There’s a routine to the art of a scare. First, get into position. —Sarah Musnicky, “The Mask It Wears” in Spectrum: An Autistic Horror Anthology(2024) 147
Horror follows the syntax of its age. Bela Lugosi’s opera cape set the standard for vampire dress for generations. The talking boards used by séances were commercialized as parlor games, and decades later there are books and films where ouija boards are considered genuine hotlines to the afterlife. H. P. Lovecraft lived during a time when many of the trappings of horror we know today were first being standardized and commercialized.
Lovecraft never visited a haunted house attraction or saw a slasher film. Those are the product of a later period. We, Lovecraft’s heirs, live in a different world, one awash with horror stories in every medium. Tastes have not necessarily refined, but they have agglutinated. Old familiar horrors carry a nostalgic twang, not a breathless shiver—but that’s a problem that Lovecraft himself faced.
The true weird tale has something more than secret murder, bloody bones, or a sheeted form clanking chains according to rule. —H. P. Lovecraft, “Supernatual Horror in Literature”
Generally speaking, Lovecraft did not set his horrors in far away exotic places and distant times. His horrors might have been ancient, but they were set in the now, an age with motorcars, submarines, airplanes, radio, telephones, and electric lights. If they had cellphones and the internet in the 1920s and 30s, Lovecraft would have had to factor them into the plots of his weird tales.
Lovecraft did not concern himself overmuch with the methods of the Society for Psychical Research or the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn; heterodox occultism of any stripe was something he largely lacked interest in. Likewise, he never let a vampire in an opera cape stride onto one of his pages. The pages of Weird Tales were filled with old familiar horrors. Lovecraft strove to provide something different; something new and unexpected.
Second, wait for the first round of screams heading in your direction. —Sarah Musnicky, “The Mask It Wears” in Spectrum: An Autistic Horror Anthology(2024) 147
There is nothing wrong with playing with old familiar horrors, or of trying to marry old tropes to new ones. A number of writers have played with combining Lovecraftian horrors with the slasher genre that gained prominence with Hollywood slasher films like Halloween (1978) and Friday the 13th (1980). Robert M. Price’s “A Mate for the Mutilator” (2004) comes to mind, and Chaosium’s Blood Brothers (1990). How well it works depends on the skill of the creator involved; the personal, psychological horror of the slasher stalking their prey, or the gore-filled climax of an elaborate or particularly bloody kill are rather more visceral than the kind of cerebral horror to which Lovecraft aspired. Yet they are not incompatible.
“The Mask It Wears” by Sarah Musnicky plays very specifically with horror tropes, in the syntax of the now. It was published in Spectrum: An Autistic Horror Anthology, and there is something evocative of that theme throughout this story, without actually giving a label to it. The narrator has a routine as part of their job. When something happens that throws them off-script, they’re thrown off their game. The mask they put on for dealing with their coworkers and the outside world slips—and that is the double meaning in the title. Not just the mask that the killer wears on their spree, or the mask that the protagonist wears on their job, but the mask of normal behavior that the protagonist projects, all the time, to deal with a world that seems, if not innately hostile, then somewhat incomprehensible.
Musnicky never tries to assign a label to her protagonist, why they do what they do, why they react the way they do to the unexpectedly. Yet the behavior and mindset are there, for those who recognize such things. It sets them apart from the rest of the would-be victims. Unable to move with the herd, the killer in the haunted house walks right into their room.
Lovecraft was fond of a terminal revelation, something that the whole story had been building up to, but only revealed in its fullness in the end. It was a style of fiction that owed something to mystery and detective fiction, where the last twist was revealed to explain away the final puzzle—though in Lovecraft’s case, he was willing to reveal just enough for the reader’s imagination to fill in the blanks. Musnicky’s story ends much the same way. We never get all the answers. Just enough.
The Persian word رباعی (rendered rubāʿī in English) refers to a poem of four lines or parts; in English terms, a quatrain. Following the traditional conventions of Persian poetry these were composed using one of two thirteen-syllable meters. رباعيّات (rubāʿiyyāt) is the plural form; so the Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám could be literally rendered as The Quatrains of Omar Khayyám—but where’s the style in that?
In the 1850s, English poet and writer Edward FitzGerald was involved in translations of Spanish and Persian poetry and plays into English. In 1856-7, Edward Byles Cowell, a former professor under whom FitzGerald had studied the Persian language, sent him transcripts of two Persian manuscript with a series of quatrains by Omar Khayyám (1048-1131), a Persian polymath who lived in the Seljuk Empire. How much of the poetry which is attributed to Khayyám that he actually wrote is a matter of conjecture and debate. There are no known original manuscripts from Khayyám containing poetry, only verses that were quoted by others, decades or centuries after his death. So the poems that FitzGerald translated were from much-later collations of extant verse, some or all of which may never have been written by Khayyám itself.
FitzGerald took a free hand to translation; he rendered each rubāʿī into a four-line quatrain, often rhyming in an AABA form. The result was published as the Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám in 1859, to little notice. However, subsequent editions were published over the years and decades, with FitzGerald taking advantage of the reprints to expand subsequent editions with more poems, and to tweak the translations. By the end of the 19th century, the work had achieved monumental popularity, reflecting in part the expansion of the British Empire and the pervasive Orientalism that occasionally peaked into popular phases, like the Egyptomania that swept the English-speaking world after the discovery of King Tutankhamun’s tomb.
In addition to the authorized editions by FitzGerald, which could differ substantially from each other, there were innumerable other translations and pirated editions. The language and even numbering of the quatrains differ between editions. As a result, like the Christian Bible, it is difficult to talk about the Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám as a single text, but rather as a corpus of related works within which are distinct traditions. For our purposes, the text of FitzGerald’s 5th (1898) edition appears most influential.
Given the immense popularity of the Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, it shouldn’t be surprising that several Weird Tales writers during the 1930s read and enjoyed some version of this book, and that it influenced them to greater or lesser degree, including the three most-remembered today: H. P. Lovecraft, Robert E. Howard, and Clark Ashton Smith.
H. P. Lovecraft
The w. k. Khayyam-Fitzgerald reference to philosophy seems to shew an under-appreciation of the pure joy of argument. However—the genial maker of tents was none one to appreciate anything truly intellectual in a detached way. —H. P. Lovecraft to Rheinhart Kleiner, 23 Feb 1918, LRKO 105-106
The first reference to the Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám in Lovecraft’s letters shows a familiarity with FitzGerald’s translation; the last name Khayyám had been literally translated as “Tentmaker”, hence Lovecraft’s reference to the “genial maker of tents.” The quatrain in question is probably:
Myself when young did eagerly frequent Doctor and Saint, and heard great argument About it and about: but evermore Came out by the same door where in I went. —XXVII. Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám (5th ed, 1898)
It is not exactly clear when Lovecraft read Khayyám/FitzGerald, although it seems to have been several years before 1918:
As to the Rubaiyat of Omar & FitzGerald, it is so long since I read the thing that I have forgotten its details. I did not especially like it—which is doubtless the reason I never perused it a second time. —H. P. Lovecraft to Rheinhart Kleiner, 11 Jun 1920, LRKO 167-168
Lovecraft doesn’t explain further, but there are certainly some aspects of Khayyám’s poetry that might have rubbed the weird writer the wrong way—his meticulousness for meter, Khayyám’s topics including love and drinking, the obtuseness of some of the translated images—and perhaps the sheer prosaicness of the poetry, which were far less fantastic than the 1,001 Nights.
During the course of discussion [George Kirk] gave me two books—one a fine sidelight on colonial life at Princeton College, & the other a variorum edition of the Rubaiyat which I wanted to send my correspondent Woodburn Harris—an Omar enthusiast. Nothing could make him take pay for either. —H. P. Lovecraft to Lillian D. Clark, 27-28 May 1930, LFF 2.855
Kirk was a bookseller and friend of Lovecraft’s; Harris was another correspondent, unfortunately none of their published letters attest to any conversations on Khayyám. Lovecraft’s final word on the poet and his work appeared in his suggestions for a reading guide, the final chapter for Anne Tillery Renshaw‘s textbook Well Bread Speech (1936), which never made it into the finished product:
In the Oriental field we do not have to be asked to read the Arabian Nights or Fitzgerald’s translation of Omar’s Rubiyat. —H. P. Lovecraft, Collected Essays2.186
Lovecraft’s reading list didn’t necessarily reflect his personal tastes, only his professional assessment of what books qualified as those people should read as part of a literary education. It is a reflection of his acknowledgement of the tremendous popularity and influence of Khayyám’s poetry in FitzGerald’s translation as much as anything else.
It’s a pity we don’t have more of Lovecraft’s thoughts on Khayyám, and especially whether the Persian poet’s poetry was any inspiration at all to that of his famous Arabic poet, Abdul Alhazred and his Al Azif—which was at least partially written in poetry. Though aside from the common geographic origin in the Middle East (albeit different parts of it) and being poets, the biographies of Alhazred and Khayyám show few similarities.
Robert E. Howard
In the words of Omar Khayyam: “East is East and West is West To a ramblin’ gay galoot.” —Robert E. Howard to Tevis Clyde Smith, 8 Jun 1923, CL1.3
In the first surviving letter from Robert E. Howard, he mentions Omar Khayyám by name—although the poetic reference is actually to Rudyard Kipling’s “The Ballad of East and West” (1889). Howard’s interest in poetry is often overlooked, but poetry pervades his fiction, and Howard himself was lauded as a poet of considerable power by Lovecraft.
Howard’s letters to his friend Tevis Clyde Smith include a great deal of off-the-cuff poetry (some of it ribald, jocular, or doggerel verse), as well as quotations from other verses that Howard had read, heard, or memorized. For example:
“Methought a voice within the temple cried, When all the temple is prepared within, Why loiter drowsy worshippers outside?” “I tell you this, when started from the goal, Over the flaming shoulders of the foal, Of heaven’d Parwin and Mushtari they flung, In my predestined plot of dust and soul.” “A book of verses underneath a bough, A loaf of bread, a jug of wine and thou, Beside me singing in the wilderness, Ah, wilderness were Paradise enow!” “Look to rose about us,” Lo, “Laughing,” she says, “Into the world I blow, “At once the silken tassel of my purse, Tare [sic], and my treasures to the garden throw.
— Robert E. Howard to Tevis Clyde Smith, 6 Aug 1925, CL1.61-62
These are lines for quatrains II, LXXV, XII, and XIV of the 5th (1898) edition. It isn’t clear if Howard read this specific edition, but he seems to have read at least some version derived from the 5th edition text. Howard scholar Steve Trout noted Howard’s quotations may have come from Little Blue Book #1, which followed the text of FitzGerald’s 5th edition (Howard History).
In more serious letters, Howard would praise Khayyám, e.g.:
I have carefully gone over, in my mind, the most powerful men — that is, in my opinion — in all of the world’s literature and here is my list:
Jack London, Leonid Andreyev, Omar Khayyam, Eugene O’Neill, William Shakespeare.
All these men, and especially London and Khayyam, to my mind stand out so far above the rest of the world that comparison is futile, a waste of time. Reading these men and appreciating them makes a man feel life not altogether useless. —Robert E. Howard to Tevis Clyde Smith, week of 20 Feb 1928, CL1.166
Howard also wrote to Lovecraft, listing Khayyám among his favorite poets (MF1.510/ CL2.419). Although Howard was still just as likely to take the poet’s name in vain for the sake of a joke:
“Old Stiff had a friend, Hatrack by name; The life he led was a sin and a shame. He, lounged like Omar beneath a bough, With a whore and jug of beer — and how!” —Robert E. Howard to Tevis Clyde Smith, c. Mar 1929, CL1.319
The reference is to one of the most famous of Khayyám’s quatrains:
A Book of Verses underneath the Bough, A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread—and Thou Beside me singing in the Wilderness— Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow! —XII. Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám (5th ed, 1898)
One of Howard’s greatest tributes to Khayyám and FitzGerald was to quote from the Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám‘s 1898 edition in the opening chapters of the serial “Skull-Face” (Weird TalesOct–Nov–Dec 1929). And in One Who Walked Alone (1986) by Novalyne Price Ellis, it is written:
Bob’s attention was centered on a copy of The Rubáiyat. He already had a copy, but he said he might come back next week and pick up that book and another one—that one by Cabell. (92)
Price would herself quote from Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám in her memoir.
Upon his death, Howard’s father donated his library to Howard Payne University in nearby Brownwood; this included a copy of the Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám, a later edition which combined the aspects of FitzGerald’s previous translations, and is listed as “the First and Fifth versions.”
Clark Ashton Smith
Then I began to write verse, including, I remember, some rather lame imitations of the Rubaiyat. Gradually I acquired a feeling for meter and rhythm; and at sixteen or seventeen was able to sell a few poems to magazines. —Clark Ashton Smith to Samuel J. Sackett, 30 Jun 1939, SLCAS 359
Poe, not Omar Khayyam, was the first poet who impressed me, and I’ll never forget the thrill of finding his poems in a grammar-school l ibrary at the age of thirteen. I remember too that the librarian commented reprovingly on my morbid and unhealthy taste in reading-matter! —Clark Ashton Smith to Samuel J. Sackett, 11 Jul 1950, SLCAS 364
I did a lot of boyhood scribbling, imitations of Omar, lurid Oriental romances, etc;, and at 17 sold several pseudo-Orientales to the Black Cat and the Overland Monthly. —Clark Ashton Smith to L. Sprague de Camp, 21 Oct 1953, SLCAS 371
Compared to Lovecraft and Howard, Smith was the most accomplished poet of the three, having collected and published a good deal of his poetry during his lifetime, and having achieved some small measure of fame for his poetry while breathing. Smith was not as hidebound as early Lovecraft was, and more experimental than Howard, even to the point of translating and writing poetry in other languages. His rich vocabulary, striking images, and the mentorship of poets like George Sterling steered made Clark Ashton Smith a weird poet par excellance—and Sterling was well-versed in poetry enough to comment on a perceived lift, intentional or not:
But here is your excellent poem to comment on, which I’ll venture to the extent of saying I like it very much, but am of the opinion that it’s first line is too suggestive of that which begins “The Rubaiyat.” — George Sterling to Clark Ashton Smith, 14 Jul 1914, SU 109, SLCAS 23
You’re quite right about the resemblance of the first line of my poem to the one in the Rubaiyat:—“Before the phantom of false morning died,” which begins the second quatrain of that poem. It’s strange that I’d not noticed the reminiscence before. I’ve not thought of a new line, so far. — Clark Ashton Smith to George Sterling, 27 Jul 1914, SU 110
Before the phantom of False morning died, Methought a Voice within the Tavern cried, “When all the Temple is prepared within, “Why nods the drowsy Worshiper outside?”
Ere yet the soaring after-fire was flown, I found a city in the twilight lone— Asleep in lapse of some forgotten land And griping horizons of deserts prone.
Unfortunately, Smith’s maturation as a poet came at a time when U.S. tastes in poetry were shifting away from his preferred style. As a consequence, despite initial fame as a young poet, Smith struggled throughout his adult life with poverty and the difficulty of making a living and supporting his parents. Selling poems and fiction were two ways Smith worked during the 1910s-1920s to sustain himself and his family, as well as gifts from friends, manual labor, and efforts to self-publish his own verse (among his enthusiastic customers were Lovecraft and Howard). Smith had literary appetites, but little cash to feed it.
Most of my reading now will have to be in the form of re-reading, since I can’t afford new books. The prices have gone up astoundingly. . . . I spent yesterday afternoon with Omar and Leopardi (the latter the volume you sent me) and found them better company than ever. — Clark Ashton Smith to Samuel Loveman, 7 Nov 1918, BUS 132
My table is covered with a litter of borrowed books—“The Rubaiyat of Hafiz,” “Thus Spake Zharathtustra,” [sic] “A Feast of Lanterns,” and others . . . Do you know this rendering of Hafiz, by L. Cranmer-Byng? Much of it is excellent (d—d if I can see much difference between Hafiz and Omar, in regard to thought and feeling) and one stanza haunts me:
“That night we wrought Love’s miracle again; For one brief gloom one soul was born of twain: Now Death shall weary at the springs of Youth, By singing water that he sealed in vain.” — Clark Ashton Smith to Samuel Loveman, 15 Dec 1918, BUS 142-143
The Rubáiyát of Hafiz is another collection of Persian quatrains rendered into English. Hafiz (also as Hafez) had been translated into English before Khayyám, but the success of the Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám encouraged further translations of Persian poetry in the now-familiar mold of FitzGerald’s translations. Good marketing strategy, if nothing else.
Khayyám forms one of Smith’s poetic touchstones, at least in his letters, no doubt because of his re-reading of his poetry. The quotations from and allusions to Khayyám’s verses all seem to come from FitzGerald’s 1898 text, or a text derived from that edition.
It desolates me to hear that you have been unwell. There’s d—d little in life, beyond the brief Epicurean category of Omar’s stanza, “A book of verses underneath the bough, etc.” Even art is a kind of Barmecides-feast, when one is sick, or indisposed. As for the rest—the “wine” and “bread” are worse than mockery to a sick and queasy stomach. And love—love is the shadow of a dead, forgotten dream,—or a ravenous, writhing, serpent-shapen flame from the cauldron-fires of Malebolge. — Clark Ashton Smith to Samuel Loveman, 12 Aug 1919, BUS 169
I can’t imagine what the place is like now, even with such oases, and “wells amid the waste” as will continue to exist. — Clark Ashton Smith to George Sterling, 28 Aug 1919, SU 174
A Moment’s Halt—a momentary taste Of BEING from the Well amid the Waste— And Lo!—the phantom Caravan has reach’d The NOTHING it set out from—Oh, make haste! —XLVIII. Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám (5th ed, 1898)
Clark Ashton Smith shared Lovecraft’s love of the fantasy Middle East and Near East of the 1,001 Nights, but unlike his friend, Smith was very much fond of alcohol and the company of women, and so was more able to marry Khayyám into his fantasy Orientalist mindset:
I can readily imagine you in Alexandria or Lesbos, or, in a later incarnation, wandering through the Baghdad of Haroun or Almansour, after the journey of the Persian wastes. . . . Alas, for Omar, and Saddi, and Shiraz with its golden wine and golden roses! I wish we were there in Shiraz or Baghdad or Ispahan, with “Time’s purple” a thousand years deep between us and this nightmare of the modern world! — Clark Ashton Smith to Samuel Loveman, 29 Aug 1919, BUS 171
In time, Smith’s appreciation of Khayyám/FitzGerald’s bore poetic fruit:
I’ve completed two longer poems, which I’ll send you in my next. One is an ode to Omar Khayam [sic], the other a fantastic dialogue entitled “The Ghoul and the Seraph.” — Clark Ashton Smith to Samuel Loveman, 31 Aug 1919, BUS 191
The poem was “To Omar Khayyam.” It was well-received by Smith’s friends, but faced some initial difficulty getting published, apparently due to the stigma of Prohibition:
“Asia” has returned my “Omar” ode. They seemed to like the poem, but, I dare say, thought its publication in their pages not “advisable.” It might “get them in bad” with many of their readers. The hedonism (not to mention the pessimism) of the poem would be anathema to a lot of people in this Puritan paradise. It’s incredible, but ch is the fact . . . Even in San Francisco, people are being fined or imprisoned for carrying pocket-flasks! The old Blue Laws were nothing to some of these new statutes. I dare say they’ll want to stop the publication of such books as “The Rubaiyat.” Why not, when it’s against the law to publish or disseminate recipes for the manufacture of wine or beer, or even to use the word “beer,[”] “whiskey,” etc in an advertisement or label, or on a bill-board! — Clark Ashton Smith to Samuel Loveman, 25 Feb 1920, BUS 202-203
Smith eventually sold the poem to The Lyric West in 1921 for $5. However, the magazine sat on the poem for years, so the first publications was actually Smith’s own 1922 self-published poem collection Ebony and Crystal, where Lovecraft and Howard would have read it. In June 1926, The Lyric West finally published Smith’s ode. It was well-received.
I won a poetry prize the other day, much to my amazement. I was awarded fifty dollars for the best poem published in volume 5 of “The Lyric West”, a Los Angeles poetry magazine. The poem was “To Omar Khayyam”, which they had held for years before printing. I had forgotten all about it, in fact. — Clark Ashton Smith to Donald Wandrei, 13 Mar 1927, TWU 53
Three Weird Talers. Three different takes on the Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám. While an 11th/12th century Persian poet (as filtered through a 19th century Englishman) might not be the most obvious of influences, this work was part of the shared cultural heritage of weird fiction in the 1920s and 30s.
In “The Things We Did in the Dark” (2024) by Julia Darcey, two women are isolated in a special place, to service the needs of an unseen god in the dark. In that story, their position is not voluntary. They are there as a punishment, and ultimately as a sacrifice, valued only for their bodies and the work they can do. Georgia Cook’s “The Well” in the 2023 cosmic horror anthology From Beyond the Threshold by Eerie River Publishing, the situation is almost the mirror opposite. Two women, a special place, an unseen god below—but this nameless pair have been called. They are there of their own free will. Cast off everything else to embrace a life of service to the dark.
Cosmic horror, at least as Lovecraft tried to define it in his essay “Supernatural Horror in Literature,” is a kind of inversion of religious awe. It is the dark twin to wonder and glory at the face of the divine, the elucidation and humility that comes from the revelation of cosmic mystery. The sure sense or knowledge that there is something more than this life, with all of its pains and disappointments; something that by its very revelation of existence upends how we think of the world and how it works.
Yet there are those for whom darkness is a part of them. Perhaps it completes them, in a very different way than others are fulfilled by faith. While some Lovecraftian protagonists go mad from the revelation—as the trope goes—others find a kind of acceptance in the new order that the truth reveals.
A very few embrace the revelation. This is part of the discussion in “The Book of Fhtagn” (2021) by Jamie Lackey; the question of why someone would become a cultist in service to an eldritch entity and the trappings of religion that have sprung up about them. The answer in that story is a kind of parallel to this one: having become aware of the dark truth, they do not fight it, reject it, go mad, or simply go through the motions of life under the knowledge that all is pointless. They welcome it. They want to be a part of it.
In the opening to Arthur Machen’s “The White People” (1904), the great Welsh horror writer presents an opening episode on the nature of sorcery and sanctity:
‘Yes, and of the sinners, too. I think you are falling into the very general error of confining the spiritual world to the supremely good; but the supremely wicked, necessarily, have their portion in it. The merely carnal, sensual man can no more be a great sinner than he can be a great saint. Most of us are just indifferent, mixed-up creatures; we muddle through the world without realizing the meaning and the inner sense of things, and, consequently, our wickedness and our goodness are alike second-rate, unimportant.’
‘And you think the great sinner, then, will be an ascetic, as well as the great saint?’
‘Great people of all kinds forsake the imperfect copies and go to the perfect originals. I have no doubt but that many of the very highest among the saints have never done a “good action” (using the words in their ordinary sense). And, on the other hand, there have been those who have sounded the very depths of sin, who all their lives have never done an “ill deed.”‘
In a Machenian sense, the women of “The Things We Did In The Dark” are not sinners, and those in “The Well” are. Not because the women on that windswept island with the well are having murderous orgies in the swamp like Lovecraft’s Cthulhu cultists, but because they are working in their slow and deliberate way, to serve an end. They’ve turned their back on the human race…and though they harm no one directly, in their service they have tossed away everything they once knew and loved.
“…I’m not afraid,” she whispers.
“Of course you ain’t,” the old woman snaps. “S’not right to be afraid.” —Georgia Cook, “The Well” in From Beyond the Threshold(2023) 68
There is a parallel in both stories to cloistered nuns; and nunneries were sometimes used as prisons to dispose of unwanted daughters and those who fell out of accepted society. Yet in “The Well,” the Keepers have walked willingly into their prison. There are no walls, nothing to prevent them from escaping that we can see. No rules and no enforcers.
They’re there because they want to be there.
That’s a bit marvelous and horrific. The acceptance of the darkness within. The recognition of something greater than themselves. Women who have pushed through pain and loss and out the other side, and found a place and purpose there, in the chaos beyond their old lives and every human attachment that held them there.
Not all of H. P. Lovecraft’s works are of equal merit, or of equal attractiveness to readers, artists, and writers. While some stories have been adapted many times in different media, others languish in relative obscurity—reprinted in Lovecraft’s collections, but rarely in anthologies, and with less impact on popular culture. The whys and wherefores differ with each tale; generally, such works were not popular during Lovecraft’s lifetime and may have only been published after his death, have little or no direct connection to the Mythos, or represent some difficulty due to changing tastes or the prejudices expressed in the story.
As something that represents all three of these categories, “Herbert West—Reanimator” is an unexpected posthumous breakout hit for Lovecraft. Initially published as a series of six interconnected short tales in the pages of Home Brew, and not published more widely until after Lovecraft’s death when Weird Tales reprinted them, “Herbert West—Reanimator” has only slight connection to Lovecraft’s wider Mythos with the Arkham/Miskatonic University setting, and contains a chapter with one of the most baldly racist characters and characterizations in Lovecraft’s oeuvre. Written as Lovecraft’s first attempt at commercial fiction, it isn’t really typical of his later style or efforts at all.
Comic and graphic adaptations of “Herbert West—Reanimator” are especially fascinating, because on those rare occasions where readers get two full adaptations, of approximately equal length, for side-by-side comparison, you can see how very different two adaptations can be of the same material—and how much work goes into turning a prose text into a comic script.
Such an opportunity presents itself with Reanimator(2008) by Florent Calvez, a hardbound 112-page French-language bande dessinee published by Delcourt, and Herbert West: Carne Fresca (“Fresh Meat”) (2021) by Luciano Saracino (script) and Rodrigo López (art), a 96-page Spanish-language hardbound album published by Dolmen. Both of these works adapt the full six episodes of “Herbert West—Reanimator” fairly faithfully—but how they do it and what they choose to emphasize is very different.
Calvez’ Reanimator is a sepia-toned period piece, starkly realistic. Unlike many later works, there are few if any visual cues or references to the 1985 film; Herbert West is blond, for example, as Lovecraft’s narrator described him, not a brunet like actor Jeffrey Combs. The most notable reference to the film is the brief shot of West being attacked by a reanimated black cat, a scene made infamous in the movie.
The main departure from Lovecraft’s story is that Calvez provides a framing narrative: the nameless assistant, older now, and visually similar to William S. Burroughs, is writing down his account of events on a ship. This wraparound segment helps give shape to the narrative as a Memoir, which features little speech and a great deal of exposition translated directly from Lovecraft’s text.
The stark realism of the work helps make the horrors stand out. There’s not a lot of gore in the traditional sense; the world of Reanimator is dark, murky, washed out like the sepia photographs of long-ago atrocities. Care and attention to detail are everywhere apparent: the details of costume and press, the architecture of houses, bits of English on newspapers and gravestones for the scenes set in the United States. It is a testament to Calvez’ skill and dedication to get the details right.
In Lovecraft’s story, we don’t see the boxing match, only the aftermath. Calvez has taken another liberty here: “Kid O’Brien” is implicitly a Jewish boxer under an Irish name, while “Buck Robinson, ‘The Harlem Smoke'” is almost a caricature of Black boxers like world heavyweight champion Jack Johnson. Boxing was a major national sport, and while Lovecraft may have cared little for it, he was certainly aware of some of the major boxers of his era, including Jackson.
The narrator’s prejudices that depicted the dead boxer in animal-like terms, and wondered if some obscure biological difference between white and black caused the failure of the reanimation experiment, Calvez leaves out. Their absence isn’t particularly noticeable, unless you know to look for them. It does not diminish the horror that marks the climax of the episode.
Saracino and López take a slightly different approach to Herbert West. The art style, in black and white, is more stylized. There is still great care and attention to detail, but the pages tend to more standard layouts, based around a six-panel grid, and there is much more dialogue. Herbert West himself is allowed to speak in his own words, instead of being relayed through his assistant.
So instead of doing a lot of telling, which Lovecraft was more or less forced to do by the nature of his medium, we get a lot more showing. Instead of a wraparound segment, we get more of an extended prologue, a demonstration of West’s experiments with animals.
West’s assistant gets a name and an identity beyond memoirist: Gregory Carter is a fellow medical student at Miskatonic University—and swiftly becomes West’s accomplice in his experiments—but here at least we get to see more interaction between the two. This isn’t Carter writing what has happened; the reader watches over his shoulder, so to speak, as events unfold.
Rodrigo López’ style shows a certain European influence; while the architecture, the dress, and the hairstyles are all very specifically old-fashioned in accordance with the setting, there are details that are more reminiscent of and older Europe than an older New England. There are roofs that look more like tile than anything you’d see in a New England winter, churches without steeples, police officers in kepi hats. A subtle transmigration of atmosphere that doesn’t change much of anything in the story, but reinforces the idea that this is not just an adaptation—it’s a localization.
Probably López’ best moments are when he gives himself a full page to really go while and showcase a scene, often from above to capture some of the landscape, to really play with broad white empty spaces and dark shadows. There’s a very Edward Gorey-like character to this splash pages. As always though, the horror is lurking near the climax of every episode.
As with Calvez, Saracino & López gently excise the racism expressed by the narrator. It is enough that initial injections of the reanimation serum have no effect, the body is disposed of…and it comes back.
It is interesting how both artists focused on this moment as the climax of the episode; both were determined to present the stark horror, the rare bit of action and excitement in these stories, the most arresting visual image in perhaps the whole story. Yet they do it very differently; the reanimated corpse of Robsinon here is still half-dressed, more human-like, and despite the hatching, not as dark in complexion compared to the other characters (a common issue with black-and-white, which needs hair, facial features, and other cues to help delineate race to the audience visually).
Both stories approach the end with characteristic foreshadowing. Yet in this instance, López’ formatting standardization helps set up the scene better. We see the passage that leads from the old funeral home’s basement to the nearby cemetery; we see Carter and West bricking it up. Centrally placed, a Chekov’s gun loaded and with safety off.
When you’ve read “Herbert West—Reanimator” and seen so many different adaptions and variations on it over the years, there’s rarely any surprise in the ending, just as there is no real shock when Godzilla goes on a rampage through a city. The cities in Godzilla films are there to be squashed. Yet there is an aesthetic appreciation for how the job is done, how well the adaptation captures something of the tone and feel of the story, what grue the artist can supply—and how the writer and artist together choose to portray events.
It is not a question of whether Reanimatoror Herbert West: Carne Fresca is the better adaptation: they each have their strengths, and they each have their differences. To convey the geographic setting, the period, the tone and atmosphere all requires going beyond just the words printed on the page in Lovecraft’s story. The adaptors need to block out the story, episode by episode, scene by scene, finally page by page and panel by panel. How to establish where the events take place. Leaving room for dialogue, for exposition. Finding the balance between showing and telling—and, in some cases, what not to say, to remain faithful to the spirit of the text without offending present audiences with old prejudices.
Neither of these works has been translated into English; non-English adaptations of Lovecraft rarely are. Yet there are few if any graphic adaptations of “Herbert West—Reanimator” in English to really equal them.
Festival shows are, sadly, an ephemeral lot. While some lead to full length plays, TV shows, or even films, most of them rise and fall with their creators, and said creators’ energy and willingness to sacrifice time and money getting their works on stage. This is especially sad for fans of Lovecraft, who are most receptive to works that expand the canon. It is hoped that this slim book of scripts can in some way help these plays reach a larger audience that they were able to when they were originally performed. —Introduction, London Lovecraft: Volume I, 4
The London Lovecraft Festival has been running since 2018, though the annual festivities were interrupted by the Covid 19 pandemic. A key part of the festivities are the dramatic or theatrical presentations, which expand on or re-cast Lovecraft’s familiar works in a new light. In 2023, four of these brief plays by LLF founding producer TL Wiswell were collected into an independently-published book by Vulcanello Productions.
Each of the four works is a specific riff off a familiar Lovecraft story, condensed and adapted into short plays with typically 2 or 3 main characters. The connecting theme is that the stories are altered to focus on the female characters, either expanding on the roles and thoughts of existing characters or by gender-flipping characters (so Herbert West may become Albertina, for example).
Other writers have had similar ideas, such as in HPL 1920 (2020) by Nick O’Gorman & Tales from the Cthulhuverse #1 (2020) by Zee Romero & Luca Cicognola, but the play as a format shifts how a story can be told, and tends to zero in on the relationship between the characters portrayed by the actors. It actually works rather well for Lovecraft’s fiction as passages of expository narration in his work can be just that, whereas in comics or film they tend to cutaway into flashbacks.
Much of the stories also have to be removed, the plot boiled down and simplified to what can feasibly be acted or narrated on a small stage at a budget. That kind of condensation is an art unto itself, and as adaptations go, Wiswell treads the fine line between faithfulness, practicality, and originality.
Mountains of Madness
CHARACTERS: Dr Willa Dyer – Geologist Dr Pomona Peabodie – Engineering Frances Danforth – graduate student, engineering
Setting: 1928. A lecture hall at Miskatonic University, set up with a film projector and a gramophone. WILLA DYER is behind the podium addressing the audience as if they are the audience of her lecture. All people referred to are substantially only present in her memories: Peabodie is dead; Danforth has gone mad. —Introduction, London Lovecraft: Volume I, 10
The Miskatonic University expedition to Antarctica in Lovecraft’s At the Mountains of Madnesswas implicitly all white men; the reimagined expedition of Wiswell’s play took place in the decade prior. The all-female expedition raises no more comment than the all-male one did for the bulk of readers. Much of the grand cosmic backstory of the Old Ones is truncated in summation—as it would be, during a lecture—and neatly bypassed Dyer’s exclamation “They were men!” in Lovecraft’s version.
Much of this short play consists of long monologues by Dyer and Peabodie, with brief interjections by Danforth; shifts in light and focus emphasize when one character is speaking from the past (as when a recording of the dead Peabodie “plays” on the gramophone). It is an effective truncation, and shows how gender need not shape every role in one of Lovecraft’s stories.
Asenath’s Tale
CHARACTERS: Viola Danforth Asenath Waite Derby
Setting: New England, 1962
Suggested stage setup: two armchairs with a table between them, upon which rests a phone. —Introduction, London Lovecraft: Volume I, 28
“The Thing on the Doorstep” features one of the more famous of Lovecraft’s women characters, Asenath Waite—but the depiction is somewhat married because of the unique gender dynamics of Waite in that story, as discussed by Joe Koch in Must I Wear This Corpse For You?: H. P. Lovecraft’s “The Thing on the Doorstep” (1937), among others. Wiswell doesn’t shy away from this; rather, she puts Asenath’s identity as a woman, and her friendship with Viola Danforth, at the center of the story.
Reading about Asenath Waite as a child in Innsmouth, her relationship with her father and with the other children, an insight into her heritage in Innsmouth, provides a humanizing perspective that is completely absent in Lovecraft’s story—where the reader never “meets” Asenath as she was in youth, but only later, as an adult, with all that implies. Wiswell makes the most of the sexism expressed by Ephraim Waite in Lovecraft’s story to frame a contentious relationship between father and daughter that goes all too badly wrong.
There is something more poignant about “Asenath’s Tale” than “The Thing on the Doorstep.” Edward Derby is almost a born victim in Lovecraft’s story, and his final act of rebellion is late in the game. Wiswell’s story with its light-hearted banter becomes something more like a tragedy; the events unfold, unstoppable, and though the players on the stage can only read their parts, those who know in the audience can see their brief, fleeting happiness and friendship for what it is: the prelude to horror.
Albertina West: Reanimator
CHARACTERS: Dr Albertina West Dr Isabel Milburn The Undead: The animated corpses of Major Sir Eric Moreland Clapham-Lee and others.
All scenes set in a laboratory with a dissecting table and a sitting room in front, in Scotland and France (or maybe Belgium)
Time: 1890-1922 —Introduction, London Lovecraft: Volume I, 50
From a narrative standpoint, “Herbert West—Reanimator” is really six brief episodes strung out like an old film serial; it’s why each individual episode ends with a mini-climax, and might be separated by months or years in time. Adapting that to the stage or screen is tricky; when Dennis Paoli, William J. Norris, and Stuart Gordon put together the screenplay for Re-Animator (1985), they ended up jettisoning entire episodes while burning through the plot to fit a tightly-paced 86-minute runtime.
Wiswell’s approach rearranges the episodes in favor of focusing on a narrower thread of plot: the friendship of West and her assistant Milburn, and reanimation of Major Sir Eric Moreland Clapham-Lee during World War I, and the aftermath. Zeroing-in on this particular plotline has a lot of benefit, because it gives West an effective antagonist to play against, a monster of her own creation, not unlike Frankenstein‘s Adam.
More than that, though, it gives Bertie West’s usually nameless, gormless, and racist assistant (and the narrator of the story in Lovecraft’s version) an identity. The fact that they’re women medical doctors during the late 19th and early 20th century actually gets a bit of attention, which is nice; while these are stories to address the gender gap in Lovecraft rather than historical societal trends to misogyny as a whole, Bertie’s nod to the National Society for Women’s Suffrage and the restrictions of women in higher education and medical practice is appropriate for the character and the setting.
Period prejudice with regard to race, on the other hand, is out. Much as with “Kanye West—Reanimator” (2015) by Joshua Chaplinsky vs. “Herburt East: Refuckinator” (2012) by Lula Lisbon, we get a version of the seen of a reanimated corpse with a baby’s arm dangling out of its mouth, but the race of the reanimated is not explicitly mentioned. Horror is mixed with bathos at this point, as Milburn and West trade quips and bon mots in a style that owes a bit more to a deranged P. G. Wodehouse than H. P. Lovecraft.
More than pretty much any other of Lovecraft’s stories “Herbert West—Reanimator” seems hard to play straight; the potential for over-the-top gore and dark humor has been made too apparent.
The Dreamquest of Unknown Kadath
Unlike the others, this adaptation of Lovecraft’s The Dream-Quest of Unknown Kadath was done in collaboration with experimental musician Shivers (Sam Enthoven) and takes the form of a puppet show, narrated and accompanied by music. An audio production of the production is available on Bandcamp.
Randolph Carter has become Miranda Carter, but the gist of the plot and the character are the same as in Lovecraft’s story—albeit with a little more humor.
As she turned to go, Carter wondered why the Zoogs had stopped pursuing her. Then she noticed all the complacent cats of Ulthar licking their chops. She recalled, too, the hungry way a young Zoog had regarded a small black kitten in the street outside. And because she loved nothing on Earth more than small black kittens, she did not mourn the Zoogs. —London Lovecraft: Volume I, 68
Puppetry, especially shadow puppetry, can be singularly evocative; action that could not be feasibly acted out can be implied, with the audience’s imagination filling in the gaps. As with most of the other stories, Carter’s gender plays little role in how the events play out; it’s a change of face, but the core of Lovecraft’s tale and characterization remains intact.
While all of these plays are competently written and I’d like to see them performed sometime, the best are doubtless “Asenath’s Tale” and “Albertina West: Reanimator” specifically because those are the two stories that diverge most from Lovecraft’s characterization, while keeping true to his plots, and thus add some new dimension to the old stories.
London Lovecraft: Volume I (2023) was first made available as a softcover volume directly from the author. TL Wiswell was kind enough to sell me a copy during their visit to NecronomiCon Providence 2024, and I appreciate the chance to add to my small store of Lovecraftian plays, alongside works like Lovecraft’s Follies (1971). It is now (2026) also available as an ebook.
My uncles sold me in the morning, and by the afternoon I stood in the grave of the Long-Sleeping God, fouling the second of the twelve sacred rites. —Julia Darcey, “The Things We Did in the Dark” in Beyond the Bounds of Infinity: An Anthology of Diverse Horror87
Christianity is a patriarchal religion. For most of its history in most of its sects, the priesthood has been exclusively male; so have most prophets and saints. The dogma of Christianity and the social norms of Christian cultures tend to circumscribe women’s place and sexuality in religion and society. H. P. Lovecraft was a materialist, but he was raised in a Baptist household, and many elements of Protestant culture remained with him throughout his life, despite his disbelief in the specifics of the Bible—or the Qur’an, Talmud, Book of Mormon, or any other religious text.
Which is why, perhaps, the gender dynamics of Lovecraft’s cults is a bit patriarchal. We never see the full rites of the Esoteric Order of Dagon in “The Shadow over Innsmouth,” or the cult of Cthulhu in “The Call of Cthulhu,” yet the members of those sects we do see are explicitly male. Lovecraft did not show a priestess of Cthulhu or Mother Hydra, did not show female worshippers among the orgiasts in the swamp about Cthulhu’s idol. The witch-cult is a little different; Keziah Mason was definitely a member of that old religion, women members of the de la Poer family were apparently party to goings-on in “The Rats in the Walls,” and Lavinia Whateley apparently participated in rites and celebrations in “The Dunwich Horror”—at least, before she was shut out. Yet for the most part, Lovecraft seems to have not been overly concerned about depicting or defining the role of women in these cults of eldritch worship.
On the other hand, Lovecraft also seldom had virgin girls sacrificed on altars to sate the lust (for blood or sex) of a god. When Ghatanathoa was placated in “Out of the Æons” (1935) by Hazel Heald & H. P. Lovecraft, it was a rather egalitarian sacrifice of twelve young men and twelve maidens. While Lovecraft was not exactly equal-opportunity in his depiction of these cults and sects, neither did he succumb completely to popular tropes.
“The Things We Did in the Dark” by Julia Darcey is another exploration in the same vein, although this is not specifically Lovecraftian, it plays with the tropes of eldritch horror while also picking at themes of virgin sacrifice, cloistering women into religious roles, using religion as a means to dispose of young women in a socially acceptable manner (cf. Magdalene laundries). There is, too, an aspect of the SCP wiki or The Cabin in the Woods: she is part of the special containment procedures, and she is the D-class personnel whose very lives are acceptable losses to keep the greater evil contained.
The language is straightforward, stark, and grim. There’s an implication that the family structure has broken down; the unnamed protagonist speaks of uncles but not mother or father, implying her parents are dead and she is at the mercy of male authority figures. Physical abuse is taken as a matter of course. Treated as a commodity to be bought and sold.
That is the setup, and it takes the unnamed protagonist the length of the short story to work out some of the harsh truths of the world and her situation—and finally, to realize her own empowerment. There is something dark and alluring about that final sentence in this story. Darcey has not painted a picture of a lovely and thriving culture; we see it only by how it treats its most unvalued prisoners, who did nothing wrong except being born women in a society that does not value women.
H. P. Lovecraft appartient corps et âme à la grande familie des écrivains puritans de Nouvelle-Angleterre.
Névropathe exemplaire, il vécut à Providence—Arkham pour tes initiés—une existence tout entière vouée à l’exorcisme des démons de son imaginaire.
D’où l’œuvre fantastique que l’on sait.
Sa correspondance participle de façon à la fois ironique et passionnée à ce douloureux mais aussi fascinant combat : pour la première fois, les lecteurs français sont à même de pénetrer dans le labyrinthe le plus intime du créateur magique de Démons et merveilles et di La coouleur tombée du ciel.
Ces Lettres d’Arkham les y invitent…
H. P. Lovecraft belongs body and soul to the great family of New England Puritan writers.
Exemplary neurotic, he lived in Providence—Arkham for the initiates—a life entirely devoted to exorcising the demons of his imagination.
Hence the fantastic work we all know.
His correspondence is an ironic and passionate contribution to this painful but fascinating struggle: for the first time, French readers are able to penetrate the most intimate labyrinth of the magical creator of Démons et merveilles and La coouleur tombée du ciel.
These Letters from Arkham invite them to do so…
Back cover copy
English translation
French audiences may have been aware of H. P. Lovecraft as early as the 1930s, when English-language books and periodicals made it to European shores; Jacques Bergier even claimed to have carried on a brief correspondence with Lovecraft, and he certainly had two letters published in the pages of Weird Tales despite living in France at the time.
Lovecraft’s major introduction to French audiences came in the 1950s with collections like La couleur tombée du ciel (“The Color from the sky”/”The Colour Out of Space”) [1954, Denoël], and Démons et merveilles (“Demons and Marvels”) [1955, Deux Rives] that translated Lovecraft’s prose into French. Both of included introductions from Bergier, who provided many readers with their first insight into Lovecraft himself—who he was, and where he came from. Both books went through many reprints and editions.
In 1964, Arkham House published the first volume of Lovecraft’s Selected Letters. This project had begun shortly after Lovecraft’s death in 1937, as August Derleth and Donald Wandrei had begun contacting Lovecraft’s correspondents and requesting letters to transcribe for future publication. The scope and cost of the project soon made actual publication of the Arkham House Transcripts—at least in their entirety—impractical; war time paper rationing and rising post-war costs delayed the project further. The first three volumes, released under the editorship of Derleth and Wandrei, represent a compromise to their original vision—but also a tremendous effort, and one nearly unique.
Lovecraft had died broke and was far from a popular or mainstream author; the publication of his letters not only kick-started real Lovecraft biographical scholarship and literary criticism, but it helped center Lovecraft himself as an individual worth reading. More of Lovecraft’s letters would be published than those of Ernest Hemingway, Dashiell Hammett, or dozens of other much more popular authors.
Of course the French had to get in on the action.
Early translations of Lovecraft’s letters into French began piecemeal, in literary and fan periodicals; the biography is a bit opaque to English-language readers living in the United States, but a special issue of L’Herne dedicated to Lovecraft in 1969 stands out for translating a few letters, amid a mass of literary and biographical material that marks the first major critical publication on Lovecraft in any language. The 1970s in France would see growing interest in Lovecraft, especially in the field of Franco-Belgian comics; the contributors of Metal Hurlant (“Howling Metal,” translated into English markets as Heavy Metal magazine), which began in 1974, was founded by Jean Giraud (Mœbius) and Philippe Druillet, both of whom would go on to fame…and through Metal Hurlant, many graphic adaptations of Lovecraft’s stories, and stories inspired by Lovecraft and his creations, would be published in the pages of Metal Hurlant and Heavy Metal, to audiences around the world.
Lettres d’Arkham (1975, Jacques Glénat), translated by François Rivière, is a slim booklet of 80 pages, counting all the introductory material. The cover is by Mœbius, and plays to Lovecraft’s legend: seated at a table, writing with a quill pen, a row of antique volumes behind him, against a starry landscape, a tail or tentacle discreetly emerging from beneath the table cloth.
Jacques Glénat had founded Glénat Éditions in 1972; it is now a major publisher of bandes dessinées, and also publishes French translations of manga and nonfiction periodicals. But this was early days, and Lettres d’Arkham was the second entry in a series titled Marginalia; the first was a reprint of Les clefs mystérieuses (“The Mysterious Keys”) by Maurice Leblanc, the creator of Arsène Lupin. This was apparently an experiment in shorter-form material, mostly fiction reprints, with Rivière as overall editor of the series. Lettres d’Arkham appears to be the sole non-fiction entry.
Given the short format, Yves Rivière apparently opted against trying to translate entire letters. Instead, after a brief initial essay (“Lovecraft, un cauchemar Américan”/”Lovecraft, an American nightmare”) and chronology of his life, Rivière presents a series of excerpts from the first two volumes of the Selected Letters, divided into individual topics.
The initial letters, reminiscent of illuminated manuscripts, were created by the artist Floc’h (Jean-Claude Floch), who would become known for his many collaborations with François Rivière.
Most of the translations don’t specify date or even the recipient of the letter, so from a scholastic viewpoint Lettres d’Arkham wasn’t ideal—but translating one of Lovecraft’s letters is more difficult than translating one of his stories or poems. There is no guiding narrative, the letters are full of quirky language, obscure topical and geographic references, callbacks to previous correspondence. Even though Derleth and Wandrei had already edited and censored Lovecraft’s letters to give the excerpts in the Selected Letters volumes better readability (and to remove or downplay some of Lovecraft’s more racist sentiments), Rivière was trying to translate some pretty tricky material for an entirely new audience.
Generally speaking, Rivière seems to have done a pretty decent job of the translations. The most egregious errors are (and this might be expected), geographical. For example, the entry for Salem places it in New York instead of Massachusetts. Still, for a Lovecraft fan in 1970s France, how else were you going to read any of Lovecraft’s letters at all?
For francophone readers, that is still an issue. The vast majority of Lovecraft’s letters have never been translated into French, and might never be (one can only imagine the difficulty of trying to translate some of Lovecraft’s slang-filled letters or stream-of-consciousness sections into French). Some further attempts have been made to present a part of Lovecraft’s correspondence to a French audiences: in 1978 there was Lettres Tome 1 (1914-1936), translated by Jacques Parson, for example, but there was no Lettres 2 forthcoming. Several other collections of part of Lovecraft’s letters have been published, especially in recent years, much of the correspondence from Lovecraft’s later years, and with friends like Clark Ashton Smith, August Derleth, C. L. Moore, Fritz Leiber, E. Hoffmann Price, and Robert E. Howard, remains untranslated.
There are people working on that last one, however. A translation of the correspondence of Robert E. Howard and H. P. Lovecraft into French by David Camus and Patrice Louinet was successfully crowdfunded, and although health issues have delayed the project, it still looks fantastic.
It has to be emphasized what a labor of love translation is; it is never simply a matter of translating word-for-word, but always trying to capture the essence of what is being communicated. English-language readers have an advantage over the French in that we have practically every word that Lovecraft has written published, but as he wrote them; French readers and scholars face not only a limited amount of such material, but have to deal with multiple translations of those same stories and letters in various formats.
Considering that the whole of Arkham House’s Selected Letters has never been translated, much less any of the later, more complete volumes of letters by Necronomicon Press or Hippocampus Press, Lettres d’Arkham remained relevant in France long past the point where most Lovecraft scholarship had superseded the Arkham House Selected Letters.
Giant spiders are traditional. The square-cube law be damned.
In “The Fortress Unvanquishable, Save For Sacnoth” (1908), the hero Leothric deals with an oversized arachnid. In “The Tower of the Elephant” (1933) by Robert E. Howard, a young Cimmerian faced eight-legged death. In “The Seven Geases” (1934) by Clark Ashton Smith, Atlach-Nacha spins their web endlessly in the dark. In “The Dream-Quest of Unknown Kadath,” H. P. Lovecraft wrote of the bloated purple spiders that warred with the almost-men of Leng, and in J. R. R. Tolkien’s The Hobbit (1937), the giant spiders of Mirkwood nearly put an end to Bilbo and his party—and they’re nothing compared to Shelob, who guards the threshold of Mordor in The Lord of the Rings (1955).
Spiders work on many levels. They are first and foremost predators, not scavengers or placid eaters of vegetables or waste. Alien in outline, fascinating in their anatomy and habits. Some leap, some spin, some are venomous. Fantasy spiders tend to all three; like the giant serpents of Sword & Sorcery, they combine and maximize the attributes and horrors of everyday attercops and exaggerate them past any natural bound. A normal spider, if scared, may bite; their venom may hurt, but few spiders are a serious threat to humans. A human need not fear being wrapped up in their web like a fly, their fluids sucked out, until a mummified corpse is left trapped forever.
In a Sword & Sorcery setting? Well, the human might be the fly. But the fly might also have a sword.
“Never Threaten A Spider” (2024) by Sara Century advertises to the readers what is about to come. It’s right there in the title. Readers who pick up a copy of Profane Altars: Weird Sword & Sorcery will not be disappointed by false advertising. Yet the giant spider in this story isn’t quite a box-tick on some giant list of Sword & Sorcery tropes, either.
Writers and readers of Sword & Sorcery (or Heroic Fantasy, Epic Fantasy, or however you chose to label that squirming grey cross-genre where fantasy, horror, and adventure fiction have mixed and mingled) today face a different problem than Robert E. Howard & co. did in the 1930s. Howard’s Conan basically defined a genre; peers like C. L. Moore’s Jirel of Joiry, Clifford Ball’s Duar the Accursed and Rand the Rogue, Fritz Leiber Jr.’s Fafhrd and the Grey Mouser, Henry Kuttner’s Elak of Atlantis, Michael Moorcock’s Elric of Melniboné, Karl Edward Wagner’s Kane, Manly Wade Wellman’s Kardios, Joanna Russ’ Alyx…a whole chain of swordsmen, swordswomen, and sorcerers have entrenched expectations of what an S&S tale is, can, and must be.
Robert E. Howard and C. L. Moore didn’t have to worry so much. They were inventing, not imitating. Tolkien’s major competition at novel-length were works like The Worm Ouroboros (1922) by E. R. Eddison and The Broken Sword (1954) by Poul Anderson. There were no Tolkienian imitators; his readers had few expectations. They were allowed to be awed, excited, amused, and entertained.
Several decades and hundreds of fantasy stories, novels, roleplaying games, comics, cartoons, and films later, and readers tend to be a bit more jaded. They’ve seen it all before. They recognize the tropes. Writers have to struggle against expectations. What should be in a fantasy adventure story? What’s too old-fashioned? How to buck expectations?
“Never Threaten A Spider” feels like it tiptoes on those questions. At a straight read, it is a straightforward adventure yarn, with a thin skein of worldbuilding, a little horror, a little action, not too heavy on the sorcery, and perhaps with a slightly unfinished feel. Not everything is explained and not all of the names are a random conglomeration of syllables, both of which are endearing. Not everything has to be explained. Writers are allowed a little mystery, to hint instead of explaining every detail. We don’t need three thousand years of history about the dead queen and the jewel of the nameless spider-god.
On deeper consideration, however, this almost by-the-numbers S&S tale is anything but. It is a subtle subversion of expectations: a swordswoman who loses her sword early on. A thief who doesn’t really want to steal anything, and ultimately doesn’t. A hardboiled protagonist saved by a cute little bunny rabbit.
The hero of the story, a woman named Viy, isn’t some thinly-reskinned version of Conan, or Jirel of Joiry, Red Sonja, or Alyx. Warrior, thief, and outlaw, yes, but not her cynicism is balanced with homesickness, her rage by kindness. The readers don’t see her at her best in terms of skill and accomplishment: sans sword and thieve’s tools, she spends much of the story half-naked and wet, and she resorts at the penultimate struggle to picking up a club and to try and beat her foes to death.
Yet she’s smart enough to know when to run. That some fights aren’t winnable. That murder isn’t the job. For a genre that can sometimes exult in the murder hobo lifestyle, there is a real subversion in having a protagonist that doesn’t need to be a barbarian hero slaying all gods and monsters and macking on the nearest princess. There is something much more realistic about Viy’s failures, her flaws, and at last her triumphant escape with life and a jewel, even if it isn’t the one she came to the god-haunted swamp to steal.
Perhaps, if we’re lucky, we’ll read more of Viy’s adventures in the years to come.
This review deals with a horror comic intended for adult audiences. As part of this review, selected images with cartoon depictions of genitalia and graphic violence will be displayed as the work is discussed. As such, please be advised before reading further.
Antonio Segura (1947-2012) was a Spanish comics writer, and Jaime Brocal Remohi (1936-2002) was a Spanish comics artist. Both were natives of Valencia, and both achieved recognition for their work, and though neither quite broke through to fame in the English-speaking comics world, Jaime (as Jaime Brocal) was one of the stable of Spanish artists that found work with Warren Publishing in horror magazines like Eerie and Creepy.
In the 1979, the situation inverted somewhat:
A Spanish version of Creepy, wearing the name on the cover, finally appeared in March 1979. Published by Toutain until issue # 79 (Jan. 1986), this series offered a mix of stories. The mix, this time, was not the result of putting together stories from different publishers—all the stories were not from Warren—but by grouping, under the same cover, reprints from American authors and illustrators with original stories by Spanish artists and writers.
The quality was high and the magazine a success. The artistic styles varied from story to story and from nationality to nationality, but the tales were genuinely interesting, provoking, and, fittingly, creepy. Yet, a stark difference can be spotted between the American stories and the Spanish ones. While American authors favored the supernatural monsters of lore and Hollywood cinema such as zombies and vampires, Spanish creators were more inclined to human monsters and realistic grounding. Supernatural horrors were mostly absent—except in beautiful adaptations of H. P. Lovecraft’s works—in the Spanish stories, the horror rather being born from alienation and human cruelty. —Fernando Gabriel Pagnoni Berns, “Spanish Creepy: Historical Amnesia in ‘Las mil caras de Jack El destripador’ in Critical Approaches to Comic Books (2023) 50
The Lovecraft adaptations included “La maldición del amuleto” (Creepy #73, Jul 1985) by Joan Boix; “La Sombra sobre Innsmouth” (Creepy #63, Sep 1984) and “La casa en el umbral” (Creepy #64, Oct 1984) by Norberto Buscaglia and Alberto Breccia, the latter an Argentinan comics artist who achieved fame for his adaptations of Lovecraft, translated in several languages—his work in the French comics magazine Métal Hurlant was translated into English in theHeavy Metal Lovecraft special issue in Oct 1979. The letters-to-the-editor page for Spanish Creepy was “Consultas al Necronomicón,” and the replies were signed “Alhazred.”
The Spanish Creepy was revived in 1990-1991 and ran for 19 issues, and the publisher Toutain tapped some of the same great Spanish talents from the first run for a series of seven original Lovecraftian horror comics, written by Antonio Segura and illustrated by Jaime Brocal Remohi.
Creepy #4 (1990)
El Otro Necronomicón (“The Other Necronomicon“) followed the sensibility of European comics rather than mainstream English or British comics; violence, gore, and nudity could be graphic, but also the approach to the subject could be vividly intelligent, aesthetic, and intellectual, with metafictional flourishes. These stories of El Otro Necronomicon were never translated or published in English-language markets, and remain relatively obscure. Even the 1992 softcover album that collects the seven stories is now quite scarce.
Alberto Breccia explained the origin of the series in his foreword to the album:
Mi amigo, mi hermano Jaime, generosamente me ha pedido que prologue su libro sobre guiones de Antonio Segura, «EL OTRO NECRONOMICÓN». Mi cierta habilidad para el dibujo no es la misma que para la escritura. Pero no puedo rehusarme y escribiré entonces una’s lineas. Hablaré de nuestro entrañable amistad de tantos años, de nuestras interminables charlas sobre dibujo y libros. Nuestras correrías por Barcelona y Valencia por librerías de viejo revolviendo, buscando y hallando antiguos cronicones, polverientos folletines y regrasando felices con nuestros trofeos a tomar unos mates en su casa en compañia de su encantadora esposa Conchín y sus hijos, a los cuales he visto crecer. ¿Qué es un prólogo? ¿Una introducción al contenido del libro? ¿Una presentación de sus autores? ¿Mi opinion sobre la obra? . . . un poco de todo eso. Es de sobra conocido que nunca he leído comics, ni siquiera de niño. Lo cual no habla mal de los comics, sino de mí. Pero estos que tengo sobre mi mesa he tenido que leerlos. En principio como un gesto de lealtad hacia al amigo y porque debía hablar sobre ellos. Poco a poco su lectura me fue atrapando hasta lamentar su término. Ese manuscrito que hallé en el viejo puesto de revistas y libros viejos de mi amigo Yoel Novoa, escultor y demonólogo, ha encontrado en Antonio Segura y Jaime Brocal los intérpretes ideales. Hace unos años, en Barcelona, Jaime me manifestó su interés en volver a dibujar una historia fantástica. Frankenstein fue la elegida. Durante unas semanas discutimos cómo pensaba encararla, discutimos bocetos; hasta su hijo Jaime confeccionó en plastilina un possible rostro del monstruo.
Luego yo debí partir a Italia para regresar posteriormente a la Argentina. Pasado un tiempo, Jaime me escribió diciéndome que había desechado el proyecto. En Valencia, en Octubre de 1988 volvimos sobre el tema. Un año después, en Buenos Aires, doy con el manuscrito. En un siguiente viaje a España, me reúno con Jaime y Antonio en Valencia y les doy con cierto pesar el manuscrito. Hoy escribo estas lineas frente al resultado de estas inquietudes. He contado el origen de la obra. He dado mi opinión sobre ella. Los autores, a través de la excelencia del trabajo pueden prescindir de mí presentación. Ahora resta la opinión de los lectores.
Alberto Breccia.
Buenos Aires, 25 de Noviembre de 1991
My friend, my brother Jaime, has generously asked me to write the prologue to his book written by Antonio Segura, “THE OTHER NECRONOMICON.” My ability to draw is not the same as my ability to write. But I can’t refuse and I’ll write a few lines. I will talk about our close friendship of so many years, about our endless conversations about drawing and books. Our trips to Barcelona and Valencia through old bookstores rummaging, searching and finding old chronicles, dusty pamphlets and returning happy with our trophies to drink some mate at his house in the company of his lovely wife Conchín and his children, whom I have seen grow up. What is a prologue? An introduction to the content of the book? An introduction of its authors? My opinion on the work? . . . a bit of all that. It is well known that I have never read comics, not even as a child. Which does not speak badly of comics, but of me. But these I have on my desk I had to read. In principle as a gesture of loyalty towards my friend and because I had to talk about them. Little by little, its reading captivated me until I regretted its end. That manuscript that I found in the old stand of magazines and old books of my friend Yoel Novoa, sculptor and demonologist, has found in Antonio Segura and Jaime Brocal the ideal interpreters. A few years ago, in Barcelona, Jaime expressed his interest in drawing a fantasy story again. Frankenstein was the chosen one. For a few weeks we discussed how he intended to approach it, we discussed sketches; even his son Jaime made a possible face of the monster in plasticine.
Then I had to leave for Italy and later return to Argentina. After some time, Jaime wrote to tell me that he had abandoned the project. In Valencia, in October 1988, we returned to the subject. A year later, in Buenos Aires, I found the manuscript. On a subsequent trip to Spain, I met Jaime and Antonio in Valencia and, with some regret, gave them the manuscript. Today I am writing these lines as a result of these concerns. I have told the origin of the work. I have given my opinion on it. The authors, thanks to the excellence of their work, can dispense with my introduction. Now all that remains is for the readers to give their opinion.
Alberto Breccia.
Buenos Aires, 25 November 1991
Prólogo de Alberto Breccia, El Otro Necronomicon
Prologue by Alberto Breccia,English translation
Breccia’s prologue makes a little more sense as an extension of the comic prologue to the stories, where a comic version of Alberto Breccia relates to comic versions of Antonio Segura & Brocal Remohi to adapt stories from a secret manuscript that H. P. Lovecraft wrote. The results are the seven stories in this collection.
Hechos que no se atrevió a novelar…. ni quiso hacer llegar al lector, abominaciones que ni el se atrevió a divulgar.
Para mí, este manuscrito es como el otro Necronomicon.
Facts that he did not dare to novelize …. and did not want to make them known to the reader, abominations that he did not dare to divulge.
For me, this manuscript is like the other Necronomicon.
“La Voz de la Bestia sin Nombre”
“The Voice of the Nameless Beast” opens in a rural setting where animals have begun to attack humans. A repairman comes to the small, insular community…
…and discovers a cult.
Tres veces hemos pronunciado tu nombre secreto… ven a nosotros… ayúdanos una vez más a vengarnos de quienes nos desprécian y humillan… trikk’kliki… og’giduuuu… haj’jdoei*
Three times we have pronounced your secret name… come to us… help us once again to take revenge on those who despise and humiliate us… trikk’kliki… og’giduuuu… haj’jdoei*
Nota: *Desaconsejamos leer estas sílabas en voz alta. Nunca see sabe…
Footnote: *We advise against reading these syllables aloud. You never know…
Without being explicitly connected to Lovecraft’s stories, the brief story is very Lovecraftian in outline, albeit able to depict explicitly on the page the kind of naked cultists at their ceremonies which Lovecraft could not.
“Bloody Blues”
Titled in English, this story is implicitly set in the Southern United States of a generation ago; like Robert Johnson’s “Hellhound on My Trail” (1937), it combines the Blues with supernatural horror…and, in this case, borrows a couple of licks from Lovecraft’s “The Hound.”
Los autores dedican está historia a John Lee Hooker.
To the credit of Seguna and Brocal Remohi, not only are the majority of characters in this story African-American, but they are not depicted as racial stereotypes. Unfortunately, this is slightly offset by the fact that this is one of the grislier of the tales in this volume, with an infernal blues song sending the Black audience into a literal orgy of rape, murder, and cannibalism worthy of Emaneulle and the Last Cannibals (1977) or Cannibal Holocaust (1980).
In a footnote at the end of the tale, it is explained that one of the survivors had traveled to Providence to tell H. P. Lovecraft a strange story.
“El Shoggoths”
The first story with an explicitly Lovecraftian connection features a “Mr. Howard” from Providence dealing with a rare book dealer named Solomon over an obscure volume, and wants to know the author of certain annotations in the margins. The dealer says he bought it from a little person who runs a circus. This gives Brocal Remohi the chance to draw several very special people, some of whom have a distinct resemblance to various characters that appeared in Creepy.
The annotator, however, is no longer quite human.
“Los Hombres de Negro”
“The Men in Black” opens on a picture of the Spanish Creepy offices—imagine in 1991 opening the latest magazine and staring at a rather good rendition of the magazine editor, asking artist Jaime Brocal Remohi (pipe) and Antonio Seguna (cigarette):
¿Para cuándo tienes pensado entregarme la próxima historia del Otro Necronomicón?
When do you plan to deliver the next story of the Other Necronomicon?
Jaime Brocal RemohiAntonio Segura
Inserting themselves into the story adds a bit of metafictional framing to the tale—which is itself a nested narrative, where a woman in a wheelchair at an asylum explains to the doctor how one day her father returned from Salem with a book written in archaic Latin…and after his untimely death, two men in black come looking for it. Unwisely, Amanda decides to read the book herself, and ends up literally ravished by the dark forces unleashed.
“Jugando con Fuego”
“Playing with Fire” continues to follow the Men in Black—as well as Segura and Jaime Brocal Remohi. The creative team end up at a cemetery to confront a few corpses that don’t want to stay dead. It seems the creators of horror comics have been drawn into a horror comics themselves…literally.
Igual que nunca podré olvidar a los Hombres de Negro, a los Guardians del Libro.
Just as I will never forget the Men in Black, the Guardians of the Book.
“La Feromona”
“The Pheromone” is a return to the Lovecraftian-but-not-specifically-Lovecraft horror stories. A chemist makes a perfume that changes any male who breathes it into a mindless, sexually insatiable, incredibly strong brute.
Which leads to a scene of physical and sexual violence worth of some of the bolder French and Italian adult horror comics of the 1970s like Outre-Tombe and Satanik.
While featuring gore worthy of Re-Animator (1985), there is an odd twist at the end which is more reminiscent of Arthur Machen’s classic “The White People” (1904):
Sólo sé que sacó la receta de aquel maldito libro de brujería.
All I know is that he got the recipe from that damn book of witchcraft.
It is important at this point to appreciate what both Antonia Segura and Jaime Brocal Remohi bring to the table with this collection. The art is very Creepy-like, and the impression I get is that this is very deliberate; these were stories in the mold of the old Warren horrors. Yet the aesthetic sensibility is more a European: more sex, more violence, and a little more high brow concept to the writing, yet it never spills over into parody.
Brocal Remohi in particular uses a lot of photo-references to get the real-life characters’ faces and expressions correct, there’s a lot of work that goes into his backgrounds, and yet his page layouts are very restrained—no big splash pages, no Dutch angles, a very careful play between light and dark which gives a grounded, realistic scale to his art that helps make the horror more horrific.
“Un Mal Principio, Un Mal Final”
“A Bad Beginning, A Bad Ending” is the final tale in El Otro Necronomicón, and appropriately enough wraps back to where it all began: with Alberto Breccia.
It is almost a character study; an old man seduced by a young woman, the forces of darkness tempting and threatening and closing in—Alberto Breccia (1919-1993), he was the generation before Segura and Remohi, and this is an homage to Breccia’s legend as much as any of the homages penned by Lovecraft’s friends for the Old Gent from Providence. The difference being, Breccia was still around at the time to receive the sincere admiration.
Taken all together, the basic premise of El Otro Necronomicón has real potential: an excuse to write basically any horror story, and give it the added cachet that it supposedly came from the black book of secret tales that not even H. P. Lovecraft dared release upon the world. That basic formulae doesn’t last very long, though; Segura and Brocal Remohi kept extending the metafictional elements. It feels like the natural conclusion of the story might have to be their own destruction as the Men in Black reclaim the manuscript, but we don’t get that ending. Instead, they made a final tribute to the artist who had inspired them. The last words of the last story are:
El maestro que nos ensenó cómo contar lo que muchas veces resulta imposible de contar.
The master who taught us how to tell what is often impossible to tell.
When you think about Lovecraft’s fiction, and the difficulty that so many have faced in trying to adapt them to comics, radio, film, video games—how few seem to actually capture something of the horror in the tales—I think there is a fitting tribute to someone who did have the artistic vision and skill to not just realize adaptations of Lovecraft’s work, but to do it well. Much as we might praise Bernie Wrightson’s Frankenstein or Tanabe Gou’s At the Mountains of Madness for their outstanding masterworks.
My lost heart bled beneath the sands Of distant, dead Carcosa. My heart, once buried, fed the land That grew the oak Carcosa.
The oak was felled and burned to light Those dim shores of Carcosa. Love’s but a candle. Soon I’ll die To wander lost Carcosa.
My love’s a dream, and dreams must die To resurrect Carcosa. My dream is dead. My queen’s alive. She conquers bright Carcosa. —Joe Koch, The Wingspan of Severed Hands 79
A dry description of The Wingspan of Severed Hands might be something like: “a short novel that reimagines Robert W. Chambers’ mythology of The King in Yellow with distinct feminist themes, a nonlinear narrative, and surreal imagery.” Which would not do justice to the language or the story. This is a story with texture and attitude, occupying a grey area between cosmic horror, body horror, magical realism, surrealism, and splatterpunk. Like a gelatinous eyeball, it’s not easy to nail down; and it resists easy labeling.
Much of the effectiveness of the story lies in its deliberately ambiguous, unsettled nature. The narrative shifts from familiar scenes and scenarios to nightmarish episodes, the transition often seamless and in a condition of otherwise banal reality, so that the readers are left wondering how much is really happening and how much is undiagnosed psychotic episode or hallucination. There is a loving richness to the description of mutilation, decay, graphic violence, bodily corruption, and growth that is a stylistic hallmark of Koch’s work, an evident love and appreciation for the language and imagery of transformation.
Trying to capture in words that fascinating process of transition. From girl to woman, life to death, caterpillar to butterfly, steak to ground beef, health cell to cancerous, girlfriend to ex. Wrapped up in and around a reinterpretation of the Yellow Mythos.
The post-Classical horizon of Yellow Mythos stories comes to the Yellow Mythos more indirectly, usually through popular culture like the Call of Cthulhu Roleplaying Game, which popularized images like the three-limbed figure of the Yellow Sign designed by Kevin Ross in 1989, or the American Gothic sensibilities of the first season of True Detective created by Nic Pizzolatto. Post-Classical is less beholden to Chambers, more directly influenced by the imagery and ideas of what the Yellow Mythos is in the popular consciousness—which can be both very freeing and very constraining, depending on whether the creator hews close to what someone else has done or pushes outward to define their own space. A good example of this might be the Alagadda series of the SCP-wiki, which draws inspiration from the first horizon stories but is more adjacent to it than directly connected.
The Wingspan of Severed Hands is in the second horizon. It’s a post-Kevin Ross piece, the three-legged image of the Yellow Sign derived from the roleplaying game; the Queen in Yellow is similar to the Hanged King in the Alagadda series, a new riff on a familiar concept. Yet the actual references to Chambers are few; Koch draws more strongly off the mass of post-Chambers ideas than Chambers himself. There’s no play, no Cordelia, and the madness inspired by the Yellow Sign is an outbreak more in line with an RPG in mid-apocalypse.
The Yellow Mythos in this story is a kind of lifeline to the reader. Something familiar that they can keep a hold of during a narrative that changes perspective as it winds its way through time and space. Yet at the same time, it’s not Chambers’ mythos. There are surprises in store, odd pieces that might not jive with what a reader familiar with Yellow Mythos stories thinks is going on.
It is, all in all, much more personal.
Three women. One battle.
A world gone mad. Cities abandoned. Dreams invade waking minds. An invisible threat lures those who oppose its otherworldly violence to become acolytes of a nameless cult. As a teenage girl struggles for autonomy, a female weapons director in a secret research facility develops a living neuro-cognitive device that explodes into self-awareness. Discovering their hidden emotional bonds, all three unveil a common enemy through dissonant realities that intertwine in a cosmic battle across hallucinatory dreamscapes.
Time is the winning predator, and every moment spirals deeper into the heart of the beast. —Joe Koch, The Wingspan of Severed Hands back cover copy
This is a story focused on women. There aren’t many male characters, and while the actions of the men and boys are not peripheral to the story, we don’t get their viewpoint and their actions are critical largely with regard to how they treat the women who are the viewpoint characters. We don’t see husbands, fathers, brothers, or sons; there’s an implicit matriarchial arrangement to the story. Mothers, daughters, and grandmothers are the main relationships, and that’s the emotional heart of the book. The suffering that goes into these toxic relationships, invisible to so many, that finds manifestation in so many little ways.
Yet at the same time, the relationships in the book represent a closed circle. The viewpoint characters don’t really have any women friends to turn to, no support network. They are isolated, locked in—in a trailer, in a bunker, in a cage, in a decaying body, in a cycle of expectations and recriminations, haunted by a past that they cannot escape until the climax.
The end of The Wingspan of Severed Hands is the beginning of a new life. An opportunity for at least some of the viewpoint characters to move on, out of the shadow of motherly expectations, grief, and trauma. The reward for all the gooey, gory, traumatic, painful growth and transformation in the story is…the potential for more growth. Maybe even to be happy, although the ending is not itself exactly happy.
One of the themes suggested, but not fully explored, in The Wingspan of Severed Hands is the nature of The King in Yellow itself. So many writers have focused on what Chambers did, what he wrote, the things he hinted at. Yet if one day, if you opened up a book marked with the Yellow Sign on its spine, and found it blank—how would you fill the pages? What would you write? What would The King in Yellow be in your own words?
Deep Cuts in a Lovecraftian Vein 