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The Best of H. P. Lovecraft: Bloodcurdling Tales of Horror and the Macabre Paperback – October 1, 1982
| H.P. Lovecraft (Author) Find all the books, read about the author, and more. See search results for this author |
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“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
This is the collection that true fans of horror fiction must have: sixteen of H.P. Lovecraft’s most horrifying visions, including:
The Call of Cthulu: The first story in the infamous Cthulhu mythos—a creature spawned in the stars brings a menace of unimaginable evil to threaten all mankind.
The Dunwich Horror: An evil man’s desire to perform an unspeakable ritual leads him in search of the fabled text of The Necronomicon.
The Colour Out of Space: A horror from the skies—far worse than any nuclear fallout—transforms a man into a monster.
The Shadow Over Innsmouth: Rising from the depths of the sea, an unspeakable horror engulfs a quiet New England town.
Plus twelve more terrifying tales!
- Print length375 pages
- LanguageEnglish
- PublisherDel Rey
- Publication dateOctober 1, 1982
- Dimensions5.15 x 0.9 x 8.24 inches
- ISBN-100345350804
- ISBN-13978-0345350800
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"I think it is beyond doubt that H.P. Lovecraft has yet to be surpassed as the Twentieth Century's greatest practitioner of the classic horror tale."
Stephen King
From the Back Cover
"I think it is beyond doubt that H.P. Lovecraft has yet to be surpassed as the Twentieth Century's greatest practitioner of the classic horror tale."
Stephen King
About the Author
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
On July 16, 1923, I moved into Exham Priory after the last workman had finished his labors. The restoration had been a stupendous task, for little had remained of the deserted pile but a shell-like ruin; yet because it had been the seat of my ancestors, I let no expense deter me. The place had not been inhabited since the reign of James the First, when a tragedy of intensely hideous, though largely unexplained, nature had struck down the master, five of his children, and several servants; and driven forth under a cloud of suspicion and terror the third son, my lineal progenitor and the only survivor of the abhorred line.
With this sole heir denounced as a murderer, the estate had reverted to the crown, nor had the accused man made any attempt to exculpate himself or regain his property. Shaken by some horror greater than that of conscience or the law, and expressing only a frantic wish to exclude the ancient edifice from his sight and memory, Walter de la Poer, eleventh Baron Exham, fled to Virginia and there founded the family which by the next century had become known as Delapore.
Exham Priory had remained untenanted, though later allotted to the estates of the Norrys family and much studied because of its peculiarly composite architecture; an architecture involving Gothic towers resting on a Saxon or Romanesque substructure, whose foundation in turn was of a still earlier order or blend of orders—Roman, and even Druidic or native Cymric, if legends speak truly. This foundation was a very singular thing, being merged on one side with the solid limestone of the precipice from whose brink the priory overlooked a desolate valley three miles west of the village of Anchester.
Architects and antiquarians loved to examine this strange relic of forgotten centuries, but the country folk hated it. They had hated it hundreds of years before, when my ancestors lived there, and they hated it now, with the moss and mould of abandonment on it. I had not been a day in Anchester before I knew I came of an accursed house. And this week workmen have blown up Exham Priory, and are busy obliterating the traces of its foundations.
The bare statistics of my ancestry I had always known, together with the fact that my first American forbear had come to the colonies under a strange cloud. Of details, however, I had been kept wholly ignorant through the policy of reticence always maintained by the Delapores. Unlike our planter neighbors, we seldom boasted of crusading ancestors or other mediaeval and Renaissance heroes; nor was any kind of tradition handed down except what may have been recorded in the sealed envelope left before the Civil War by every squire to his eldest son for posthumous opening. The glories we cherished were those achieved since the migration; the glories of a proud and honorable, if somewhat reserved and unsocial Virginia line.
During the war our fortunes were extinguished and our whole existence changed by the burning of Carfax, our home on the banks of the James. My grandfather, advanced in years, had perished in that incendiary outrage, and with him the envelope that had bound us all to the past. I can recall that fire today as I saw it then at the age of seven, with the Federal soldiers shouting, the women screaming, and the negroes howling and praying. My father was in the army, defending Richmond, and after many formalities my mother and I were passed through the lines to join him.
When the war ended we all moved north, whence my mother had come; and I grew to manhood, middle age, and ultimate wealth as a stolid Yankee. Neither my father nor I ever knew what our hereditary envelope had contained, and as I merged into the greyness of Massachusetts business life I lost all interest in the mysteries which evidently lurked far back in my family tree. Had I suspected their nature, how gladly I would have left Exham Priory to its moss, bats, and cobwebs!
My father died in 1904, but without any message to leave to me, or to my only child, Alfred, a motherless boy of ten. It was this boy who reversed the order of family information, for although I could give him only jesting conjectures about the past, he wrote me of some very interesting ancestral legends when the late war took him to England in 1917 as an aviation officer. Apparently the Delapores had a colorful and perhaps sinister history, for a friend of my son’s, Capt. Edward Norrys of the Royal Flying Corps, dwelt near the family seat at Anchester and related some peasant superstitions which few novelists could equal for wildness and incredibility. Norrys himself, of course, did not take them so seriously; but they amused my son and made good material for his letters to me. It was this legendry which definitely turned my attention to my transatlantic heritage, and made me resolve to purchase and restore the family seat which Norrys showed to Alfred in its picturesque desertion, and offered to get for him at a surprisingly reasonable figure, since his own uncle was the present owner.
I bought Exham Priory in 1918, but was almost immediately distracted from my plans of restoration by the return of my son as a maimed invalid. During the two years that he lived I thought of nothing but his care, having even placed my business under the direction of partners.
In 1921, as I found myself bereaved and aimless, a retired manufacturer no longer young, I resolved to divert my remaining years with my new possession. Visiting Anchester in December, I was entertained by Capt. Norrys, a plump, amiable young man who had thought much of my son, and secured his assistance in gathering plans and anecdotes to guide in the coming restoration. Exham Priory itself I saw without emotion, a jumble of tottering mediaeval ruins covered with lichens and honeycombed with rooks’ nests, perched perilously upon a precipice, and denuded of floors or other interior features save the stone walls of the separate towers.
As I gradually recovered the image of the edifice as it had been when my ancestors left it over three centuries before, I began to hire workmen for the reconstruction. In every case I was forced to go outside the immediate locality, for the Anchester villagers had an almost unbelievable fear and hatred of the place. This sentiment was so great that it was sometimes communicated to the outside laborers, causing numerous desertions; whilst its scope appeared to include both the priory and its ancient family.
My son had told me that he was somewhat avoided during his visits because he was a de la Poer, and now I found myself subtly ostracised for a like reason until I convinced the peasants how little I knew of my heritage. Even then they sullenly disliked me, so that I had to collect most of the village traditions through the mediation of Norrys. What the people could not forgive, perhaps, was that I had come to restore a symbol so abhorrent to them; for, rationally or not, they viewed Exham Priory as nothing less than a haunt of fiends and werewolves.
Piecing together the tales which Norrys collected for me, and supplementing them with the accounts of several savants who had studied the ruins, I deduced that Exham Priory stood on the site of a prehistoric temple; a Druidical or ante-Druidical thing which must have been contemporary with Stonehenge. That indescribable rites had been celebrated there, few doubted, and there were unpleasant tales of the transference of these rites into the Cybeleworship which the Romans had introduced.
Inscriptions still visible on the subcellar bore such unmistakable letters as “DIV . . . OPS . . . MAGNA. MAT . . .” signs of the Magna Mater whose dark worship was once vainly forbidden to Roman citizens. Anchester had been the camp of the third Augustan legion, as many remains attest, and it was said that the temple of Cybele was splendid and thronged with worshippers who performed nameless ceremonies at the bidding of a Phrygian priest. Tales added that the fall of the old religion did not end the orgies at the temple, but that the priests lived on in the new faith without real change. Likewise was it said that the rites did not vanish with the Roman power, and that certain among the Saxons added to what remained of the temple, and gave it the essential outline it subsequently preserved, making it the center of a cult feared through half the heptarchy. About 1000 A.D. the place is mentioned in a chronicle as being a substantial stone priory housing a strange and powerful monastic order and surrounded by extensive gardens which needed no walls to exclude a frightened populace. It was never destroyed by the Danes, though after the Norman Conquest it must have declined tremendously; since there was no impediment when Henry the Third granted the site to my ancestor, Gilbert de la Poer, First Baron Exham, in 1261.
Of my family before this date there is no evil report, but something strange must have happened then. In one chronicle there is a reference to a de la Poer as “cursed of God” in 1307, whilst village legendry had nothing but evil and frantic fear to tell of the castle that went up on the foundations of the old temple and priory. The fireside tales were of the most grisly description, all the ghastlier because of their frightened reticence and cloudy evasiveness. They represented my ancestors as a race of hereditary daemons beside whom Gilles de Retz and the Marquis de Sade would seem the veriest tyros, and hinted whisperingly at their responsibility for the occasional disappearances of villagers through several generations.
Product details
- Publisher : Del Rey; 1st edition (October 1, 1982)
- Language : English
- Paperback : 375 pages
- ISBN-10 : 0345350804
- ISBN-13 : 978-0345350800
- Item Weight : 11.7 ounces
- Dimensions : 5.15 x 0.9 x 8.24 inches
- Best Sellers Rank: #124,141 in Books (See Top 100 in Books)
- #139 in Horror Anthologies (Books)
- #1,007 in Short Stories Anthologies
- #2,826 in Short Stories (Books)
- Customer Reviews:
About the author

H. P. Lovecraft was born in 1890 in Providence, Rhode Island, where he lived most of his life. He wrote many essays and poems early in his career, but gradually focused on the writing of horror stories, after the advent in 1923 of the pulp magazine Weird Tales, to which he contributed most of his fiction. His relatively small corpus of fiction--three short novels and about sixty short stories--has nevertheless exercised a wide influence on subsequent work in the field, and he is regarded as the leading twentieth-century American author of supernatural fiction. H. P. Lovecraft died in Providence in 1937.
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But if i could have only one collection by H.P. Lovecraft, it would be _The Best of H.P. Lovecraft: Bloodcurdling Tales of Horror and the Macabre_ (1983) , with the introduction by Robert Bloch. None of Lovecraft's novels are included, but the collection does contain seventeen of his very best short stories. Moreover, the _balance_ of stories seems to be about right. The last ten stories (beginning with "The Call of Cthulhu") may be called Cthulhu (pronounced "thullu") mythos tales. The first seven stories are not. Two stories ( "The Outsider" and "The Silver Key") are classified as dream stories, and one of those stories ("The Silver Key") is a Randolph Carter tale. Two stories ("The Colour Out of Space" and "The Shadow Out of Time") are science fiction tales. Most Lovecraftian horror stories invoke the supernatural, but three stories ("The Rats in the Walls, "The Picture on the Wall," and "In the Vault" ) are masterpieces of the macabre that do not rely on the supernatural at all. So there is a fair amount of variety. All of these stories appeared between 1924 and 1936 in _Weird Tales_, except for three stories: "The Colour Out of Space" (_Amazing_, 1927), "The Shadow Out of Time" (_Astounding_, 1936), and "Shadow Over Innsmouth" (which was a 1936 pamphlet of limited circulation). None of these stories is posthumous.
Let us start with the dream stories, "The Silver Key" and "The Outsider". I have always felt that Randolph Carter was something of a weak-tea hero, since his main talent seems to be to retreat into dream worlds. Carter (like other dream-heroes of Lovecraft) seems to be modeled heavily on Lovecraft himself. L. Sprague de Camp once shrewdly noted that there is often a self-pitying note to some of the dream stories. The hero is considered too high-toned and sensitive for a crass, uncaring, and materialistic world.. This self-indulgence mars "The Siver Key" a bit. But there _are_ some visions of some beautiful worlds.
Damon Knight long ago noted that "The Outsider is marred by Lovecraft's tendency to use "unspeakable" and "unnameable" languaage and a trick ending. Yet Lovecraft does build up an atmosphere in spite of it all.
I don't believe that "The Music of Erich Zann" has ever been formally classed as a "dream story" of Lovecraft. But in many ways, it seems to be a dreamlike tale-- with its hero of uncertain origins, its mysterious Paris street, and the wild music fending demons off from another dimension. Lovecraft seems to have inspired a multitude of rock musicians, but this is the only story by Lovecraft that I know of that deals directly with music.
"Pickman's Model" deals with art and has that opening line echoing a number of Edgar Alan Poe stories: "You needen't think I'm crazy, Eliot..." It continues on to a portrait of a most unsavory artist long abandoned by Boston society for very good reason. The closing line to the story is one that Joanna Russ used as the title for one of her stories.
"The Rats in the Walls," "The Picture in the House," and "In the Vault," are all traditional macabre horror tales-- something owing a strong debt to Edgar Alan Poe's tales of psychological horror. Like Poe's stories, they come to an abrupt conclusion once the main story is told. They do not waste an additional word. I suspect that these are among Lovecraft's most oft-reprinted stories, the tales upon which he first made his reputation.
The remaining ten stories are all "Cthulhu Mythos" stories. But it is importantto recognize how Lovecraft viewed this series of stories. He never took it very seriously and was never very consistent from story to story in his treatment of Cthulhu and the Elder Gods. Sometimes they were treated as a race of super aliens, sometimes as a race of malignant ancient gods. In most stories Cthulhu never appears onstage for more than a few seconds-- if at all. The systemizing of the mythos was really the work of later writers working Lovecraft's universe, such as August Derleth.
Let us start with the science fictional tales, "The Colour Out of Space" and "The Shadow out of Time". The first story is about the life form on a meteorite that deadens a New England countryside. The second is about a member of an expedition to Australia who tumbles into a massive alien library. There was a lovely cover to _Astounding_ by that illustrated "The Shadow Out of Time," though it was a bit on the whimsical side and did not capture the feeling of horror that Lovecraft wished to convey in his story. For my money, "The colour Out of Space" and "The Shadow Out of Time" remain two of Lovecraft's very best tales, because they are better plotted and contain some of his sharper description.
I am a big fan of anthologies. You get the wheat without having to swallow a lot of chaff.
To his credit, HPL is a master of suspense, chilling horror, and psychological misdirection. He is clearly a revolutionary in horror fiction, having the advantage over Edgar Allen Poe with the advent of Science Fiction. However, he is also a victim of his own clichés, plot ruts, and ho-hum nihilism.
(So am I reviewing HPL, or this collection? A little of both.)
My experience with HPL began with reading " The Doom That Came to Sarnath (A Del Rey Book) ." When I finished, I said, "This one story is better than all The Silmarillion . I wish Tolkien could write like him."
HPL beats Tolkien on style and execution, hands down. Yet Tolkien outstrips HPL in every other aspect: plot, theme characterization, setting, and conflict. However, HPL is SO strong in style and conflict, especially psychodrama, that it is almost an even balance.
I spoke of HPL's ruts. Some stories end with a jerk, as the narrator passes out. This is a psychological deus ex machnia. But more about God in the machinery of the story later . .
His conflicts are about Man versus His Own Sanity, and Man versus Irresistible Cosmic Beings and Forces. Instead of rising up and "take arms against a sea of troubles, and by opposing end them," or by bowing down, the anti-heroes in these stories take a pointless mid-ground position. They snap into a gibbering lunacy.
HPL said it best himself when he criticized "naïvely insipid idealism" and denounced the attempts of "didactic literature to `uplift' the reader toward a suitable degree of smirking optimism." (Supernatural Horror in Literature). Why he derives a sadistic pleasure by feeding his appetite for destruction is beyond me.
Søren Kierkegaard once complained about having a melancholy arrow in his heart. He knew if he pulled it out, he would die, so he left it in and kept his gift of irony ( Papers and Journals: A Selection (Penguin Classics) , 268). HPL does the opposite. He also had an arrow of melancholy, ye he yanked it out, loaded his crossbow, and began shooting everyone in sight.
So much of the man, now for the collection . . .
Being a selection, this book is a best of the best. Here is my best of the best of the best.
First of all, I suggest reading the book in order, since the arraignment does have a logic behind it. "The Shadow Over Innsmouth" must come after "The Thing On The Doorstep," and the last story is a knot to all the threads of the short stories. They are knotted up, but the knot is loose, without the Disney Saccharine Ending.
But if you are in a hurry, you may wish to begin with "The Call of Cthulhu." This is the keystone myth for HPL's whole legendarium. The story will seem familiar, since it was vulgarized in both " Ghostbusters Double Feature Gift Set (Ghostbusters/ Ghostbusters 2 and Commerative Book) " films.
"The Silver Key" reminded me of George MacDonald's " The Golden Key and Other Stories (Fantasy Stories of George MacDonald) " or a darker version of " The Chronicles of Narnia ." "The Music of Erich Zhan" is a quirky tale with a core of friendship lurking behind it. "The Dunwich Horror" and "The Colour Out of Space" are good, solid SF/Horror stories. If you are a fan of the Twilight Zone, the you'll love the feel of these stories. The anthology ends on a prospective note with "The Shadow Out Of Time." This is a cross between " Last and First Men and Star Maker : Two Science Fiction Novels " and " The Time Ships ."
The best story out of the lot is "The Thing On the Doorstep." This story has HPL only truly heroic character--Edward Derby.
SPOILERS:
Derby is so stout of heart and has such a sharp sense of justice and duty that while being trapped in his dead wife's decaying body--three months old and liquefying--he claws his way out of the shallow grave, marches over to Daniel Upton's doorstep, and issues the Call to Adventure to kill the evil Ephraim. Therefore Derby is quintessentially Christic Albeit a moldy, fetid, and crude Christic figure, but one nonetheless. It parallels Christ's Resurrection and issuing the Great Commission to the Apostles on the Olivet.
Additionally you have Cosmic Justice being satisfied. Upton is able to avenge his best friend's death (Gilgamesh here) and stop the demon body-snatcher from further menace.
This story would make an hour long and very dark Twilight Zone story. Yet it would be worth it because the key element of justice--righting a wrongful death, death of a villain, and Derby's Herculean effort to deliver the critical massage to Upton. If only HPL could have written more stories like this. Not with happy endings--Derby does not get his body back--but with just endings like Oedipus, Jack Bauer, Beowulf: A New Verse Translation (Bilingual Edition) , or Ender's Game (Ender, Book 1) .









