So, I’m sick again, and ready to ramble my way through a post. As it goes, I’ve been introduced to two authors recently, and whereas they each possess an engaging literary skill—by which I mean you don’t want to put the book down—I favor one over the other. Both American home brewed, they are the famous Nathaniel Hawthorne and the enigmatic H. P. Lovecraft.
As far as this Hawthorne fellow, I find his style of writing on point and his open ended narratives engaging. However, I am often frustrated by his characters. His mostly insightful depictions of humanity are stained by what seems decisions forced upon a character, jarring choices for which I see no motive.
Then we have Lovecraft, a name I’ve known a long time but have avoided ‘til now. Wherefore? That at one time I perused a few lines of a poem, and was so disgusted I marked the author down only to be sure never to revisit anything under his name. Yet, my growing desire for horror could not be tethered long from sneaking back to that biting serpent.
On the whole, I’ve enjoyed this Lovecraft far more than Hawthorne, though some lingering doubt suggests Hawthorne the greater writer. They both work from world views I find antithetical to my own. Here, Lovecraft does nothing to disguise his disgust with the world I find wondrous. Hawthorne, some low part of me suspects, washes his hands of “interpretation” clearly knowing what he implies.
To the point: Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn.
Maybe I should have a doctor look at that.
Tale Told 