Dark Providence (#HPLovecraft)

It is the 20th of August, 2015, marking the 125th anniversary of the nativity of Providence’s Mad Master of the Macabre. H.P. Lovecraft had ascended to an almost godlike station overlooking the horror field, though his pedestal has been chipped at of late by the hands of the simpleton sheep of nouveau liberalism. I am not here to defend Lovecraft the Man, for instead I choose to celebrate Lovecraft the Author.


‘Author’ is such an inadequate word for defining Lovecraft’s vocation. He was an architect, a world builder, an originator. He was a master of the form. He painted with words dark, muddy, surreal images of the profane and cosmic. Purposefully laborious and antiquated, even for his time, Lovecraft’s pose invokes and evokes an oppressive, malignant atmosphere that strips away the world outside the stories he writes, leaving only the wreckage of the desolate and fragile worlds within the pages of his nightmarish fictions.

It may be in fashion to dismiss this artisan of the abhorrent, to classify him has a racist, misogynist, homophobic, and more, but as S.T. Joshi so eloquently put it, “Lovecraft’s status in weird fiction, in American literature, and in world literature is now so assured that attempts to deny or denigrate it are restricted to cranks and ignoramuses.”


Lovecraft is our tenebrous god, lurking in the murky shadows, corrupting our dreams and turning them into nightmarish landscapes of afflicted madness. We worship at the altar of his dark providence, sacrifice the light that we might bask in the infinite black of the corruptible oblivion his cthonic visions made manifest.

125 years ago today, a fiend slithered from out his mother’s womb to leave a trail of despair forty-six years long, but so invasive was it that its malignant chronicles continue long after, because a thing cannot be killed that was never truly born.


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