#lovecraft's legacy

[hplovecraftmuseum]

A softcover volume collecting 15 tales of horror promoted as the work of H. P. Lovecraft. Actually the entire contents of the book were almost completely the work of August W. Derleth. To keep interest in Lovecraft from waning Derleth promoted the falsehood that he and HPL had been writing partners and confidants for years before Lovecraft's death. Many new to the whole history of Lovecraft's life and legacy would be surprised to know that the two men never met face to face! Certainly Derleth worked hard to preserve and promote the Lovecraft legend, but he confused things very seriously in doing so. Derleth took control of all things 'Lovecraft' after the masters death in 1937. He moved quickly to be the head-man of Lovecraft's legacy wrestling control (gently perhaps) from Lovecaft's own choice for literary executor Robert Barlow. In Derleth's defense he worked tirelessly to gain this position of control and invested much of his own funds to achieve that position. Certainly Derleth, Clark Ashton Smith, Robert Bloch, E. Hoffmann Price, and Frank Belknap Long, (all writers themselves) recognized the depth of the genius in Lovecraft's work. All of these men had received numerous letters from Lovecraft over the years and were also treated to his opinions on so many subjects. HPL's erudition was on full display in his correspondence to his writer friends as well. The book shown was printed by Carroll & Graf Publishers, Inc. New York. This third printing was from 1993. I could find no credit for the cover art listed. (Exhibit 346)

[st-just]

New Delta Green op is very fun and interestingly written but also it kind of feels like a self-parody of the game's shifting politics. One of the cult's leaders is a ghoul who just literally unironically cofounded the KKK.

[shanaraharlyah]

💕 self-love time! talk about which ones of YOUR creations (edits, artworks, fanfics) you like the most then send to other creators to do the same 💕

Ahhh, Val! 💕🫂 Thank you so much for this! I tend to be really bad about liking most of my work shortly after it's posted but I do have to admit there are some artworks and writing that I look back on fondly.

You know the current love of my life is Hellendil and I still enjoy creating with him, fic, RP and art. This is still one of my favorite renders of him and it was one I didn't think would turn out at all when I did it!

Golden Hour Hellendil

Why is it all the unplanned experimental ones that I like best? This HP Lovecraft inspired render has gotten no attention at all, but I really love how it turned out. It was just a simple scene I set up to test the rendering capability of my laptop, but It's probably one of my favorite lighting setups that I've ever done. This one needs a full view to really appreciate the fine details.

The Shining Trapezohedron

Probably my favorite writing work I've done to date has been my Dragon Age fic featuring Ysmeria Surana and Bann Teagan. I was writing this fic while my fellow Teagan-mancer, @fantasy-art-room, was writing hers and it was so fun to just feed off each others energy! The first part of the fic is at 27 pages, 14k words and that is not counting the little one shots/prompts/snippets that I haven't merged into the main file. I'll share my two favorite renders and link them so you can check out the story. Their tag is teagan x ysmeria if you'd like to read/see more! 😊

Dawn Over Redcliffe

The Spellweaver

[animentality]

[lifeofkaze]

Where All Stories End

Warning: mortal injury, major character death

The wind was howling around the ancient walls of Fraser Hall. The storm that had been building over the Scottish Highlands had broken earlier in the evening, the leaden clouds looming so close to the ground that it looked as if the sky were caving in on itself.

The man in the library wasn’t aware of the clattering raindrops against the windows. He was pacing back and forth in front of the fireplace, as he had been for hours - back and forth, back and forth. His gaze was directed inwards, his fingers toying with the chain of the pocket watch adjusted to his waistcoat, quietly mumbling to himself as he went.

Presently, Henry Lovecraft stopped at the heavy oak desk the lady of the house had moved there for his convenience. Picking up the quill and dipping it into his inkwell, he set the feather to the paper. Before the tip could touch it, however, Henry paused. Frozen, he watched as the first jet-black drop formed on the quill’s end, growing bigger, heavier, laden with all the words of all the worlds. Eventually, it fell, landing on the pristine parchment with a quiet thud. It was a soft sound, nothing compared to the beating against the glass outside, but to Henry’s ears, the impact sounded deafening. 

With a sigh heavier than the mountain on his heart, Henry dropped the quill again, turning away from the desk and the empty parchment staring at him. The whispers, which had been quiet for the time he’d stood at the desk, returned, begging him, luring him, asking him to tell their story - no, their story - no, their story.

Henry shut his eyes, too weary to keep the whisperings at bay. He didn’t know what was happening; as long as he could remember, the stories of the past had talked to him. They had always invited him, like friends, lovers, making the past his playground and the present his stage. It was his gift, his singular talent, the one thing that had set him apart from everybody else. Lately, however, his gift had turned into a curse. The stories wouldn’t stop haunting him, calling for him louder than ever before, but every time he tried to put them to paper, they would vanish like the ghosts time had made them. The words slipped through his fingers like fog, only to return and envelope him again as soon as he turned his back. 

Henry let himself sink into the chequered armchair close to the fire, stretching out his long legs with the worn, slightly too big slippers Selene had given him on his feet. He took out his pocket watch and flipped it open, studying the familiar face of the token that had once belonged to his father. It had stopped working earlier in the evening, and Henry fiddled with the button on top, watching the hands of the clock turn at his will. He brought it to his heart, but, of course, there was no sound. The clockwork wasn’t ticking, as if the watch was stuck in an eternal moment in time. 

A smile flickered across Henry’s face. A strangely comforting thought. 

“Uncle Henry?”

The sound of a small voice made Henry break from his musings. Looking up, he saw that a little girl had slipped into the library. She was dressed in a nightgown, her dark hair held in place by a haphazard plait and the bow Henry had brought back from his latest trip to Greece. 

“Caitlin,” Henry smiled. “Why are you up at this hour? It must be close to midnight. It’s far too late to wander, especially in a storm like this.”

“I know,” Caitlin Fraser sniffed and shuffled closer, “but I cannot sleep. The wind is howling so loudly. Will you keep me company?”

Henry hesitated. “I shall if you wish it so. But wouldn’t it be better if you found your mother?”

Caitlin made a dismissive noise that made her sound more grown up than a girl of five. 

“Mother is in one of her moods tonight.” She lowered her voice in a conspiratorial manner. “She locked herself in her study again, and I swear I can hear her pacing. What is the matter with her, Uncle? Why must she always be like this?”

Henry suppressed a sigh. Storms had always made Selene feel restless, trapped inside without a means of escape. And it wasn’t only that; it had been almost six years now since…

“Come here, little Cat,” Henry said, closing his arms around Caitlin, who rested her head against his chest. “Leave your mother be. She has her own ghosts who haunt her.”

“There are no such things as ghosts,” Caitlin wrinkled her nose. “Everyone knows that, Uncle Henry.”

“I think Alan would like to disagree.” 

Caitlin frowned, as if she hadn’t even considered her mother’s undead pet ferret up to this point. 

“That’s different,” she declared eventually. “Alan was always like this.”

“Was he?” Henry had meant it as a joke, but somehow, the thought made him contemplative. “What do you think ghosts are, Caitlin?”

“I don’t know,” Caitlin said, looking at him quizzically. “Do tell, Uncle Henry.”

“Judging by the ghosts I’ve met,” Henry said, ignoring Caitlin’s doubtful look, “ghosts are a little like memories. They linger in our world because something’s keeping them. Something that’s too important for them to let go.”

“Like what?”

“It depends. Some have unfinished business to attend to. Some are too scared to move on. And some… some just don’t want to be forgotten.”

Caitlin hummed thoughtfully. “That sounds dreadfully sad, don’t you think? Why wouldn’t you want to go to Heaven when it’s your time?”

Because some people die before their time, Henry was about to say but held the words back; Caitlin was too young to learn this dire truth. 

“I don’t think it’s sad at all,” he told her instead. “For some, maybe, but there’s something beautiful in getting to pass on your story, don’t you think?”

“But that’s what you are for, Uncle Henry. You and your books. It’s what you do.”

“It’s what I do,” Henry echoed, trying not to think about the empty parchment on his desk, “but a thousand lifetimes wouldn’t be enough to tell all the stories of this world, little Cat.”

Caitlin giggled, sheepishly covering her mouth with her hand. It was one of Henry’s favourite sights; it made the stern little girl look more like the child she actually was. 

“You will need to become a ghost yourself, Uncle Henry. Then you’ll have all the time in the world. Oh, just imagine! The first proper ghost I would know. Apart from Alan, of course.”

Henry laughed quietly. “Of course. I do hope I shall be here for a while longer, though.”

“But one day, maybe.”

“One day, maybe.” 

The two of them sat silently for a while, listening to the fire crackling and the wind beating against the window panes. 

“I asked Mother about Father today,” Caitlin whispered presently. 

Henry exhaled slowly. “What did she say?” 

“Nothing, like always. She forbade me to ask about him again.” She raised her face away from where she had snuggled against Henry’s chest. “Sometimes, I wish you were my father.”

There was a dropping sensation to his stomach as Henry gently adjusted the bow on Caitlin’s hair. “Don’t say that.”

“But why? Why can’t you be?”

“I am your Uncle Henry, am I not?”

“I wish you were it, though,” Caitlin stubbornly insisted, her jaw set in the same way her mother always did. “I don’t even know my real father, and I bet Mother doesn’t know him either, or else she would have told me. How can you not know something like this?” 

Henry shook his head. “The story of your father is not mine to tell.”

“How entirely unfair.”

“It might appear so, but there is nothing I can do about it, I’m afraid.” Taking Caitlin by the shoulders, he lifted her to the ground. “But there are other stories I could tell you. Do you wish for me to read them to you?” 

Caitlin’s face lit up. “Will it be one of a princess in a castle and her handsome prince?”

“If you wish it so.”

“And you will stay to wait out the storm with me?”

“Of course, little princess.”

“Thank you.” Caitlin flung her arms around Henry’s waist. “You and your stories are the best.”

“There’ll always be a story for you with me,” Henry smiled, biting the insides of his cheeks as those big eyes, which reminded him so much of her mother, looked back up at him. “Hurry along now, Your Majesty. I’ll select a book and be right with you.”

Caitlin smiled and flitted away, her light footsteps drowned out by the thunder rolling outside. Henry stared after her for a moment before gathering thoughts and turning toward the bookshelves lining the walls. He knew exactly which book to get for Caitlin; he could already feel it calling to him. Its lure was oddly strong, much stronger than Henry knew it to be. He trusted the feeling to guide him deeper into the darkness of the room, not bothering to take a light. He knew where he was going. 

An almost dreamlike smile on his face, Henry climbed the ladder to reach the top part of the bookcase he had been headed for. He thought of how Caitlin’s face always brightened at the part where the prince would rescue the princess; she would look exactly like her mother then, only that Selene had always preferred the dragon to the knight in shining armour. 

Thinking of the two women he considered family, Henry extended his hand. A shudder ran through him as his fingers brushed the worn edge of the storybook. It felt strange, like a cold whisper breathing down the exposed skin of his neck.

Caught off guard by the sensation, Henry’s foot in the too-big slippers lost hold on the rack of the ladder, and suddenly, there was nothing beneath him but emptiness. Sudden panic struck him, making him cling to the first thing Henry could get hold of - the upper edge of the bookcase. His feet kicking against it, the ladder fell away, and for one horribly long moment, Henry Lovecraft hung there, his fingers slowly slipping off the polished wood. The thought of his father’s watch flashed in his mind, set for one moment in time, forever and all eternity.

Then, the bookcase began to topple, pulled forward by Henry’s weight. He screwed his eyes shut and let go as he rushed towards the ground, spinning around as books and whispering pages rained down around him. As the thunder rolled outside, the bookcase collided with the back of his head with a final-sounding crush. 

Raising his eyes one final time, Henry saw the book he had wanted to bring Caitlin just beyond his fingertips. He reached for it, his vision already fading, fingers just so grazing the old spine. Another shiver.

Then, darkness.

[the-al-chemist]

The Beginning of a Symphony - Chapter 33

A/N: With the celestial ball fast approaching, the fifth years are on the lookout for romance.

Warnings: mild angst/pining.

OCs featured/mentioned: Siobhan Llewelyn @kc-and-co, Gwen Archeron @thatravenpuffwitch, Primrose Gray and Jesse Seymour @endlessly-cursed, Nadia Erbland @gcldensnitch, William Devlin @unfortunate-arrow, Reuben Willows @that-scouse-wizard, Leila Hellebore @whatwouldvalerydo, Winona Rosewood @usernoneexistent, Nolan Miller @hogwartsmysteryho, Henry Lovecraft @lifeofkaze

April 1897

The Easter holidays had come and gone both all too quickly and far too slowly. With no classes to attend, the two week break had been spent reading books, browsing the shops in Hogsmeade village, and eating copious amounts of chocolate. Anyone would have thought that the idea of returning to a normal school routine the following morning would have cast a dark cloud over the final night of the break, but the fifth year Ravenclaws remained in high spirits. After all, the end of the holidays meant that they were closer to May, when the Celestial Ball would be taking place.

The ball was all anyone had been able to talk about since the Headmaster had made his announcement at the end-of-term feast. Héloïse was half-bored by the endless discussions of dress robes and dance cards and music and escorts. She had never enjoyed spending time in large crowds of people, and so dances and balls had never been exciting prospects to her. And yet…

Perhaps it was because she was now sixteen, no longer a mere child and only a year away from being a grown woman, but each time she heard someone mention what they were planning on wearing or who they hoped to dance with, she felt her heart lift slightly and begin to beat faster in her chest, as if it were already trying to dance. She watched boys asking girls if they might escort them to the ball with fascination, paying attention to the nervous ones’ shaking hands and hopeful eyes, and the confident ones’ polished manner of talking, and the giddy giggles of the girls and their friends after they made their responses. She had read all about the peculiar alignment of stars that the Celestial Ball celebrated, and each night had stolen away to the Astronomy tower in order to see the stars’ progression, as they crept closer and closer to the positions they would hold on the night of the ball.

She was looking forward to the Celestial Ball, really looking forward to it, and that surprised her.

With the return of the school locomotive engine earlier in the evening, the Ravenclaw common room was busier and louder than it had been in the previous two weeks, and the students who had spent the holidays at home were quickly being filled in on what they had missed during the break.

“Oh, I’m so glad that Jesse asked if he could escort you. I’d have felt so guilty being escorted if that meant leaving you to go alone. Now I can attend with William and a clear conscience!” Primrose Grey, who Héloïse had come to realise always knew everything about everyone, was telling her friend Nadia Erbland. Primrose’s blue eyes scanned the room as she continued, “I do believe that most people have arranged to be escorted by someone now. Reuben asked Leila Hellebore straight away, and I think Nolan has now asked Winona Rosewood, as well. In fact” - her eyes settled on Héloïse and her dorm mates - “I know who everyone is going with except for you three.”

Siobhan cocked an eyebrow at her. “Oh, aye?”

“Yes indeed,” said Primrose, with a nod. “So, then. Do tell. Will you all have escorts, or are you going to fill your dance cards on the night?”

“I’m leaving it to the night itself,” Gwendolyn answered. “I think it’s more exciting that way, somehow. Shiv is going to be escorted, though.”

“Who by?”

“Galen Stagg.”

“Really?”

“I don’t see why you are so surprised,” said Siobhan tersely. “Everyone and their granny knows we are friends.”

“Friends, yes, but-”

“Well, then. We shall attend the ball together, and that shall be that, and we shall hear no more on the matter.”

There was a finality to Shiv’s tone that made even Gwen raise an eyebrow and share a glance with Héloïse. Prim pursed her lips slightly, but she turned to Héloïse looking nonplussed.

“Et toi, Héloïse?”

It took Héloïse a few seconds to decide in which language she should reply to Prim’s question. Once she had opted for English, it took her another moment to pick her words.

“I am to go with no one,” she told Primrose, her voice sounding almost defeated in her ears.

“No?” Prim asked. She tilted her head, and Héloïse shook her own.

“No one is asking me.”

That was the problem, Héloïse realised. That was why she sounded and felt so disappointed. She wanted someone to ask her - she wanted Jim to ask her - but now that was seeming an increasingly less likely prospect. And even though Shiv told her that there were stil days to come before the ball, and Gwen said that he may even ask to partner with her on the night, in her heart she knew that he would not do so. There had been plenty of opportunities in which he might have asked her, and yet he had not. With the Celestial Ball now less than a week away, there was only one logical conclusion that Héloïse could draw: that he did not want to attend with her.

The very idea filled her with a deep, unshakeable sense of melancholy, one that accompanied her through the remainder of the evening, until eventually she retired from the Ravenclaw common room and escaped to her usual meditation spot in the Astronomy tower.

She had intended to rest awhile under the light of the moon and wallow in her self-pity alone, however, she soon found herself being interrupted by the sound of a throat being cleared, and an elongated shadow of a wizard appear on the ground beside her. She sat up straight, her chest lifting with her heart. Could it be…

“Jim?”

“I am afraid not,” the newcomer replied, his peculiar accent making his identity known before Héloïse turned to see his face. “Alas, you seem disappointed by the fact.”

Héloïse smiled sadly as her friend Henry Lovecraft approached and sat down beside her.

“Yes. No. I am not…” she sighed. “I do not wish to be rude. I am sorry.”

Henry shook his head. “It is no bother. What is wrong? Are you homesick?”

“No.”

“Then whatever is the matter?”

“I… It is the ball,” saiid Héloïse. “It is so close, and so many girls have been asked by boys if they can to go with them, and no one is asking to go with me.”

“No one at all?” Henry asked, one eyebrow raised as if he knew that there was only one person who mattered. Héloïse shrugged wordlessly in response. “Well, I am certain that it is not for lack of wanting.”

“But I think that it must be for this reason. What other reason would there to be?”

“What reason would there be for someone to not wish to attend a ball with you?”

“I do not know,” Héloïse said. “No. I do know. It is because I am too strange, I am thinking. Too different to others.”

Henry laughed quietly. Héloïse frowned at him.

“Quoi?”

“All people are different to others, Heloise,” Henry told her. “And yet, at the same time, we are all the same. It is a paradox, and that paradox is what makes people so very interesting. And the more different a person, the more interesting they are.” He smiled. “I would not describe you as too different, I would simply say that you are extraordinarily interesting.”

Héloïse looked up at the stars, her lips twitching slightly.

“Merci, Henri,” she half -whispered.

“It is but the truth.”

The air was still and silent for a few moments. Eventually, Héloïse turned to Henry and asked him:

“Who are you to go with to the ball?”

“I am not attending with anyone. I do not… I have no wish to attend with anyone in particular, or at all.”

“But it is so romantic, no?”

“Yes, and that is the problem. I prefer to read and observe romance, rather than to partake in it myself,” replied Henry. He sighed. “I do believe that I am rather different to others, too.”

“Perhaps you would like to go with me,” Héloïse suggested, “as my friend.”

Henry frowned. “You do not need to do that, Héloïse. There is still time for the person you…”

“No, there is not. And if I am too different for him, then I prefer to go with someone who is also different.”

“You mean interesting,” Henry corrected her, and she giggled.

“Interesting, yes. So, do you wish to go with me?”

Henry nodded, and the two of them sat together in companionable silence for only a short while before returning to Ravenclaw tower. They may both have been different to others, but their punishment would have been the same had they been caught wandering the castle at night.

[skookworks]

Cosmic horror runs in the family.

[kilowogcore]

I tell ya', Poozers, I really love that Comicsgate just completely failed. The few creators that jumped on board are garbage quality, an' the big comics companies went in, if not a leftist direction, at least a liberal one.

Still, they pop up every so often, insistin' that the entire comics industry'll collapse cuz they ain't bigoted enough, an' demandin' Snyder replace Gunn in the DCEU in a weird conspiracy theory smorgasboard that'd make a fascist talkin' about Star Wars blush.

[hopethisdoesntawakenanythingnme]

is....is jkr our 21st century H.P. Lovecraft?

[shwoo]

This is the last line of the story and I am not joking:

"I tell you, it is I! I! I! that have lived for six hundred years to maintain my revenge, FOR I AM CHARLES LE SORCIER!"

the funniest hp lovecraft story is the one where some guy’s family offended an evil wizard who then cursed his entire family saying that all the men would die before they hit like 30. the protagonist is going crazy trying to find a spell to break the curse and then the big reveal was that the wizard was literally just breaking into their house and killing them himself. 

[blumoonfiction-blog]

#ShowsWeLove: Tales from the Hood – A Trilogy of Chills, Culture, and Horror Legacy

When Tales from the Hood premiered in 1995, it became an instant cultural landmark in Black horror. Rusty Cundieff’s direction and Spike Lee’s production delivered a potent mix of supernatural horror and social commentary, addressing racism, police brutality, and gang violence from an unapologetically Black perspective. Clarence Williams III’s role as the sinister Mr. Simms made each tale both…

[hplovecraftmuseum]

Much as I find this 'plush toy' amusing I take Lovecraft a bit too seriously to add it to my personal collection of Lovecraft memorabilia. The bookstore where I found it on sale is call BAM, Books A Million. One can only imagine what HPL'S reaction might have been to seeing one of these commercialized and trivialized renderings of one of his fictional entities? Actually, Lovecraft may have seen something of this sort happening even in his own time. Friends and writing associates within the 'Lovecraft Circle' were asking him for more specific guidelines regarding his evolving mythology/religion and some, like August Derleth were offering HPL some pretty odd suggestions regarding its development. After bending to E. Hoffmann Price's wish that the two men collaborate on a sequel to THE SILVER KEY - the result was the complex tale, BEYOND THE GATES OF THE SILVER KEY- Lovecraft showed some indications that he was losing control of his own literary legacy. Lovecraft changed all but about 50 words of the rough draft that Price sent him and he was never happy with the end product even at that! When Price suggested that the pair create a sequel to the sequel Lovecraft bowed out. Although Lovecraft did not enjoy anything resembling an actual 'legacy' in his own time he at least must have felt some satisfaction in the fact that a small core group of friends and colleagues seemed to recognize that there was something akin to genius in his work. (Exhibit 329)

[graphicpolicy]

Preview: Grimm Spotlight: Lovecraft's Legacy

Grimm Spotlight: Lovecraft's Legacy preview. Keres and Spencer Holmes search for the only person on earth destined to stop the reawakening of dread Cthulhu...the heir of H.P. Lovecraft himself #comics #comicbooks

[bitterkarella]

Midnight Pals: A Major award

JK Rowling: hello children Rowling: i have exccciting newsss Rowling: I've jussst been awarded tablet magazine'sss new sssinai award Rowling: this will make the perfect replacement for that human rightsss award that got revoked

Stephen King: what's this award for, joanne? Rowling: it's for being one of the 36 people whossse presssence ssstopsss god from dessstroying the earth King: Lovecraft: Koontz: Poe: Barker:

Barker: how exactly are you stopping god from destroying the earth Rowling: well, obviousssly it's becaussse Rowling: god is a big cormorant strike fan Rowling: i mean, duh Rowling: that's my legacy Rowling: and, you know, the transssphobia

Rowling: i don't need you lot anymore Rowling: from now on, i'm going to be sspending my time with my intellectual equalss Rowling: fellow sssinai recipients like famous rapist conor McGregor, famous nazi Christopher rufo, the zodiac killer, and Anonymous UPenn student

[later] Rowling: hello fellow sssinai award recipients Rowling: how goesss it? Ted Cruz:

Rowling: how goess it, fellow sssinai recipients? Chris Rufo: we were just talking about how black people have smaller thinking bones than Aryan supermen Thomas Sowell: it's true! we do Sowell: ya know, we were really so much happier back in the slave days

Rowling: ah! ssso good to be among the 36 people who convince god to ssspare humanity Elon Musk: mama mia itsa me elon! Rowling: elon musssk?? what are you doing here? Rowling: isss it cuz you don't raisse your kidss? Musk: da god, he find ita very relatable!

[whomst-the-hell]

ppl are not mentally ill abt noah czerny enough,, like truly he is my fucking roman empire, i think abt him all the time i will never get “quietly slipped from time” out of my brain the implications that he just lives (?) perpetually through the years between his death and trk forever and ever is so. bc on one hand hes always in the kind of golden hour years that make up the series but also hes rapidly detiorating until he hits reset and does it again,,,, also ‘i was more when i was alive’ and his sister describing him as this fucking insane creative adrenaline rush blasting radio speeding ticket firecracker of a person vs blue describing him as smudgy and faded,,,,,,,, the worst tbing that could happen to the gangsey on their quest where they all frequently come very close to dying or losing their humanity hp lovecraft style is that they stop being friends vs whelk crushing noahs head in w his own skateboard on his hunt for the ley line,,,,,,,,,,,,,,, whelks clear disregard for noah and his descriptions of him almost as a sort of sidekick vs the funeral scene where his family is so fucking devastated to have lost him and his sister giving a speech at the fucking school full of dickhead boys that fucking killed him just to preserve his legacy,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,, the car almost fossilised in the woods lived in and bright and fast and loud but covered in pollen and leaves and unmoving for years,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,

[mortalityplays]

Hi! I really liked and agreed with your post on purple prose, and I was curious what books if any you'd describe as having purple prose. Not even necessarily as shorthand for calling it bad! just examples of it, especially from non-classic literature. Unless the term is entirely subjective lol. Feel free to reply to this ask publicly or privately; I don't mind either way

Have some Conan the Barbarian (sorry about! the racism):

TORCHES flared murkily on the revels in the Maul, where the thieves of the east held carnival by night. In the Maul they could carouse and roar as they liked, for honest people shunned the quarters, and watchmen, well paid with stained coins, did not interfere with their sport. Along the crooked, unpaved streets with their heaps of refuse and sloppy puddles, drunken roisterers staggered, roaring. Steel glinted in the shadows where wolf preyed on wolf, and from the darkness rose the shrill laughter of women, and the sounds of scufflings and strugglings. Torchlight licked luridly from broken windows and wide-thrown doors, and out of those doors, stale smells of wine and rank sweaty bodies, clamor of drinking-jacks and fists hammered on rough tables, snatches of obscene songs, rushed like a blow in the face. In one of these dens merriment thundered to the low smoke- stained roof, where rascals gathered in every stage of rags and tatters—furtive cut-purses, leering kidnappers, quick- fingered thieves, swaggering bravoes with their wenches, strident-voiced women clad in tawdry finery. Native rogues were the dominant element—dark-skinned, dark-eyed Zamorians, with daggers at their girdles and guile in their hearts. But there were wolves of half a dozen outland nations there as well. There was a giant Hyperborean renegade, taciturn, dangerous, with a broadsword strapped to his great gaunt frame—for men wore steel openly in the Maul. There was a Shemitish counterfeiter, with his hook nose and curled blue-black beard. There was a bold- eyed Brythunian wench, sitting on the knee of a tawny-haired Gunderman—a wandering mercenary soldier, a deserter from some defeated army. And the fat gross rogue whose bawdy jests were causing all the shouts of mirth was a professional kidnapper come up from distant Koth to teach woman-stealing to Zamorians who were born with more knowledge of the art than he could ever attain.

Conan is an interesting example imo because it displays a lot of the highs and lows of pulp. Robert E. Howard could also write very punchy, straightforward action, and often did - but part of the selling point for the emerging genre fiction of the era was that it was lurid and lascivious. While the extract above is. Well. Bad. It is worth recognising that within its context it was also kind of experimental.

Howard wrote these drooling, sort of bewildering, sensory passages for the same reason Marvel movies punch you in the face with saturated colours and rapid cuts and a billion VFX. You see it in the work of H.P. Lovecraft too, and I will grudgingly acknowledge that that's something worth recognising about his literary impact. I also think Lovecraft was a pretty bad technical writer, personally, but that's a whole other soapbox.

My point is that a lot of truly purple prose today (in the sense that it is extraneous, distracting, undermines its own function) traces its legacy to this era of pulp where there was a distinct secondary purpose to overwhelming the reader with ornamentation. It was self-consciously indulgent, and strikingly distinct from the more genteel floridity of equally bad literary novelists. For instance, compare the above with the even purpler prose of the famously awful Irene Iddesleigh:

On being introduced to all those outside his present circle of acquaintance on this evening, and viewing the dazzling glow of splendour which shone, through spectacles of wonder, in all its glory, Sir John felt his past life but a dismal dream, brightened here and there with a crystal speck of sunshine that had partly hidden its gladdening rays of bright futurity until compelled to glitter with the daring effect they soon should produce. But there awaited his view another beam of life’s bright rays, who, on entering, last of all, commanded the minute attention of every one present—this was the beautiful Irene Iddesleigh. How the look of jealousy, combined with sarcasm, substituted those of love and bashfulness! How the titter of tainted mockery rang throughout the entire apartment, and could hardly fail to catch the ear of her whose queenly appearance occasioned it! These looks and taunts serving to convince Sir John of Nature’s fragile cloak which covers too often the image of indignation and false show, and seals within the breasts of honour and equality resolutions of an iron mould. On being introduced to Irene, Sir John concluded instantly, without instituting further inquiry, that this must be the original of the portrait so warmly admired by him. There she stood, an image of perfection and divine beauty, attired in a robe of richest snowy tint, relieved here and there by a few tiny sprigs of the most dainty maidenhair fern, without any ornaments whatever, save a diamond necklet of famous sparkling lustre and priceless value.

Christ. Hopefully you can see the depth of the scale here - the Conan extract is muddy and difficult to read, but this is near incomprehensible. Part of the reason this passage is so much worse is that there is even less intent behind the author's use of language. Here, she is working overtime to evoke a kind of dramatic-intellectual style borrowed from writers like the Brontë sisters (imo at least - not an expert, that's just the sense I get as a reader). The further these flourishes get from lending purpose to the meaning of the prose, the harder they are to parse.

BUT my other point is: far fewer writers these days set out to emulate Irene Iddesleigh's arch, roundabout, society conscious voice than they do the hallmarks of classic pulp. We're inured to sex and violence, sin and debauchery in fiction today, so extracts like the Conan example feel even more bloated than they did in their time. And that creates a real pitfall for amateur genre writers: the instinct to pay homage to the stylistic choices of the classics can lead them right into Irene Iddesleigh territory.

Too often, the purpose of these overwrought, leering descriptions isn't calculated to thrill the audience, but to establish a piece in the company of older works the writer admires. And that's what leads to truly purple prose in contemporary genre writing, which makes readers scoff and laugh, which makes authors self-conscious and timid, which leads us here to a point where wordy description is inaccurately identified as the problem. It's not. The problem is excess - and when something has purpose, by definition, it's not excessive.