs solely fromrealistic observation.
This appeal concerns the official situation in the United. For severalyears our foes have reproached us for excessive centralisation ofauthority: asserting that the control of our society is anything fromoligarchical to monarchial, and pointing to the large amount ofinfluence wielded by a very few leaders. Denials on our part, promptedby the conspicuous absence of any dictatorial ambitions in the minds ofour executives, have been largely nullified by the fact that while powerhas not been autocratically usurped and arbitrarily exercised, theburden of administrative work has certainly been thrust by commonconsent on a small number of reluctant though loyal shoulders. A fewpersons have been forced to retain authority because no others havearisen to relieve them of their burdens, until official nominations havecome to mean no more than a campaign by one or two active spirits topersuade certain patient drudges to "carry on" another year. Nor doesthe formal official situation reflect all of the prevailing condition.Much of the Association's most important activity, such as recruiting,welcoming and criticism, verges into the field of unorganised effort;and here the tendency to leave everything to a narrow group isoverwhelming.
Obviously, this condition demands a remedy; and that remedy lies in onedirection only--an acceptance of potential official responsibility byall of those members who possess the time and experience to act asleaders. As the fiscal year progresses, the season for candidacies drawsnear; and amateurs who feel competent to sustain their share of theadministrative burden should come forward as nominees, or at leastshould respond when
approached by their friends. That office-holdinginvolves tedious work, all admit, but this tedium is a small enoughprice to pay for the varied boons of amateurdom. In unofficial labour anequal willingness should be shown. Why is it that all the privaterevision in the United is performed by about three men at most, despitethe presence in our ranks of a full score of scholars abundantly capableof rendering such service? If the _literati_ as a whole will not awakento the needs of the day, one of two things will occur. The United willstagnate quietly under the perpetual dictatorship of a limited group ofunwilling but benevolent autocrats, or it will succumb to the onslaughtof some political clique of vigorous barbarians who will destroy in amonth what it has taken the United over ten years to build up. Memoriesof 1919 should prove to us the reality of such a danger of suddenrelapse.
Our appeal, then, is for responsible candidates for high office, and forvolunteers in the work of maintaining interest and lending literary aid.We know that executive energy and enthusiasm tend to be more abundant inthe Goth than in the Greek; that those best qualified to serve aregenerally least moved by political ambition. But we are sure that theneeds of our society should arouse enough sense of duty among itscultivated membership to draw to the front a new generation of leaders.We ask for new presidential and editorial candidates who are prepared toserve faithfully and independently if elected; for new critics andrecruiters who understand our traditions and are willing to expendenergy in upholding and diffusing them. Shall 1921 bring them to light?
--H. P. LOVECRAFT
Official Organ Fund
RECEIPTS
Woodbee Press Club $25.00 From Treasurer, up to October 15 23.00 Susan Nelson Furgerson 6.00 Jonathan E. Hoag 5.00 Verna McGeoch (for each issue) 5.00 Howard R. Conover 3.00 Victor O. Schwab 3.00 Mr. and Mrs. Fritter (for each issue) 2.00 Rev. Eugene B. Kuntz 1.50 Anne Tillery Renshaw 1.50 Anonymous .25 _One dollar each_: Margaret Abraham, Agnes R. Arnold, Elizabeth Barnhart, Grace M. Bromley, Mary Faye Durr, Alice M. Hamlet, Hester Harper. Total on hand, November 6, 1920 $82.25
REMARKS
The doubling of printing rates makes large contributions imperative ifthe Organ is to approach its customary standard. Acknowledgments are duethe Woodbee Press Club for its exceedingly generous contribution, andex-Editor Renshaw for the mailing of an appeal which has proved mosteffective in the campaign for funds. Emulation of the Woodbees'generosity by other clubs would save a situation which is verythreatening.
H. P. LOVECRAFT, Custodian.