"The Mound" turned out to not be fashioned of dirt, if you know what I mean

I was excited at the prospect of reading this story after having read another of Lovecraft's collaborations with Zealia Bishop, "The Curse of Yig," back near the beginning of my literary odyssey. Alas, while "The Mound" began with a lot of promise, in the end it completely failed to deliver the thrills as "Yig" did. A very disappointing climax indeed, especially given the really incredible bump-and-set that kicks off the first half of the story.

"The Mound" is ostensibly about an ethnologist who studies American Indian tribes--surely the same character who seeks out the story in "The Curse of Yig." So anyway, he comes to an Oklahoma town called Binger in order to research supernatural stories about a large mound or small hill a few miles outside town. Apparently, it's haunted--or possibly patrolled--by two ghosts.

In the daylight hours, an Indian man paces atop the mound, only to vanish if approached. In the night, the patrol is taken over by a headless Indian squaw. And so it has gone for the past century or so. Many of the daring explorers brave enough to investigate have either disappeared NEVER TO BE SEEN AGAIN or have returned after a brief period of absence to find themselves apparently mad and babbling typical Lovecraftian cosmic nonsense.

Pretty cool setup. I'll give them that.

So our hero goes up alone (he could find nobody in town stupid enough to join him) to dig and find out what's up. That's where he finds, after a decent afternoon of digging, a strange metallic tube containing ancient documents. As dark approaches, he decides to hoof it back to town and give the mysterious documents a thorough once-over.

The pages are the notes of famed 16th-Century explorer Francisco de Coronado...'s hired man, Panfilo de Zamacona. *sigh*

The bulk of the story is the ethnologist's reading of Zamacona's journal about his extended visit to an underworld inhabited by strange men with strange powers. I really don't want to get into the details, but it takes up a good 5 of the 7 chapters. Suffice it to say he found a primeval, subterranean society of telepathic, teleporting man-things and came to be more or less accepted by them, trading their knowledge, living quarters, food and all for his knowledge of the outside world.

This land, called K'n-yan by the natives, turns out to not be the only inner-earth world thriving with its own form of life. For beyond the shimmering blue iridescent light of K'n-yan, one can find sub-subterranean passages to a red-lit world even deeper in the planet. The natives of the blue world, of course, do not get along with those of the red, and nor do the red folk get along with the viscous black blob-like shapeshifters that can be found in the coal-dark sub-sub-subterranean world to be found even deeper beyond their own. *yawn* OK, I'm sufficiently bored.

Back to the blue world beneath the green (that's ours). The interesting bits are that they are a Cthuluhu- and Yig-worshipping, technologically advanced super-society that now has a genetically engineered slave class to do all the heavy lifting so they can just concentrate on educational, philosophical, artistic and sexual gratification. Also used as slaves are the people who would not conform--criminals, rogues, etc. First they are thrown in a gladiatorial coliseum and maimed in whatever horrible ways imaginable, to the delight of the crowds. This maiming includes but is not limited to: cutting, scraping, bruising, dismemberment, disemboweling, and death. This underground "civilization" also has the power to reanimate the dead, giving them a sole purpose--to please the living.

Anyway, Zamacona spends decades with them before he realizes he's run out of things to say and is pretty sure he's bound for the coliseum, so he tries to escape with the help of his lady-thing friend. He is able to get his missive to the surface, but that's all we know other than they got caught in their escape attempt. She faces a stiff punishment, but he is given another chance.

I am really cutting a ton of shit out of this shit-filled story; you have no idea. You're welcome.

So our hero decides he's gonna rediscover this society that Zamacona wrote about, and he sets off in the morning to continue digging.

SPOILERS BELOW! SPOILERS BELOW! Of course if you haven't already read it, you probably shouldn't. Maybe just finish this review and call it quits for this story.

When he gets to the top of the mound, his shovel and pickaxe are missing. He figures it's a prank by some wise-ass villager watching through binoculars, so he just mans up and digs with his bowie knife instead, eventually being swallowed up by a sinkhole or something and ending up in a subterranean cave described by Zamacona.

He follows the passage, finding along the way his shovel and pickaxe, and an undead, highly maimed sentry. Oh shit. It's Zamacona.

The end.

Seriously. Yep. It ends that poorly. Very disappointing. I think HPL must have just been sick of writing it even though it was only a two-month project. In any event, it was considered a collaboration and wasn't printed until after his death anyway. At least he never had to see it published.

As I said, it started out so cool and promising. That's what made the ending even worse. This had the potential to be a sci-fi masterpiece. Too bad nobody has picked that idea up and written more tales in this setting. I'm sure the blue inner-world folk have many interesting and thrilling stories to offer the green earth, but this wasn't one of them.

"The Last Test" proves worthy of its name

SPOILERS!!! SPOILERS!!! SPOILERS!!! (Not that there's much to spoil in this story)

Written in 1928, "The Last Test" is a revision by HPL of a story originally written by Adolphe de Castro, and it is a slog. I really had a hell of a time getting through this story. It brought my literary quest to a screeching halt for several weeks. Eventually I had to resort to using the audio Cliffs Notes of the Lovecraft library as my friends at the H.P. Lovecraft Literary Podcast came to my rescue. Chad and Chris got me through by summarizing the section I was stuck on (in the usual entertaining fashion), and then I was able to pick up from that point and continue reading through to the end.

Even so, I found this story quite boring and generally stupid. Even Lovecraft himself called it "the story that ruined my winter," and a "beastly mess." It revolves around mostly three people--our hero, James Dalton, his spurned love interest, Georgina Clarendon, and her brother, Dr. Alfred Clarendon. It takes place over a span of many years, first setting up that the characters knew one another in New York when they were all young, then picking up much later when they have all moved and made lives for themselves in San Francisco.

Dalton and Georgina, whom he happens to still harbor a love for long after her now-deceased father disapproved of him as her suitor back in New York, run into one another in Frisco quite by accident. By this time, her brother Alfred is the staff doctor at San Quentin Penitentiary and a respected expert regarding a fatal black fever that has taken hold of the region. Similarly successful in his own field, Dalton is governor of California. Georgina helps her brother with his research.

Old feelings spring up between the old lovers, and when Dalton asks Alfred (whom he secretly refers to belittlingly as "Little Alf") for his blessing to marry Georgina, he's once again cockblocked, this time by the latest Clarendon patriarch.

Meanwhile, the fever plague has taken hold of San Quentin and the public fears it will jump the walls and spread among the populace. And here's where I'm going to skip a bunch of shit that doesn't matter...

Eventually it becomes clear that Clarendon has been actually infecting people with this fever plague in order to try to find a cure. In the end, he injects himself as a "last test," but he ends up dying too. And the two lovers marry and live happily ever after.

If you're thinking of reading this horrible story, think again. It's the literary equivalent of music torture at Guantanamo Bay. It's achingly dull, predictable, corny and emotionless. Thank goodness I can finally check it off my list. Whew. Maybe I can renew my pursuit of the goal before me now that I've faced what felt like the LAST TEST to my resolve. "Haa! I kill me!"

Laundry list classics

My Grammar Geeks group on LinkedIn has lately been busy contributing to a discussion called "Laundry list classics." The idea is to imagine what the first draft of a famous story might have been like were it penned on the back of a laundry or shopping list, cocktail napkin or something equally mundane. Some folks have posted alternate versions of famous first lines from classic novels, while others have composed sonnets or limericks. No matter the format, one could easily imagine the work scrawled haphazardly across a dry cleaning receipt or junk mail envelope.

I know that National Poetry Month is over, but I couldn't resist once this discussion started picking up steam. I've submitted three of my own limericks so far, and here they are:

I travelled one day on a whim
To shadowy Innsmouth so grim.
The fish-frogs came out
And chased me about--
I think I'll go back for a swim.


A young Kansan named Dorothy Gale
To Oz in a cyclone did sail.
On the road, she eased down
To old Emerald Town
And melted a witch with a pail.


On a night when I mourned my Lenore
With a sorrow like never before,
In swooped a black bird
That spoke only one word;
My wits shall return nevermore.

Time to learn some new words

If reading Lovecraft isn't enough of a vocabulary builder-upper for you, check this thing out! The title alone is enough to make you feel like an elite member of the bohemian intelligentsia. Here's how I found it:

I'm currently reading through the story "The Last Test," and--as is bound to happen now and then during a Lovecraft reading session--I came upon a word I did not recognize. My Nook informed me that there was no definition for this particular word, so I went online and tried again: "Testudinous..." Google thought I'd made a typo and suggested instead "testudineous," which means "tortoise-like" or "resembling a tortoise shell."

I reversed Google's unwanted correction and searched again. Very few hits. Hm. I moved on to the trusty ol' Ngram viewer (oh how I love that thing!) and searched for it there. Got a few hits, so on a whim I pulled open one of the earliest mentions. It was a reference book entry:

TESTUDINOUS, adj. [L. testudineus, from testudo, a tortoise.]
Resembling the shell of a tortoise.

Again, hm. The Latin spelling is a homophone for the suggested spelling Google gave me. Looks like we have two legitimate alternate spellings of a word, neither of which anyone uses anymore. I Ngram'ed them against one another and found that the -eous spelling was slightly more frequently used in print than Lovecraft's version, reaching an undisputed peak of usage in the early 1890s.

 



So, satisfied with the definition and its bearing on the story (the ascetic doctor's unique and quirky assistant, Surama, "indulged in many a deep, testudinous chuckle," or deep, slow-paced and deliberate chuckles), I turned back to this reference book I found through the Ngram viewer. Wow. What a title! Here's the title page, direct from the scan of the original 1832 printing:

 

 

The best news is that you can read the whole thing through Google Books by following this link. I guarantee you'll find some intriguing words in this book. It's easy to get hooked once you start digging. I swear to you, Lovecraft must have had access to a copy of this book because just about every page yields something I know I've read in his many stories.

 

I'm happy I found this valuable compendium of lexicographical knowledge. Have a look yourself. Expanding your vocabulary is a great way to learn more about the world around you and about yourself. It also allows you to more accurately express yourself. If that's not enough of a bonus, building your vocabulary can only have positive effects on your professional life. Ever heard of anyone getting canned because they have stellar communication skills?

 

If you think this book is surely antiquated and no longer relevant since it was published in the 19th Century, then I have news for you. It's been reprinted several times over the last 180 years. The 2010 paperback version, at 238 pages, is currently available on Amazon for the low, low price of $19.99! What are you waiting for? Grab some new words today!

National Poetry Month #25

Once again I venture back into that fascinating world of H.P. Lovecraft and feature one of his best (and longest) poetic pieces, "Fungi from Yuggoth." This piece is presented in 36 parts. Here is my favorite of the bunch:

XX. Night-Gaunts

Out of what crypt they crawl, I cannot tell,
But every night I see the rubbery things,
Black, horned, and slender, with membraneous wings,
And tails that bear the bifid barb of hell.
They come in legions on the north wind’s swell,
With obscene clutch that titillates and stings,
Snatching me off on monstrous voyagings
To grey worlds hidden deep in nightmare’s well.

Over the jagged peaks of Thok they sweep,
Heedless of all the cries I try to make,
And down the nether pits to that foul lake
Where the puffed shoggoths splash in doubtful sleep.
But oh! If only they would make some sound,
Or wear a face where faces should be found!

 

National Poetry Month #23

The dogs had their day(s) a couple days ago, so in the interest of equal time I will present one of my favorite cat poems. Here's one I really like, from Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats (a really great book, by the way, for anyone who loves cats or poetry, or both):

THE RUM TUM TUGGER
by T.S. Eliot

The Rum Tum Tugger is a Curious Cat:
If you offer him pheasant he would rather have grouse.
If you put him in a house he would much prefer a flat,
If you put him in a flat then he'd rather have a house.
If you set him on a mouse then he only wants a rat,
If you set him on a rat then he'd rather chase a mouse.
Yes the Rum Tum Tugger is a Curious Cat--
And there isn't any call for me to shout it:
For he will do
As he do do
And there's no doing anything about it!

The Rum Tum Tugger is a terrible bore:
When you let him in, then he wants to be out;
He's always on the wrong side of every door,
And as soon as he's at home, then he'd like to get about.
He likes to lie in the bureau drawer,
But he makes such a fuss if he can't get out.

Yes the Rum Tum Tugger is a Curious Cat--
And there isn't any use for you to doubt it:
For he will do
As he do do
And there's no doing anything about it!

The Rum Tum Tugger is a curious beast:
His disobliging ways are a matter of habit.
If you offer him fish then he always wants a feast;
When there isn't any fish then he won't eat rabbit.
If you offer him cream then he sniffs and sneers,
For he only likes what he finds for himself;

So you'll catch him in it right up to the ears,
If you put it away on the larder shelf.
The Rum Tum Tugger is artful and knowing,
The Rum Tum Tugger doesn't care for a cuddle;
But he'll leap on your lap in the middle of your sewing,
For there's nothing he enjoys like a horrible muddle.
Yes the Rum Tum Tugger is a Curious Cat--
And there isn't any need for me to spout it:
For he will do
As he do do
And there's no doing anything about it!

National Poetry Month #17

A Martian astronomer, eh? Yesterday's post segues perfectly (Prefectly?) into today's. For though it's technically National Poetry Month, there's nobody saying we don't welcome the enthusiasm of folks from other countries... worlds... or even solar systems.

Prostetnic Vogon Jeltz has quite a way with words.

Why, the Vogons from Douglas Adams' comic sci-fi masterpiece The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy are great lovers of poetry (though the Guide indicates that their poetry is actually artistically the third worst in the universe).

Here's a wonderful example:

Oh freddled gruntbuggly, 
Thy micturations are to me, 
As plurdled gabbleblotchits, 
On a lurgid bee, 
That mordiously hath bitled out, 
Its earted jurtles, 
Into a rancid festering confectious inner-sphincter. [drowned out by moaning and screaming] 
Now the jurpling slayjid agrocrustles, 
Are slurping hagrilly up the axlegrurts, 
And living glupules frart and slipulate, 
Like jowling meated liverslime.
Groop, I implore thee, my foonting turlingdromes, 
And hooptiously drangle me, 
With crinkly bindlewurdles, 
Or else I shall rend thee in the gobberwarts with my blurglecruncheon, 
See if I don't.

National Poetry Month #15

Wow! Can National Poetry Month really be halfway over already? I can hardly believe it. I don't envy myself the tough choices that are in the next two weeks ahead of me. This evening I dug out an old poetry paperback I used to love reading, called Reflections on a Gift of Watermelon Pickle and Other Modern Verses. It was compiled by Stephen Dunning, Edward Lueders and Hugh Smith and originally published in 1966, though my 15th printing was done in 1974 and distributed by Scholastic.

Here's one of my favorite pieces from that book.

  
DUST
by Sydney King Russell

Agatha Morley
All her life
Grumbled at dust
Like a good wife.

Dust on a table,
Dust on a chair,
Dust on a mantel
She couldn't bear.

She forgave faults
In man and child
But a dusty shelf
Would set her wild.

She bore with sin
Without protest,
But dust thoughts preyed
Upon her rest.

Agatha Morley
Is sleeping sound
Six feet under
The mouldy ground.

Six feet under
The earth she lies
With dust at her feet
And dust in her eyes.

National Poetry Month #14

The "Unicorn" post got me thinking more about my record collection, which in turn focused my attention on the selection of hilarious Smothers Brothers LPs in my library. Logically, then, I must present another Shel Silverstein poem, and you'll see why. Dick Smothers gave a little tune to this one and recorded an extremely abbreviated version of it for the It Must Have Been Something I Said! record in 1964.

I've always loved this album. It has some of my favorite Smothers tracks on it, including "Hiawatha" and "Crabs Walk Sideways," both of which I still find myself humming on occasion, decades after my last listen. Looking back, though, knowing what I know now, I envision a completely different interpretation of the following poem than Silverstein intended. I'm sure Lovecraft was never on his mind when he penned:

THE SLITHERY DEE
by Shel Silverstein

The Slithery Dee
He lives in the sea
He saw all the others
But he didn’t see me.

The Slithery Dee
He came out of the sea
He chased all the others
But he didn’t chase me.

The Slithery Dee
I hid in a tree
He caught all the others
But he couldn’t catch me.

The Slithery Dee
He went back to the sea
He ate all the others
But he didn’t eat me.

The Slithery Dee
Oh where can he be?
He ate all the others
But he’ll never eat … S-L-U-U-U-R-P!

National Poetry Month #13

Happy National Poetry Month (and National Scrabble Day as well)! Today I bring you a fun little piece from a true American wordsmith.

TO AN INSECT
by Oliver Wendell Holmes

I love to hear thine earnest voice,
      Wherever thou art hid,
Thou testy little dogmatist,
      Thou pretty Katydid!
Thou mindest me of gentlefolks,--
      Old gentlefolks are they,--
Thou say'st an undisputed thing
      In such a solemn way.

Thou art a female, Katydid!
      I know it by the trill
That quivers through thy piercing notes,
      So petulant and shrill;
I think there is a knot of you
      Beneath the hollow tree,--
A knot of spinster Katydids,--
      Do Katydids drink tea?

Oh, tell me where did Katy live,
      And what did Katy do?
And was she very fair and young,
      And yet so wicked, too?
Did Katy love a naughty man,
      Or kiss more cheeks than one?
I warrant Katy did no more
      Than many a Kate has done.

Dear me! I'll tell you all about
      My fuss with little Jane,
And Ann, with whom I used to walk
      So often down the lane,
And all that tore their locks of black,
      Or wet their eyes of blue,--
Pray tell me, sweetest Katydid,
      What did poor Katy do?

Ah no! the living oak shall crash,
      That stood for ages still,
The rock shall rend its mossy base
      And thunder down the hill,
Before the little Katydid
      Shall add one word, to tell
The mystic story of the maid
      Whose name she knows so well.

Peace to the ever-murmuring race!
      And when the latest one
Shall fold in death her feeble wings
      Beneath the autumn sun,
Then shall she raise her fainting voice,
      And lift her drooping lid,
And then the child of future years
      Shall hear what Katy did.

National Poetry Month #12

Here's one of my favorites from the legendary Lizard King himself.

THE MOVIE
by Jim Morrison

The movie will begin in five moments
The mindless voice announced
All those unseated will await the next show.
We filed slowly, languidly into the hall
The auditorium was vast and silent
As we seated and were darkened, the voice continued.
The program for this evening is not new
You've seen this entertainment through and through
You've seen your birth your life and death
you might recall all of the rest
Did you have a good world when you died?
Enough to base a movie on?

I'm getting out of here Where are you going? To the other side of morning Please don't chase the clouds, pagodas
Her cunt gripped him like a warm, friendly hand.

It's alright, all your friends are here When can I meet them? After you've eaten I'm not hungry Uh, we meant beaten

Silver stream, silvery scream
Oooooh, impossible concentration.

National Poetry Month #9

Here's a bit of a long one. That's what she said.

 
















KUBLA KHAN
by Samuel Taylor Coleridge

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan 

A stately pleasure-dome decree: 

Where Alph, the sacred river, ran 

Through caverns measureless to man 

Down to a sunless sea.

So twice five miles of fertile ground 

With walls and towers were girdled round: 

And here were gardens bright with sinuous rills, 

Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree; 

And here were forests ancient as the hills,

Enfolding sunny spots of greenery. 

But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted 

Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover! 

A savage place! as holy and enchanted 

As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted

By woman wailing for her demon-lover! 

And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,

As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing, 

A mighty fountain momently was forced: 

Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst

Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail, 

Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail: 

And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever 

It flung up momently the sacred river. 

Five miles meandering with a mazy motion

Through wood and dale the sacred river ran, 

Then reached the caverns measureless to man, 

And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean: 

And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far 

Ancestral voices prophesying war!

The shadow of the dome of pleasure 

Floated midway on the waves; 

Where was heard the mingled measure 

From the fountain and the caves. 

It was a miracle of rare device,

A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice! 

A damsel with a dulcimer 

In a vision once I saw: 

It was an Abyssinian maid, 

And on her dulcimer she played,

Singing of Mount Abora. 

Could I revive within me 

Her symphony and song, 

To such a deep delight 'twould win me, 

That with music loud and long, 

 I would build that dome in air,  

That sunny dome! those caves of ice!  

And all who heard should see them there,  

And all should cry, Beware! Beware!  

His flashing eyes, his floating hair! 

Weave a circle round him thrice, 

And close your eyes with holy dread,  

For he on honey-dew hath fed,  

And drunk the milk of Paradise. 

National Poetry Month #8

It's not often that this man made much sense, especially in his written verse, and even more especially in his elder years. As he aged, his delusions got even stronger and he became more and more of a weirdo. Presented here for you--a shred of only slightly loony beauty plucked from within an absolute morass of unintelligible, outrageous, satanic new age nonsense.

AT SEA
by Aleister Crowley

As night hath stars, more rare than ships
In ocean, faint from pole to pole,
So all the wonder of her lips
Hints her innavigable soul.

Such lights she gives as guide my bark;
But I am swallowed in the swell
Of her heart's ocean, sagely dark,
That holds my heaven and holds my hell.

In her I live, a mote minute
Dancing a moment in the sun:
In her I die, a sterile shoot
Of nightshade in oblivion.

In her my elf dissolves, a grain
Of salt cast careless in the sea;
My passion purifies my pain
To peace past personality.

Love of my life, God grant the years
Confirm the chrism - rose to rood!
Anointing loves, asperging tears
In sanctifying solitude!

Man is so infinitely small
In all these stars, determinate.
Maker and moulder of them all,
Man is so infinitely great!

National Poetry Month #6

How fitting that I should post this one at this time of night...

AT MIDNIGHT
by Frank Dempster Sherman

See, yonder, the belfry tower
That gleams in the moon's pale light;
Or is it a ghostly flower
That dreams in the silent night?

I listen and hear the chime
Go quavering o'er the town,
And out of this flower of time
Twelve petals are wafted down.

National Poetry Month #5

Here is a great piece from a poet who hails from my own hometown of Galesburg, Illinois. It's a fascinating train of thought to ruminate upon. I've wondered the same thing myself, never having known that a renowned poet considered it enough of a conundrum so as to write about it...

THE HANGMAN AT HOME
by Carl Sandburg

What does a hangman think about
When he goes home at night from work?
When he sits down with his wife and
Children for a cup of coffee and a
Plate of ham and eggs, do they ask
Him if it was a good day's work
And everything went well or do they
Stay off some topics and kill about
The weather, baseball, politics
And the comic strips in the papers
And the movies? Do they look at his
Hands when he reaches for the coffee
Or the ham and eggs? If the little
Ones say, Daddy, play horse, here's
A rope--does he answer like a joke:
I seen enough rope for today?
Or does his face light up like a
Bonfire of joy and does he say:
It's a good and dandy world we live
In. And if a white face moon looks
In through a window where a baby girl
Sleeps and the moon-gleams mix with
Baby ears and baby hair--the hangman--
How does he act then? It must be easy
For him. Anything is easy for a hangman,
I guess.

SAS (Short Attention Span) HPL Reviews #10

SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS!!!!

Azathoth
This is sort of a Dream Cycle story, though I don't know if it's officially recognized as such by Lovecraft scholars. It is very short--one of his shortest, in fact. Here's the skinny: A guy lives in a huge fortress with no outward facing windows. The world is dead and gray, and the only things he sees when he looks out his castle window are the courtyard at the center of the fortress, the exterior walls, and (at night) the stars directly above. One night the stars open up to him and send a bridge of astral dust down to carry him away to an unknown paradise of verdant shores populated with beautiful flowers, where he lives in comfort from then on. No stars for this one, just a great big raspberry. Me no likey. For completists only.

The Battle that Ended the Century (written with R.H. Barlow)
There *is* a plot here... of a sort anyway. It's just not that good. This story is nothing more than a joke written by Lovecraft and Barlow, a way to drop names of their contemporaries and have a little fun. It centers around a boxing match on December 31, 2000. The two combatants end up getting quite bloody by the end, with ears and noses flying off throughout the fight, and one guy's fist going clear through the other guy's face. Throughout it all, the authors have overly peppered the dialog with Garbage Pail Kids-like references to their peers and themselves: Howard Philips Lovecraft is referred to as Horse Power Hateart; Frank Belknap Long is parodied as Frank Chimesleep Short... You get the picture. Another great big raspberry for this one. It's not a long story, but it's an interminable read.


The Case of Charles Dexter Ward
More of a novella, CDW comes in at around 51,500 words. Charles Dexter Ward is a young, well-to-do man who has recently escaped impossibly from a mental hospital. His family doctor, Dr. Willett, goes to investigate, digging into Ward's recent past and the goings-on that landed him in the asylum in the first place. Ward had become obsessed with an ancestor of his, Joseph Curwen, an alchemist and necromancer. Ward had resurrected Curwen from his long-dead ashes, much like the blood droplets resurrected Uncle Frank in Hellraiser. Once Curwen was back, he picked right back up on his old evil hijinks, killing his look-alike progeny and taking his place in the world, allowing him to continue his grisly experiments with necromancy. However, his sudden and unexplained lack of knowledge of the modern world gets the Charles Ward impersonator locked in the nut hatch. When Willett realizes who is actually locked up, he pays Curwen a visit, intending to kill him and burn him to dust in order to save the world from the dastardly plans he has been hatching. It's a great story, and the film adaptation isn't too bad either. For me the novella was a bit slow during the flashback parts about Curwen's time.

That was a long one. Gonna hang it up for tonight. Thanks for reading!

Adding to the list of H. P. Lovecraft stories I've now read...
The darker color is the previous list. The lighter colored entries are new additions.

• The Alchemist
• Azathoth
• The Battle That Ended the Century
• The Beast in the Cave
• Beyond the Wall of Sleep
• The Book
• The Call of Cthulhu*
• The Case of Charles Dexter Ward* 
• The Cats of Ulthar*
• Celephais
• The Challenge from Beyond 
• Cool Air
• The Colour out of Space*
• The Curse of Yig*
• Dagon
• The Disinterment
• The Doom That Came to Sarnath
• The Dreams in the Witch-House
• The Dunwich Horror* 
• The Electric Executioner
• The Evil Clergyman
• Ex Oblivione
• Facts Concerning the Late Arthur Jermyn and His Family
• The Festival
• From Beyond*
• The Haunter of the Dark*
• He 
• Herbert West: Re-Animator*
• History of the Necronomicon
• The Hoard of the Wizard-Beast*
• The Horror at Martin's Beach
• The Horror at Red Hook
• The Horror in the Museum
• The Hound
• Hypnos*
• Ibid
• In the Walls of Eryx
• The Loved Dead
• Memory
• The Moon-Bog
• The Music of Erich Zann*
• The Nameless City
• The Night Ocean
• Nyarlathotep
• Old Bugs
• The Other Gods
• The Outsiders 
• Pickman's Model*
• The Picture in the House*
• Poetry and the Gods
• Polaris
• The Quest of Iranon*
• The Rats in the Walls*
• A Reminiscence of Dr. Samuel Johnson
• The Shadow Over Innsmouth*
• The Silver Key
• The Slaying of the Monster
• The Statement of Randolph Carter*
• The Strange High House in the Mist
• The Street
• Sweet Ermengarde*
• The Temple*
• The Terrible Old Man*
• The Thing on the Doorstep*
• "Till A' the Seas"*
• The Transition of Juan Romero
• The Tree
• The Tree on the Hill
• Two Black Bottles
• Under the Pyramids/Imprisoned with the Pharaohs
• The Unnamable
• The Whisperer in Darkness*
• The White Ship
• Winged Death

Man, I gotta get some reviews churned out...

More HPL short summaries

Once again, SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS!!!

Celephais - This story is, I suppose, part of the Dream Cycle of H.P. Lovecraft. In it a man, called Kuranes in his dreams (we know not what his real name is), becomes obsessed with his dream world, where life is so much nicer and more exciting than the real world. He begins spending more and more time asleep, visiting a city called Celephais that seems to represent a cross between Arabian Nights and King Arthur. Anyway, he starts taking drugs to spend more time in the dream world and eventually, in the real world, ends up a penniless junkie. A knight comes to him in real life at the end to escort him to Celephais so he can rule as their king and god. Kuranes goes with him, where he rules for all eternity. Meanwhile, his mortal body is found smashed on the rocks below a high sea cliff. Meh. I don't really like the dream world stuff. At least, not so far. However, this is a notable story for being the first mention of Innsmouth (though a diffferent Innsmouth, as it's set in the UK) and it's the origin of Kuranes, who will make a brief appearance later in "Dream Quest of Unknown Kadath" (which, as Lovecraft's longest work and a dream world story, I am dreading reading).

Cool Air - One of the first stories few stories I read in this collection, "Cool Air" still endures as one of my favorites. A guy who lives in this boarding house in New York develops an interest in (and a budding friendship with) the tenant above him, who turns out to be a scientist suffering from a malady that requires him to constantly be in a climate controlled atmosphere. To that end, he has invented air conditioning, using an ammonia-based cooling system. As time goes on, he requires cooler and cooler temperatures to maintain his health. In the end we find out it's because he's a zombie and he's begun rotting. It's very cleverly and descriptively written. I really like this story. I've read it twice so far and also listened to a fantastic reading provided by the H.P. Lovecraft Literary Podcast. I imagine this will be one of the first stories I will reread after completing my journey through all HPL's writings.

The Curse of Yig - I covered this one here.

Dagon - An American prisoner of war escapes from a German u-boat and gets lost at sea. After drifting in and out of consciusness, he awakens and finds himself on what he can only surmise is an incredibly large, sludgy segment of ocean floor that has broken off and floated to the surface. He gets out and explores his surroundings. Eventually he finds a great crevasse, which he scales downward to find the facade of an enormous temple. As he watches, an ancient, cyclopean monster comes to worship at the monolithic temple. After it leaves, the man makes his way back to his boat, but his mind has snapped and he remembers little. Waking in a hospital, he is told he was found afloat in his escape boat, where there is no sign of any chunks of the ocean floor floating on the water. But he knows it was real. And it scares him almost to the point of insanity to believe that there is possibly a race of great, monstrous beasts under the sea worshiping gods of their own. Meh. It was OK. I prefer "The Temple" when it comes to undersea adventures, but we'll get to that one later. Considered together, I think the two stories complement one another nicely, and when you throw in "The Call of Cthulhu" as well, so far that's a nice collection of stories that might have a deeper (no pun intended) relationship with one another.

As always, thanks for reading. Subscribe!

More short attention span HPL summaries

Once again - SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS!!!

The Book - A guy finds a crazy old book at a messy secondhand bookstore. The proprietor refuses to take payment for it, seemingly relieved to simply be rid of the thing. The man takes the book home and studies it in his attic room dedicated to studying strange stuff. Crap gets weird. He looks at it more and crap gets weirder. Eventually crap gets so weirdthat during one of his readings/rituals the walls melt away and he finds himself in another reality, flying over an ancient stone city. That's pretty much it. I guess Lovecraft initially meant this to be the beginning of a larger story that would essentially be a prose version of his wonderful and hypnotic poem "Fungi from Yuggoth." Then he decided it was shit and ceased his effort. Kind of a shame; I liked it so far. Oh well.

The Call of Cthulhu - Quintessential Lovecraft piece introducing the Old Ones, particularly Cthulhu, to the world. Let's do a very boiled-down summary for this one. Part I: Guy inherits a chest full of stuff that points toward existence of some sort of supernatural force in the world, including a small idol of undetermined origin, construction and significance. Part II: Guy reads account of an explorer who finds two cults on opposite sides of the world and opposite ends of the technological spectrum which worship the same primordial being, represented by the aforementioned diminutive idol. Part III: After years of trying in vain to discover more about these clues, the guy finally stumbles upon the newsaper account that ties everything together in a horrible realization: Cthulhu does indeed sleep in the sunken sity of R'lyeh. And he is stirring, signifying that he will waken for good very soon. And when he does, if his cultists are to be believed, all the world as we know it will be devoured and a new aeon will begin, wherein the Old Ones will once again reign over all the universe. Great story. Read it.

The Cats of Ulthar - This one reminds me of a children's story, kind of like a tale by the Brothers Grimm. Could be at home in a collection with Red Riding Hood, Rumpelstiltskin and the Pied Piper of Hamelin. In this story, an old couple loves to torture and kill the cats of their neighborhood. Cat owners are, therefore, very careful to keep their feline companions indoors. When a band of Gypsies comes through town, no one thinks to tell them about the disgusting habits of the town's most hated (and feared) couple. After they kill a little orphan Gypsy boy's beloved kitten, he casts a Gypsy spell and all the cats get together to attack and devour the old couple. It's a revenge tale with cute little ears and tiny pink toes. I read it to my kids a while back, and my 10-year-old son seemed to like it as much as I.

That's it for now. More to come soon. Thanks for reading.

New IT Manager #4

So I had to put up a second name plate this week because I let a coworker take the previous one home with him after his last day on the job. Evidently it was Wil Wheaton's last day on the job as well.

 

Our newest IT Manager comes to us straight from Latveria, and he gives new meaning to the phrase "ruling with an iron fist."