Lovecraft To S. His Life. His Writings. His Creations.

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Beings that will send you mad trying to comprehend them fully, tend to inspire a modicum of awe after all… Where as a god of sleep seems just a little mundane in comparison…. A fear that takes its name from that same Greek god, Hypnophobia. Until he meets a mysterious man in a railway station. With a logic that escapes me, he realises the stranger will be his friend the moment he opens his:. Regardless, he sees something in this stranger, that something been mysteries he has always sought knowledge of reflected in those strange eyes… and takes him home with him.

He then spends his days making sculptures of his friend, or at least busts of his face. While he spends his nights…. This is hardly the first time his narrators have been heavy users of powdery substances… With the aid of drugs, the two avoid sleep as much as possible, but when on occasion they succumb, they rapidly age in appearance and are plagued by nightmares which in true Lovecraftian fashion the narrator refuses to explain.

Eventually one night, the stranger falls into a deep-breathing sleep and was impossible to arouse. The narrator shrieks, faints and awakes surrounded by the police and his neighbours.

Those neighbours claim he never had a friend, yet there in the centre of the room is a statue of the stranger with the weird eyes. So there you go, the drug fulled fantasy life of an artists insanity and obsession with strange men that could be greek gods… Or a visitation of a greek god upon a mortal that ends in madness… With a lot of sixties vibes thrown in.

The only thing missing is a girl called Lucy hanging about on a cloud wearing nothing but an carat diamond studded tiara and Sargent Pepper playing in the background…. I am not exactly sure why. The sixties references that are not sixties references perhaps. The narrator is not some strange junkie living a strange wild life because we have had the sixties, and the seventies, the eighties, the nineties… etc.

I am used to Irvin Walsh, dead babies on the ceiling and diving into the worst toilet in Scotland … So in drug-fueled visions, I kind of expect more…. So its a mere two slimy tentacles reaching out from the pillbox for this one. Further Lovecraftian witterings. You are commenting using your WordPress. You are commenting using your Google account. You are commenting using your Twitter account.

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Notify me of new comments via email. Notify me of new posts via email. The Passing Place. Writings on writing, and stories about stories. The strange worlds of Mark Hayes.

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Hypnos (short story)

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Lovecraft , penned in March and first published in the May issue of National Amateur. The narrator writes that he fears sleep, and is resolved to write his story down lest it drive him further mad, regardless of what people think after reading it. The narrator, a sculptor , recounts meeting a mysterious man in a railway station. The moment the man opened his "immense, sunken, and widely luminous eyes", the narrator knew that the stranger would become his friend-—"the only friend of one who had never possessed a friend before. From this point on, he would touch his friend and sculpt him daily. At night they would commence their adventures, exploring worlds beyond human comprehension.

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