Lovecraft, H P - The Book

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The Book

by H. P. Lovecraft

Written circa 1934

My memories are very confused. There is even much doubt as to where they begin; for at

times I feel appalling vistas of years stretching behind me, while at other times it seems

as if the present moment were an isolated point in a grey, formless infinity. I am not even

certain how I am communicating this message. While I know I am speaking, I have a

vague impression that some strange and perhaps terrible mediation will be needed to bear

what I say to the points where I wish to be heard. My identity, too, is bewilderingly

cloudy. I seem to have suffered a great shock - perhaps from some utterly monstrous

outgrowth of my cycles of unique, incredible experience.

These cycles of experience, of course, all stem from that worm-riddled book. I remember

when I found it - in a dimly lighted place near the black, oily river where the mists

always swirl. That place was very old, and the ceiling-high shelves full of rotting

volumes reached back endlessly through windowless inner rooms and alcoves. There

were, besides, great formless heaps of books on the floor and in crude bins; and it was in

one of these heaps that I found the thing. I never learned its title, for the early pages were

missing; but it fell open toward the end and gave me a glimpse of something which sent

my senses reeling.

There was a formula - a sort of list of things to say and do - which I recognized as

something black and forbidden; something which I had read of before in furtive

paragraphs of mixed abhorrence and fascination penned by those strange ancient delvers

into the universe's guarded secrets whose decaying texts I loved to absorb. It was a key -

a guide - to certain gateways and transitions of which mystics have dreamed and

whispered since the race was young, and which lead to freedoms and discoveries beyond

the three dimensions and realms of life and matter that we know. Not for centuries had

any man recalled its vital substance or known where to find it, but this book was very old

indeed. No printing-press, but the hand of some half-crazed monk, had traced these

ominous Latin phrases in uncials of awesome antiquity.

I remember how the old man leered and tittered, and made a curious sign with his hand

when I bore it away. He had refused to take pay for it, and only long afterwards did I

guess why. As I hurried home through those narrow, winding, mist-cloaked waterfront

streets I had a frightful impression of being stealthily followed by softly padding feet.

The centuried, tottering houses on both sides seemed alive with a fresh and morbid

malignity - as if some hitherto closed channel of evil understanding had abruptly been

opened. I felt that those walls and over-hanging gables of mildewed brick and fungoid

plaster and timber - with eyelike, diamond-paned windows that leered - could hardly

desist from advancing and crushing me . . . yet I had read only the least fragment of that

blasphemous rune before closing the book and bringing it away.

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Lovecraft, H P - The Book

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