On this final day of October, this day of Halloween, I find myself compelled to reflect upon the curious rite I have revived—a practice of honoring the master of cosmic horror, H. P. Lovecraft, by immersing myself in one tale each night. Thus did I delve into that vast tome, The Complete Works of H. P. Lovecraft, a volume of heavy presence and arcane import, which, to my astonishment, revealed new realms unknown even to one such as I, who thought himself well-versed in every terror the man had penned.
For many years, I believed I had plumbed every dark depth of Lovecraft’s works. Yet I was gravely mistaken. The tome unveiled secrets undreamed of—strange stories hidden from more familiar collections. Admittedly, there are tales within whose artistry leaves much to be desired, and I suspect it was their very rawness that saw them omitted from more curated assemblages. And yet, there is a strange satisfaction in having read them, as though I have peered into the very soul of the creator himself, unvarnished and unrefined.
In truth, I am far from exhausting this trove of eldritch nightmares. Indeed, I have only begun to explore its dread expanse. Thus, I anticipate, in future Octobers, returning to this rite, delving deeper each year into Lovecraft’s labyrinthine mind.
For this year, I concluded my reading with the elusive fragment, “Azathoth,” a tale weaving the threads of dreams and the dreadful reality beyond mortal comprehension. Permit me, however, to linger upon why this slender story resonates so deeply within me. You see, I am a meticulous keeper of dreams. Each vision that disturbs my slumber I capture upon the page, seeking—as the venerable Jung himself advised—to uncover the recurrent symbols and themes that may shed light upon the buried dimensions of the psyche. Only yesterday, a chance encounter with a stranger stirred memories of a dream from the previous week, though upon closer scrutiny, the connection was but an illusion. And yet, for those few brief minutes, the veil between waking and dreaming thinned, casting the ordinary world in hues strange and wondrous.
But now, to the tale itself!
And one night a mighty gulf was bridged, and the dream-haunted skies swelled down to the lonely watcher’s window to merge with the close air of his room and make him a part of their fabulous wonder.
Lovecraft’s “Azathoth,” intended as an Eastern fable in the antique style inspired by William Thomas Beckford’s Varhek, opens with a lament upon the dreariness of modernity—a world stripped of the old magic, bereft of any glimpse of the numinous. The tale’s nameless protagonist inhabits a dreary, ignoble city, yet each night, he casts his gaze skyward, seeking solace in the stars. Over time, those distant lights reveal unto him vistas hidden from the common eye. One fateful night, the chasm between his soul and those cosmic spheres dissolves, and his mind is loosed from mortal bounds, ascending into a boundless and terrifying infinity.