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  • Into the Black Abyss: The Dark Dreams of H.P. Lovecraft

    “The process of delving into the black abyss is to me the keenest form of fascination.”—H.P. Lovecraft

     

    H.P LovecraftBorn in Providence (the one in Rhode Island) in 1890, Howard Phillips Lovecraft began writing at an early age, although his first commercially published story didn’t appear in print until 1922. To say that he was considered to be a hack would be an overstatement, because he wasn’t considered at all. All of his writings were printed in pulp magazines, and he was regarded as being no more talented than any of the other writers who couldn’t get their work published anywhere else. It wasn’t until years after his death in 1937 that his work was rediscovered and he came to be considered one of the great horror writers of the 20th century. Funny how that so often happens. It’s as if there’s some unknown force that won’t allow certain people to benefit from their brilliance.

    Despite the subject matter of his stories, Lovecraft was an adamant atheist and scientific materialist. Some may wonder, as I did, how a materialist could (or would even want to) write horror, but therein lies his genius. What he saw in the cold, mechanistic view of the universe was no different than what sickened Walt Whitman (“When I Heard the Learn’d Astronomer Speak”), and Herman Melville called the “colorless, all-color of atheism.” It’s no different than the horror felt by the devoutly religious in those moments when they contemplate the possibility that their prayers might be wasted and that no loving God watches over them. The difference is that Lovecraft embraced this nihilistic view as his inspiration. In a universe with no God and His angels to watch over us, you don’t need demons to fuel your nightmares. In such a universe, love is merely a biological tool to ensure the survival of the species, and morality is a fiction that we have created out of the fear of being victimized. In this sort of reality, where the older, more intelligent beings know for a fact that there is no righteous, vengeful deity who rains the fire of judgment down upon the wicked, it makes sense that the strongest creatures would be amoral and hedonistic. Weaker, more sentimental beings would be seen as nothing more than pawns to be used for their own gratification and amusement. Jesus doesn’t love you, and Cthulhu thinks you taste like chicken…and he and his friends are coming to dinner.

    While he wrote many stories that stand alone, Lovecraft’s greatest contribution to horror was the collected works that make up what is now known as the Cthulhu Mythos. While only a few of his human characters appear in more than one story, some of his nonhuman ones are mentioned repeatedly in various tales, though they rarely put in a personal appearance. Extraterrestrial, extratemporal and extradimensional beasties like Cthulhu, Yog-Sothoth, Nyarlathotep and Shug-Niggurath (Lovecraft was very fond of “g”s and “th”s, as well as tentacles) are always waiting behind the curtain of our quotidian reality to burst through the veil and devour our minds and bodies.

    Azathoth - multicolored spaghettiThe greatest of his Outer Gods, Azathoth, the blind idiot “god” who sits outside of time and space at the center of the primal chaos is the perfect personification of the cold, impersonal forces that govern Lovecraft’s mechanistic universe without thought or mercy. He perfectly symbolizes a cosmos that simply “grinds aimlessly on from nothing to something and from something back to nothing again, neither heeding nor knowing the wishes or existence of the minds that flicker for a second now and then in the darkness.” Although Lovecraft never directly stated this, it is implied that Azathoth created the various universes. Whether he meant to do so or was even aware that he had created anything is equally unclear. H.P.’s lack of a description of what exactly Azathoth is and what his motivations are is consistent with his “gods.” Doubtless he felt that maintaining a little mystery in regards to these beings only made them even more sinister and enigmatic.

    Despite his scientific materialism, Lovecraft was blessed* with vivid and persistent nightmares that inspired many of his stories. Of course, one can have a Freudian field day psychoanalyzing the rationalist who writes horror stories and is plagued by dreams of demonic monstrosities. Jungians would probably be more apt to talk about the archetypal imagery contained in such nocturnal visions and attribute them to an unconscious rebellion against his conscious mind’s rejection of its very existence. Whatever Lovecraft may have thought about this seeming contradiction between his waking and dreaming life, two things are known: that he used his nightmares as the inspiration for much of his writing, and that he used dreams as a conduit through which the horrific creatures that populated his fictional universe could communicate with/manipulate/afflict whatever humans their malevolence resonated with or those whose ill-fated curiosity caught their attention.

    This naturally raises the question of why these devastatingly powerful and malicious beings didn’t just conquer and enslave our planet. Why are they relegated to only being able to manifest themselves peripherally through dreams and arcane rituals? The simple answer, other than the fact that this wouldn’t make for a very compelling story, is that there is always some vague influence keeping them at bay…at least for the moment. The implication is that the invasion of our world and our subsequent subjugation to these alien and incomprehensible forces is forthcoming, and that this sudden, unimaginable assault on our conception of reality by beings that we can barely conceive of will be devastating to us both physically and psychologically. The best bet for those traitors to humanity who are aware of these beings is to align themselves with these overwhelming forces in the hope that their servitude will spare them the fate that awaits the rest of us poor fools, but that isn’t likely. Collaborators and lackeys are generally the weakest of the weak, and flattery will only get you so far. You might end up being one of the last human salad sandwiches, but you’re still going to get eaten in the end.

    Lovecraft’s stories rarely contain accounts of people being butchered by masked psychopaths or attacked by monsters (at least not the main characters). His brand of horror was far more psychological. He preferred to create an aura of tension and foreboding to compel the reader to turn the page. A common theme was that the main character would start off having no idea what they were getting into or what dark secrets they would be confronted with. Their eventual discovery of these sinister, otherworldly beings and the realization of the true nature of the universe would frequently cause his protagonists to lose their minds, at least to some degree. Of course, the reader has figured out that the hero is delving into things that he would be better off not knowing about long before he does, but each of us would be equally hesitant to accept the reality of such things were we to find ourselves in the same position. The idea that there really are monsters under the bed is just too ridiculous to keep us from peeking to see what’s really making that growling sound.

    One method that Lovecraft used to simultaneously enlighten and derange his characters was their discovery of bizarre texts which reveal the nightmarish truth of our place in the universe. By far the most famous of his fictitious tomes is the Necronomicon, supposedly written by the “Mad Arab” Abdul Alhazred in 730 AD and translated into English by none other than John Dee. So well-known is this book that there are those who believe that it is an actual work – a “myth” which is undoubtedly enhanced by the fact that you should have no trouble finding a copy of it for sale at your local occult bookstore. What the naïve do not frequently know is that the book was a literary fabrication in the first place. They think it’s an authentic book of forbidden magic. What the somewhat less naïve but equally mistaken believe is that Lovecraft didn’t invent this work but was referring to an actual book of ancient spells. What they don’t know is that the book that you can buy on Amazon was actually written by someone who is known only as Simon, and that it actually bears little resemblance in its content to the one described by Lovecraft. (Actually, there have been several versions of the Necronomican published, but this is the only one that has enjoyed any real success – over 800,000 copies sold and counting.)

    Reading some of the misinformed reviews out of the 300+ posted on Amazon would be nothing but comical to me if I hadn’t personally known two guys who actually performed one of the invocations from the book when they were in high school. Even two years after the fact, all that one of them Necronomicon coverwould tell me was that he didn’t want to talk about it. The other one told me that he got the impression that whatever they had called up had realized that it was dealing with a pair of ignorant fools and had taken pity on them by departing on its own after a few minutes. I find this interesting because certainly none of Lovecraft’s demonic creations would have been so compassionate. Then again, Abdul Alhazrad, a fictional character, didn’t write that spell; it’s all fiction no matter which way you look at it. So what, if anything, did these two guys call up that night that so frightened one of them that he still wouldn’t talk about it two years later? Beats the hell out of me. But any way you slice it, there’s still no actual connection between Lovecraft and anything in that book.

    Nevertheless, there are still some who believe that Lovecraft was greatly influenced by supernatural powers, his staunch materialism notwithstanding. Most of these people point to his bizarre dream life as proof of this, most notably Kenneth Grant, founder of the Typhonian OTO and a protégé of Aleister Crowley. Grant seems to have believed that Lovecraft and Crowley both explored some of the same astral realms: Crowley on purpose, and Lovecraft through his dreams. As proof, he cites the similarity of some terms used by both men in their writings. Make of this what you will. Personally, I think they’re all grasping at straws and I wonder why it seems to be so important to them to link Lovecraft to the Western Occult tradition. I doubt very much that such a connection would give them any greater credibility or legitimacy in most people’s eyes.

    The thing that most fascinated and disturbed me upon first reading Lovecraft is what I think of as the “innocent evil” of his malevolent beings. They struck me as being like nothing so much as kids incinerating ants under a magnifying glass. Why would otherwise harmless children commit such a barbaric act? The disturbingly simple answer is that it’s fun. It’s fun to reduce them to a speck of charred meat on the sidewalk and a tiny wisp of smoke. It’s not anything that the ants did; the kids are just bored and amusing themselves. They’re just ants, after all. Who cares what children do to ants? That question becomes much more sinister and horrifying when one considers that there might be creatures out there who feel the exact same way about us. Welcome to Cthulhu’s world.

    A number of movies have been made out of various Lovecraft stories, but most of the ones I’ve seen were bad at best. The reason for this is obvious. Most of his stories just don’t lend themselves well to film. Unfortunately, it now seems that the one that might have had the best shot at living up to Lovecraft’s original story might never get made. Director Guillermo del Toro was all set to start filming the movie adaptation of the novella At the Mountains of Madness in 2006, the screenplay for which he co-wrote, but Warner Brothers demurred because they didn’t like it that there was no love interest or happy ending to the story. Movie studio executives today clearly don’t “get” Lovecraft any more than did the literary critics of the 1930s. In 2010, an announcement that the film was soon to begin production with Tom Cruise in the starring role appeared on some websites under the headline “It’s Xenu vs Cthulhu,” which is pretty darned funny provided that you know who both of these critters are. However, Universal backed out at the last minute over creative differences with del Toro, and the project is currently shelved.

    Ironically, one of the best examples of what you will not find in a Lovecraft story is precisely what you do find in the 2011 film version of “The Whisperer in Darkness.” The first two-thirds of the movie follows the original story pretty closely. The protagonist eventually travels to remote Vermont and discovers that the diabolic alien presence on Earth is real. But rather than fleeing for his life upon discovering this, our hero decides that he must combat this alien menace, and the last third of the movie transforms into a typical Hollywood sci-fi action/adventure flick, albeit one with a surprising and somewhat improbable ending. While I wasn’t too pleased with some of this, I will admit that it isn’t half bad and is well worth checking out if you’re not too much of a Lovecraft purist.

    Unlike modern writers who jealously guard their copyrights, the fraternity of horror writers in Lovecraft’s day borrowed freely from each other’s writings and built upon their colleague’s creations. Rather than being seen as an infringement on their intellectual property, it was taken as a compliment. Lovecraft himself took part in this to a very limited extent. He made several passing references to Hastur and the Yellow Sign in a few of his stories, both of which were taken from a collection of short stories entitled The King in Yellow (1895) by Robert Chambers. Much more The Yellow Signoften, however, it was Lovecraft’s Cthulhu Mythos that was borrowed and expanded upon by other writers – a practice that continues to the present day and one which Lovecraft actively encouraged. As you could probably guess, most of it isn’t very good, and some of it misses the point of Lovecraft’s dark surrealism completely. Nevertheless, the dark dream continues…for better or worse. There are even Lovecraft/Cthulhu Mythos role-playing and video games if you’re into that sort of thing. Personally, I’ll just stick to the stories.

    Happy Beltane everybody.

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    * I say blessed because I share this “affliction” with him, and I find nightmares to be far more interesting than the normal, “fluffy” dreams which just annoy me.

     

    and all the devils are here

     

     

     

     

     

     

     


  • Lovecraft and The Outsider

    H.P Lovecraft

    “The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear, and the oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown.”—H.P. Lovecraft

    It has come to my attention that while most people have heard of H.P. Lovecraft, very few have actually read any of his work – even those who claim to be horror fans. Doubtless you’ve all been too busy watching America’s Got Talent and checking out scrapbooking tips on Pinterest, but no more. Here I present one of his better really short stories, all picked out and ready for your perusal. Please read and submit a one page report to fhn@foilhatninja.com. The first fifty reports submitted will receive a random number of Foil Hat Ninja “Get Out of Hell Free”™ cards, as long as you include a mailing address. Think I’m kidding? Try it and see what happens.

    I would have preceded this with an analysis of his writing style, inspiration, legacy, etc., but that would have made this ridiculously long, so I’ll probably do that next week. I suppose that I could have done that this week and then just posted a link to the story, but people don’t click on those. Just to further prove this, I’ll put some links to other stories below and then look to see how many clicks they get. (Yes, websites can and do track such things easily. In my case, that’s harmless, but you might want to keep this in mind on some other sites.) I will tell you that, like a lot of artists, he was not successful or respected during his life. (Been there, done that, got the t-shirt…a box of them in fact.) Recognition of his talent didn’t come until decades after his death. Lots of writers name him as an influence, but I have to say that it doesn’t show. It would probably be more accurate for them to say that they’re fans. Once you’ve read a few of his stories, you’ll see why his style would be so hard to emulate. That’s why his legacy lives on while those of most other horror writers do not.

    For those of you who want to tackle one of his longer, more elaborate stories, particularly ones that pertain to the “Cthulhu Mythos,” I recommend “The Haunter of the Dark” and “The Whisperer in Darkness.”  “The Call of Cthulhu” is probably his most famous story. I considered using that one here, but copyright ownership of his later works is in dispute, and I’d rather not be sued. I’m pretty sure that they can’t sue me for just providing a link.

    So without further goodbye in French, here is…

    The Outsider
    By H. P. Lovecraft

    That night the Baron dreamt of many a woe;
    And all his warrior-guests, with shade and form
    Of witch, and demon, and large coffin-worm,
    Were long be-nightmared.

    —Keats

     

    Unhappy is he to whom the memories of childhood bring only fear and sadness. Wretched is he who looks back upon lone hours in vast and dismal chambers with brown hangings and maddening rows of antique books, or upon awed watches in twilight groves of grotesque, gigantic, and vine-encumbered trees that silently wave twisted branches far aloft. Such a lot the gods gave to me—to me, the dazed, the disappointed; the barren, the broken. And yet I am strangely content, and cling desperately to those sere memories, when my mind momentarily threatens to reach beyond to the other.

    I know not where I was born, save that the castle was infinitely old and infinitely horrible; full of dark passages and having high ceilings where the eye could find only cobwebs and shadows. The stones in the crumbling corridors seemed always hideously damp, and there was an accursed smell everywhere, as of the piled-up corpses of dead generations. It was never light, so that I used sometimes to light candles and gaze steadily at them for relief; nor was there any sun outdoors, since the terrible trees grew high above the topmost accessible tower. There was one black tower which reached above the trees into the unknown outer sky, but that was partly ruined and could not be ascended save by a well-nigh impossible climb up the sheer wall, stone by stone.

    I must have lived years in this place, but I cannot measure the time. Beings must have cared for my needs, yet I cannot recall any person except myself; or anything alive but the noiseless rats and bats and spiders. I think that whoever nursed me must have been shockingly aged, since my first conception of a living person was that of something mockingly like myself, yet distorted, shrivelled, and decaying like the castle. To me there was nothing grotesque in the bones and skeletons that strowed some of the stone crypts deep down among the foundations. I fantastically associated these things with every-day events, and thought them more natural than the coloured pictures of living beings which I found in many of the mouldy books. From such books I learned all that I know. No teacher urged or guided me, and I do not recall hearing any human voice in all those years—not even my own; for although I had read of speech, I had never thought to try to speak aloud. My aspect was a matter equally unthought of, for there were no mirrors in the castle, and I merely regarded myself by instinct as akin to the youthful figures I saw drawn and painted in the books. I felt conscious of youth because I remembered so little.

    Outside, across the putrid moat and under the dark mute trees, I would often lie and dream for hours about what I read in the books; and would longingly picture myself amidst gay crowds in the sunny world beyond the endless forest. Once I tried to escape from the forest, but as I went farther from the castle the shade grew denser and the air more filled with brooding fear; so that I ran frantically back lest I lose my way in a labyrinth of nighted silence.

    So through endless twilights I dreamed and waited, though I knew not what I waited for. Then in the shadowy solitude my longing for light grew so frantic that I could rest no more, and I lifted entreating hands to the single black ruined tower that reached above the forest into the unknown outer sky. And at last I resolved to scale that tower, fall though I might; since it were better to glimpse the sky and perish, than to live without ever beholding day.

    In the dank twilight I climbed the worn and aged stone stairs till I reached the level where they ceased, and thereafter clung perilously to small footholds leading upward. Ghastly and terrible was that dead, stairless cylinder of rock; black, ruined, and deserted, and sinister with startled bats whose wings made no noise. But more ghastly and terrible still was the slowness of my progress; for climb as I might, the darkness overhead grew no thinner, and a new chill as of haunted and venerable mould assailed me. I shivered as I wondered why I did not reach the light, and would have looked down had I dared. I fancied that night had come suddenly upon me, and vainly groped with one free hand for a window embrasure, that I might peer out and above, and try to judge the height I had attained.

    All at once, after an infinity of awesome, sightless crawling up that concave and desperate precipice, I felt my head touch a solid thing, and I knew I must have gained the roof, or at least some kind of floor. In the darkness I raised my free hand and tested the barrier, finding it stone and immovable. Then came a deadly circuit of the tower, clinging to whatever holds the slimy wall could give; till finally my testing hand found the barrier yielding, and I turned upward again, pushing the slab or door with my head as I used both hands in my fearful ascent. There was no light revealed above, and as my hands went higher I knew that my climb was for the nonce ended; since the slab was the trap-door of an aperture leading to a level stone surface of greater circumference than the lower tower, no doubt the floor of some lofty and capacious observation chamber. I crawled through carefully, and tried to prevent the heavy slab from falling back into place; but failed in the latter attempt. As I lay exhausted on the stone floor I heard the eerie echoes of its fall, but hoped when necessary to pry it open again.

    Believing I was now at a prodigious height, far above the accursed branches of the wood, I dragged myself up from the floor and fumbled about for windows, that I might look for the first time upon the sky, and the moon and stars of which I had read. But on every hand I was disappointed; since all that I found were vast shelves of marble, bearing odious oblong boxes of disturbing size. More and more I reflected, and wondered what hoary secrets might abide in this high apartment so many aeons cut off from the castle below. Then unexpectedly my hands came upon a doorway, where hung a portal of stone, rough with strange chiselling. Trying it, I found it locked; but with a supreme burst of strength I overcame all obstacles and dragged it open inward. As I did so there came to me the purest ecstasy I have ever known; for shining tranquilly through an ornate grating of iron, and down a short stone passageway of steps that ascended from the newly found doorway, was the radiant full moon, which I had never before seen save in dreams and in vague visions I dared not call memories.

    Fancying now that I had attained the very pinnacle of the castle, I commenced to rush up the few steps beyond the door; but the sudden veiling of the moon by a cloud caused me to stumble, and I felt my way more slowly in the dark. It was still very dark when I reached the grating—which I tried carefully and found unlocked, but which I did not open for fear of falling from the amazing height to which I had climbed. Then the moon came out.

    Most daemoniacal of all shocks is that of the abysmally unexpected and grotesquely unbelievable. Nothing I had before undergone could compare in terror with what I now saw; with the bizarre marvels that sight implied. The sight itself was as simple as it was stupefying, for it was merely this: instead of a dizzying prospect of treetops seen from a lofty eminence, there stretched around me on a level through the grating nothing less than the solid ground, decked and diversified by marble slabs and columns, and overshadowed by an ancient stone church, whose ruined spire gleamed spectrally in the moonlight.

    Half unconscious, I opened the grating and staggered out upon the white gravel path that stretched away in two directions. My mind, stunned and chaotic as it was, still held the frantic craving for light; and not even the fantastic wonder which had happened could stay my course. I neither knew nor cared whether my experience was insanity, dreaming, or magic; but was determined to gaze on brilliance and gaiety at any cost. I knew not who I was or what I was, or what my surroundings might be; though as I continued to stumble along I became conscious of a kind of fearsome latent memory that made my progress not wholly fortuitous. I passed under an arch out of that region of slabs and columns, and wandered through the open country; sometimes following the visible road, but sometimes leaving it curiously to tread across meadows where only occasional ruins bespoke the ancient presence of a forgotten road. Once I swam across a swift river where crumbling, mossy masonry told of a bridge long vanished.

    Over two hours must have passed before I reached what seemed to be my goal, a venerable ivied castle in a thickly wooded park; maddeningly familiar, yet full of perplexing strangeness to me. I saw that the moat was filled in, and that some of the well-known towers were demolished; whilst new wings existed to confuse the beholder. But what I observed with chief interest and delight were the open windows—gorgeously ablaze with light and sending forth sound of the gayest revelry. Advancing to one of these I looked in and saw an oddly dressed company, indeed; making merry, and speaking brightly to one another. I had never, seemingly, heard human speech before; and could guess only vaguely what was said. Some of the faces seemed to hold expressions that brought up incredibly remote recollections; others were utterly alien.

    I now stepped through the low window into the brilliantly lighted room, stepping as I did so from my single bright moment of hope to my blackest convulsion of despair and realisation. The nightmare was quick to come; for as I entered, there occurred immediately one of the most terrifying demonstrations I had ever conceived. Scarcely had I crossed the sill when there descended upon the whole company a sudden and unheralded fear of hideous intensity, distorting every face and evoking the most horrible screams from nearly every throat. Flight was universal, and in the clamour and panic several fell in a swoon and were dragged away by their madly fleeing companions. Many covered their eyes with their hands, and plunged blindly and awkwardly in their race to escape; overturning furniture and stumbling against the walls before they managed to reach one of the many doors.

    The cries were shocking; and as I stood in the brilliant apartment alone and dazed, listening to their vanishing echoes, I trembled at the thought of what might be lurking near me unseen. At a casual inspection the room seemed deserted, but when I moved toward one of the alcoves I thought I detected a presence there—a hint of motion beyond the golden-arched doorway leading to another and somewhat similar room. As I approached the arch I began to perceive the presence more clearly; and then, with the first and last sound I ever uttered—a ghastly ululation that revolted me almost as poignantly as its noxious cause—I beheld in full, frightful vividness the inconceivable, indescribable, and unmentionable monstrosity which had by its simple appearance changed a merry company to a herd of delirious fugitives.

    I cannot even hint what it was like, for it was a compound of all that is unclean, uncanny, unwelcome, abnormal, and detestable. It was the ghoulish shade of decay, antiquity, and desolation; the putrid, dripping eidolon of unwholesome revelation; the awful baring of that which the merciful earth should always hide. God knows it was not of this world—or no longer of this world—yet to my horror I saw in its eaten-away and bone-revealing outlines a leering, abhorrent travesty on the human shape; and in its mouldy, disintegrating apparel an unspeakable quality that chilled me even more.

    I was almost paralysed, but not too much so to make a feeble effort toward flight; a backward stumble which failed to break the spell in which the nameless, voiceless monster held me. My eyes, bewitched by the glassy orbs which stared loathsomely into them, refused to close; though they were mercifully blurred, and shewed the terrible object but indistinctly after the first shock. I tried to raise my hand to shut out the sight, yet so stunned were my nerves that my arm could not fully obey my will. The attempt, however, was enough to disturb my balance; so that I had to stagger forward several steps to avoid falling. As I did so I became suddenly and agonisingly aware of the nearness of the carrion thing, whose hideous hollow breathing I half fancied I could hear. Nearly mad, I found myself yet able to throw out a hand to ward off the foetid apparition which pressed so close; when in one cataclysmic second of cosmic nightmarishness and hellish accident my fingers touched the rotting outstretched paw of the monster beneath the golden arch.

    I did not shriek, but all the fiendish ghouls that ride the night-wind shrieked for me as in that same second there crashed down upon my mind a single and fleeting avalanche of soul-annihilating memory. I knew in that second all that had been; I remembered beyond the frightful castle and the trees, and recognised the altered edifice in which I now stood; I recognised, most terrible of all, the unholy abomination that stood leering before me as I withdrew my sullied fingers from its own.

    But in the cosmos there is balm as well as bitterness, and that balm is nepenthe. In the supreme horror of that second I forgot what had horrified me, and the burst of black memory vanished in a chaos of echoing images. In a dream I fled from that haunted and accursed pile, and ran swiftly and silently in the moonlight. When I returned to the churchyard place of marble and went down the steps I found the stone trap-door immovable; but I was not sorry, for I had hated the antique castle and the trees. Now I ride with the mocking and friendly ghouls on the night-wind, and play by day amongst the catacombs of Nephren-Ka in the sealed and unknown valley of Hadoth by the Nile. I know that light is not for me, save that of the moon over the rock tombs of Neb, nor any gaiety save the unnamed feasts of Nitokris beneath the Great Pyramid; yet in my new wildness and freedom I almost welcome the bitterness of alienage.mummy in the mirror

    For although nepenthe has calmed me, I know always that I am an outsider; a stranger in this century and among those who are still men. This I have known ever since I stretched out my fingers to the abomination within that great gilded frame; stretched out my fingers and touched a cold and unyielding surface of polished glass.

    and all the devils are here