Howard Phillips Lovecraft
Biography of Howard Phillips Lovecraft
Howard Phillips Lovecraft (August 20, 1890 – March 15, 1937) was an American author of horror, fantasy, and science fiction, especially the subgenre known as weird fiction.
Lovecraft's guiding literary principle was what he termed "cosmicism" or "cosmic horror", the idea that life is incomprehensible to human minds and that the universe is fundamentally alien. Those who genuinely reason, like his protagonists, gamble with sanity. As early as the 1940s, Lovecraft had developed a cult following for his Cthulhu Mythos, a series of loosely interconnected fiction featuring a pantheon of humanity-nullifying entities, as well as the Necronomicon, a fictional grimoire of magical rites and forbidden lore. His works were deeply pessimistic and cynical, challenging the values of the Enlightenment, Romanticism, and Christian humanism. Lovecraft's protagonists usually achieve the mirror-opposite of traditional gnosis and mysticism by momentarily glimpsing the horror of ultimate reality and the abyss.
Although Lovecraft's readership was limited during his life, his reputation has grown over the decades, and he is now regarded as one of the most influential horror writers of the 20th century. According to Joyce Carol Oates, Lovecraft — as with Edgar Allan Poe in the 19th century — has exerted "an incalculable influence on succeeding generations of writers of horror fiction". Stephen King called Lovecraft "the twentieth century's greatest practitioner of the classic horror tale."
Howard Phillips Lovecraft Poems
The thing, he said, would come in the night at three From the old churchyard on the hill below; But crouching by an oak fire's wholesome glow,
O'er the midnight moorlands crying, Thro' the cypress forests sighing, In the night-wind madly flying, Hellish forms with streaming hair;
There's an ancient, ancient garden that I see sometimes in dreams, Where the very Maytime sunlight plays and glows with spectral gleams;
Fungi From Yuggoth
I. The Book The place was dark and dusty and half-lost In tangles of old alleys near the quays,
Through the ghoul-guarded gateways of slumber, Past the wan-mooned abysses of night, I have lived o'er my lives without number,
In the Midnight heaven's burning Through the ethereal deeps afar Once I watch'd with restless yearning An alluring aureate star;
Little Tiger, burning bright With a subtle Blakeish light, Tell what visions have their home In those eyes of flame and chrome!
Babels of blocks to the high heavens towering Flames of futility swirling below; Poisonous fungi in brick and stone flowering,
The Bride Of The Sea
Black loom the crags of the uplands behind me, Dark are the sands of the far-stretching shore. Dim are the pathways and rocks that remind me
Where Once Poe Walked
Eternal brood the shadows on this ground, Dreaming of centuries that have gone before; Great elms rise solemnly by slab and mound,
The cottage hearth beams warm and bright, The candles gaily glow; The stars emit a kinder light Above the drifted snow.
The cloudless day is richer at its close; A golden glory settles on the lea; Soft, stealing shadows hint of cool repose
Fact And Fancy
How dull the wretch, whose philosophic mind Disdains the pleasures of fantastic kind; Whose prosy thoughts the joys of life exclude,
It was golden and splendid, That City of light; A vision suspended In deeps of the night;
As when a pigeon, loos'd in realms remote,
Takes instant wing, and seeks his native cote,
So speed my blessings from a barb'rous clime
To thee and Providence at Christmas time!