Tag: Mary Shelley

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“I know always that I am an outsider; a stranger in this century and among those who are still men.”–H.P. Lovecraft

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For a moment he stood stupefied by the power of the revelation, then ran with stumbling feet, making a half-circuit of the ruin. There, conspicuous in the light of the conflagration, lay the dead body of a woman—the white face turned upward, the hands thrown out and clutched full of grass, the clothing deranged, the long dark hair in tangles and full of clotted blood.

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As I wait to freeze, I don’t remember much these days as I’m old. But I do remember the bite of that ice storm in 1866.

And, the blood. How I remember the blood.

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Deep sadness is an artist of powers that affects people in different ways. To one it comes like the stroke of an arrow, shocking all the emotions to a sharper life. To another, it comes as the blow of a crushing strike.

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You were the burning ones who scorched sky and frightened wraith.
Do you hail as the Light Bringer’s children who dared to challenge God’s faith?
Are you the fallen sons of Enoch before time and religion had begun?
Yet history hails you as descendants of the fallen Adam or Neptune’s chosen
one.

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I have heard it said, that, when any strange, supernatural, and necromantic adventure has occurred to a human being, that being, however desirous he may be to conceal the same, feels at certain periods torn up as it were by an intellectual earthquake, and is forced to bare the inner depths of his spirit to another.