This past weekend, instead of staying home and copyediting like a responsible author, and unable to go hiking because half of the state is on fire, I went on a little adventure to the local used book stores. While there, I picked up a deliciously gorgeous hardback of The Complete Fiction of H.P. Lovecraft. Now, I’ve been a huge fan of Lovecraft’s contemporary and friend, Robert E. Howard, for many years (he wrote Conan, if you’re wondering). I’ve also been a Robert Chambers fan (the guy who wrote the first erstwhile weird horror tale The King in Yellow, who has been referenced heavily by many authors since, including Lovecraft) for a couple of years. So it was just a matter of time before I got to H.P. Lovecraft.
And boy, if there was ever a year for diving until 1000+ pages of skin-crawling horror tales about a bleak universe filled with chaos and malevolent elder gods in space that will drive you mad just because, 2020 is the year.
This is the first actual hardback I’ve picked up and read in a very long time, since moving every year for a decade got me inured to the appeals of ebooks. His prose is just so lush–the wind from the east cursed and whined–I don’t even remember what story that’s from, I just love the line.
I’m only a hundred pages in, but with another round of quarantine looming and cold weather rolling in, I’m glad for it.
What are you reading? Feeling a bit dystopic? Make Lovecraft your sesquipedalian eidolon. It’s a good way to eat up some evening hours.