The first of these stages is often purely a mental one — a set of conditions and happenings being worked out in my head, and never set down until I am ready to prepare a detailed synopsis of events in order of narration. Then, too, I sometimes begin even the actual writing before I know how I shall develop the idea — this beginning forming a problem to be motivated and exploited.
There are, I think, four distinct types of weird story; one expressing a mood or feeling, another expressing a pictorial conception, a third expressing a general situation, condition, legend or intellectual conception, and a fourth explaining a definite tableau or specific dramatic situation or climax. In another way, weird tales may be grouped into two rough categories — those in which the marvel or horror concerns some condition or phenomenon, and those in which it concerns some action of persons in connexion with a bizarre condition or phenomenon.
Each weird story — to speak more particularly of the horror type — seems to involve five definite elements: (a) some basic, underlying horror or abnormality — condition, entity, etc. — , (b) the general effects or bearings of the horror, (c) the mode of manifestation — object embodying the horror and phenomena observed — , (d) the types of fear- reaction pertaining to the horror, and (e) the specific effects of the horror in relation to the given set of conditions.
In writing a weird story I always try very carefully to achieve the right mood and atmosphere, and place the emphasis where it belongs. One cannot, except in immature pulp charlatan-fiction, present an account of impossible, improbable, or inconceivable phenomena as a commonplace narrative of objective acts and conventional emotions. Inconceivable events and conditions have a special handicap to over come, and this can be accomplished only through the maintenance of a careful realism in every phase of the story except that touching on the one given marvel. This marvel must be treated very impressively and deliberately — with a careful emotional “build-up” — else it will seem flat and unconvincing. Being the principal thing in the story, its mere existence should overshadow the characters and events. But the characters and events must be consistent and natural except where they touch the single marvel. In relation to the central wonder, the characters should shew the same overwhelming emotion which similar characters would shew toward such a wonder in real life. Never have a wonder taken for granted. Even when the characters are supposed to be accustomed to the wonder I try to weave an air of awe and impressiveness corresponding to what the reader should feel. A casual style ruins any serious fantasy.
Atmosphere, not action, is the great desideratum of weird fiction. Indeed, all that a wonder story can ever be is a vivid picture of a certain type of human mood. The moment it tries to be anything else it becomes cheap, puerile, and unconvincing. Prime emphasis should be given to subtle suggestion — imperceptible hints and touches of selective associative detail which express shadings of moods and build up a vague illusion of the strange reality of the unreal. Avoid bald catalogues of incredible happenings which can have no substance or meaning apart from a sustaining cloud of colour and symbolism.
These are the rules or standards which I have followed — consciously or unconsciously — ever since I first attempted the serious writing of fantasy. That my results are successful may well be disputed — but I feel at least sure that, had I ignored the considerations mentioned in the last few paragraphs, they would have been much worse than they are.
The Memoirs
Prospect Street, Providence — Lovecraft’s final home, from May 1933 until March 10, 1937
LIST OF AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL WORKS
Although H. P Lovecraft never wrote a complete autobiography, he did write numerous pieces regarding his life in his personal correspondence. In this section, readers can explore a range of extracts and documents taken from his journals and letters to friends, which reveal a remarkable insight into Lovecraft’s life and his ability as an intelligent and humorous writer.
Lovecraft, 1922
CONTENTS
Biographical Notice
The Brief Autobiography of an Inconsequential Scribbler
Within the Gates by “One Sent by Providence.”
A Confession of Unfaith
Selections from “News Notes”
Commercial Blurbs
Autobiography of Howard Phillips Lovecraft
Some Notes on a Nonentity
Lovecraft, 1934
Biographical Notice
LOVECRAFT, HOWARD PHILLIPS. Was born of old Yankee-English stock on August 20, 1890, in Providence, Rhode Island. Has always lived there except for very brief periods. Educated in local schools and privately; ill-health precluding university. Interested early in colour and mystery of things. More youthful products — verse and essays — voluminous, valueless, mostly privately printed. Contributed astronomical articles to press 1906-18. Serious literary efforts now confined to tales of dream-life, strange shadow, and cosmic “outsideness”, notwithstanding sceptical rationalism of outlook and keen regard for the sciences. Lives quietly and eventlessly, with classical and antiquarian tastes. Especially fond of atmosphere of colonial New England. Favourite authors — in most intimate personal sense — Poe, Arthur Machen, Lord Dunsany, Walter de la Mare, Algernon Blackwood. Occupation — literary hack work including revision and special editorial jobs. Has contributed macabre fiction to Weird Tales regularly since 1923. Conservative in general perspective and method so far as compatible with phantasy in art and mechanistic materialism in philosophy. Lives in Providence, Rhode Island.
The Brief Autobiography of an Inconsequential Scribbler
Since the earthly career of a secluded and non-robust individual is seldom replete with exciting events, my readers must not expect the following chronicle to possess much which will hold their attention or awaken their interest. But for the mandate of a relentless editor, they would have been spared this affliction.
I was born in Providence, of unmixed English ancestry, on August 20, 1890. During the first few years of my existence, my mode of expression was more often oral than written; and my tastes much more modern than at present. It is indeed worthy of note, that my utterances prior to the summer of 1891 betray a marked kinship to the vers libre of today.
In the year 1892, from which my first genuine recollections proceed, my literary career began in earnest. Having mastered the art of connected speech, and assimilated the alphabet, I was an inveterate reciter of poesy, delivering such pieces as “Sheridan’s Ride” and selections from “Mother Goose” with true declamatory finesse. I also dabbled in poetic imagism, with the aid of alphabetical blocks.
By the close of 1893, I had added another accomplishment to my catalogue — that of reading. My tastes ran to polysyllables, of whose pronunciation I was not always certain. About this period I began to supplement the fairy tales hitherto related to me, with individual research in the pictureful pages of Grimm, and developed a marked penchant for everything pertaining to myths and legends. The close of 1894 revealed still another accomplishment — that of writing.
The years 1895 and 1896 were uneventful, and although I was constantly scribbling both crude prose and crude rhymes, no specimen survives. The leading event of this era was my change of interest from Teutonic to Classical mythology, induced by perusal of Hawthorne’s Wonder Book and Tanglewood Tales.
In 1897 I composed my earliest surviving attempt at authorship, a “poem” in forty-four lines of internally rhyming iambic heptameter, entitled “The Poem of Ulysses; or, the New Odyssey”, whose opening four lines are as follows:
“The night was dark, O Reader, hark! and see Ulysses’ fleet; All homeward bound, with vict’ry crown’d, he hopes his spouse to greet; Long hath he fought, put Troy to naught, and levell’d down its walls; But Neptune’s wrath obstructs his path, and into snares he falls.”
In 1898 I commenced a school career, much interrupted by ill health, and supplemented by home reading and private instruction. It was my favourite diversion to spend hours in the midst of t
he family library, browsing chiefly over books over a century old, and insensibly forming a taste for eighteenth-century style and thought which will never leave me.
In 1899 I became interested in the sciences, and established my first enduring amateur publication, The Scientific Gazette, which ran continuously until 1904. It was published successively by pencil, pen, and hectograph, and afforded me infinite pleasure and pride.
In 1903 astronomy became my chief interest, and I established the hectographed magazine, The Rhode Island Journal of Astronomy, which survived until 1907. All this time I knew nothing of organised Amateurdom, and the reams of old-fashioned miscellany I had been evolving remained mercifully unpublished till 1906, when I made my debut in print by commencing a series of monthly astronomical articles in a local paper.
From 1906 to 1914 I was a contributor to sundry publications of no importance, veering about 1911 from pure science back to belles lettres. In March, 1914, I learned through Mr. Edward F. Daas of Amateurdom’s existence, and soon joined the United; a connexion likely to subsist till my death, since it has furnished me with more enjoyment than any other I have experienced.
In the United it has been my privilege to become a frequent contributor to the press, and to hold several offices, including the Presidency and the Chairmanship of the Department of Public Criticism. I have endeavoured to support the most purely literary and progressive elements in the Association, and to aid in a revival of that conservatism and classicism which modern literature seems dangerously prone to reject. To this purpose is my individual publication, The Conservative, devoted. These various activities have doubtless gained for me the reputation of being an insufferable old pedant; yet I cannot wholly complain of my fate, since Editor Samples deems it fit to waste good white paper upon these overlong annals of Boeotian mediocrity.
Within the Gates by “One Sent by Providence.”
Mr. Toastmaster, Ladies, Gentlemen, and Politicians: —
Although not called upon by name, I have been informed that the reference to Providence is my cue; hence believe that this is the proper time to make myself ridiculous by attempted oratory. Providence is notable as a dispenser of both blessings and afflictions; the former to be hailed with gratitude, the latter to be borne with patience. I am one of the latter, and can but hope that your patience will prove adequate. Remember, at least, that this oration is not voluntary; and visit your wrath upon Providence — or the Toastmaster — rather than upon me!
The subject of my sermon is announced as “within the gates” — presumably referring to the presence of a strictly United man in the midst of the National’s Babylonish revelry — more or less “alien and alone”, as it were, to quote from a famous poem dear to the heart of the Zenith’s scholarly editor. Accordingly I have taken as my text that not unknown line about a gate which appears in the celebrated epic of my fellow-poet Dante —
“All hope abandon, ye who enter here.”
I will omit the context — not only because I do not remember it, but because it would perhaps offend some loyal Nationalité by suggesting a certain comparison which I have with truly Heinsian delicacy suppressed.
Having thus introduced my remarks as artistically and verbosely as possible, let me dispense with further preliminaries and confess that I have not the slightest idea of what I should say this evening. This, however, is probably nothing unusual for a post-prandial Cicero or Demosthenes, hence it need cause me no anxiety. I may add, in extenuation, that this is only my second public oration. Having escaped alive after my first, in February, I may venture to hope for similar clemency now — in spite of the representation of the “Sun Group” on the jury.
Since I have nothing in particular to say, it behoves me to say it as tastefully as possible — allowing the appropriateness of my remarks to compensate for their vacuity. Within the gates of — the National, what could be more appropriate than a reference to that institution’s chief interest — politics? I could say much of politics, but in a Puritanical city might not be able to say all that recent politics deserves; hence will confine myself to one point — a defence against a recent attack upon me, basely launched by an exceedingly eminent and heretofore respected amateur.
In Views and Reviews there appears an outrageous accusation, which although mentioning no names, affects me too obviously to permit of doubt. It is charged that I, as so-called Rhode Island Chairman of some “intensive recruiting drive”, employed the backs of National application blanks to write “poetry” on. I take this opportunity to refute so unjust a charge, relying for absolute vindication on Mr. Dowdell; who will, as in the past, assure you all that I never could and never can write a line of genuine poetry! But I will go even further, and vow on my own responsibility that I did not even attempt to write verses on those blanks. My waste-basket contains the proof — for what I did write on them was a descriptive prose article for Tryout, which you may read for yourselves in the very next issue — if you are good at puzzles.
Mr. Houtain, noting my weight and elevation, once wrote in The Zenith that my voice is seemingly out of keeping with my size. This may or may not be true. If, however, I do not soon conclude, these remarks are likely to be sadly in keeping with my elephantine magnitude. I could say much of the honour and pleasure I feel at being present at this momentous conclave, but am reluctant merely to repeat the obvious.
As a text for this long and sonorous intellectual silence I quoted an epic. Let me, therefore, follow the example of the epic poets, and instead of tapering off with a grandiloquent peroration, cease abruptly and dramatically. I have held you within the gates of infernal dulness.
“Thence issuing, we again behold the stars!”
A Confession of Unfaith
As a participant in The Liberal’s Experience Meeting, wherein amateurs are invited to state their theories of the universe, I must preface all remarks by the qualifying admission that they do not necessarily constitute a permanent view. The seeker of truth for its own sake is chained to no conventional system, but always shapes his philosophical opinions upon what seems to him the best evidence at hand. Changes, therefore, are constantly possible; and occur whenever new or revalued evidence makes them logical.
I am by nature a sceptic and analyst, hence settled early into my present general attitude of cynical materialism, subsequently changing in regard to details and degree rather than to basic ideals. The environment into which I was born was that of the average American Protestant of urban, civilised type — in theory quite orthodox, but in practice very liberal. Morals rather than faith formed the real keynote. I was instructed in the legends of the Bible and of Saint Nicholas at the age of about two, and gave to both a passive acceptance not especially distinguished either for its critical keenness or its enthusiastic comprehension. Within the next few years I added to my supernatural lore the fairy tales of Grimm and the Arabian Nights; and by the time I was five had small choice amongst these speculations so far as truth was concerned, though for attractiveness I favoured the Arabian Nights. At one time I formed a juvenile collection of Oriental pottery and objets d’art, announcing myself as a devout Mussulman and assuming the pseudonym of “Abdul Alhazred”. My first positive utterance of a sceptical nature probably occurred before my fifth birthday, when I was told what I really knew before, that “Santa Claus” is a myth. This admission caused me to ask why “God” is not equally a myth. Not long afterwards I was placed in the “infant class” at the Sunday school of the venerable First Baptist Church, an ecclesiastical landmark dating from 1775; and there resigned all vestiges of Christian belief. The absurdity of the myths I was called upon to accept, and the sombre greyness of the whole faith as compared with the Eastern magnificence of Mahometanism, made me definitely an agnostic; and caused me to become so pestiferous a questioner that I was permitted to discontinue attendance. No statement of the kind-hearted and motherly preceptress had seemed to me to answer in any way the doubts I honestly and explicitly expressed, and I was fast becomin
g a marked “man” through my searching iconoclasm. No doubt I was regarded as a corrupter of the simple faith of the other “infants”.
Delphi Complete Works of H. P. Lovecraft (Illustrated) Page 232
