The Call of Cthulhu by H.P. Lovecraft

 

(Found Among the Papers of the Late Francis Wayland Thurston, of Boston)

“Of such great powers or beings there may be conceivably a survival . . . a survival of a hugely remote period when . . . consciousness was manifested, perhaps, in shapes and forms long since withdrawn before the tide of advancing humanity . . . forms of which poetry and legend alone have caught a flying memory and called them gods, monsters, mythical beings of all sorts and kinds. . . .”

—Algernon Blackwood.

 

I.

The Horror in Clay.

 

The most merciful thing in the world, I think, is the inability of the human mind to correlate all its contents. We live on a placid island of ignorance in the midst of black seas of infinity, and it was not meant that we should voyage far. The sciences, each straining in its own direction, have hitherto harmed us little; but some day the piecing together of dissociated knowledge will open up such terrifying vistas of reality, and of our frightful position therein, that we shall either go mad from the revelation or flee from the deadly light into the peace and safety of a new dark age.

      Theosophists have guessed at the awesome grandeur of the cosmic cycle wherein our world and human race form transient incidents. They have hinted at strange survivals in terms which would freeze the blood if not masked by a bland optimism. But it is not from them that there came the single glimpse of forbidden aeons which chills me when I think of it and maddens me when I dream of it. That glimpse, like all dread glimpses of truth, flashed out from an accidental piecing together of separated things—in this case an old newspaper item and the notes of a dead professor. I hope that no one else will accomplish this piecing out; certainly, if I live, I shall never knowingly supply a link in so hideous a chain. I think that the professor, too, intended to keep silent regarding the part he knew, and that he would have destroyed his notes had not sudden death seized him.

      My knowledge of the thing began in the winter of 1926–27 with the death of my grand-uncle George Gammell Angell, Professor Emeritus of Semitic Languages in Brown University, Providence, Rhode Island. Professor Angell was widely known as an authority on ancient inscriptions, and had frequently been resorted to by the heads of prominent museums; so that his passing at the age of ninety-two may be recalled by many. Locally, interest was intensified by the obscurity of the cause of death. The professor had been stricken whilst returning from the Newport boat; falling suddenly, as witnesses said, after having been jostled by a nautical-looking negro who had come from one of the queer dark courts on the precipitous hillside which formed a short cut from the waterfront to the deceased’s home in Williams Street. Physicians were unable to find any visible disorder, but concluded after perplexed debate that some obscure lesion of the heart, induced by the brisk ascent of so steep a hill by so elderly a man, was responsible for the end. At the time I saw no reason to dissent from this dictum, but latterly I am inclined to wonder—and more than wonder.

Sleepy Hollow by Washington Irving

In the bosom of one of those spacious coves which indent the eastern shore of the Hudson, at that broad expansion of the river denominated by the ancient Dutch navigators the Tappan Zee, and where they always prudently shortened sail and implored the protection of Saint Nicholas, there lies a small market town which is generally known by the name of Tarry Town.

 

     This name was given by the good housewives of the adjacent country from the inveterate propensity of their husbands to linger about the village tavern on market days. Not far from this village, perhaps about two miles, there is a little valley among high hills which is one of the quietest places in the whole world. A small brook murmurs through it and, with the occasional whistle of a quail or tapping of a woodpecker, is almost the only sound that ever breaks the uniform tranquillity.

 

     From the listless repose of the place, this sequestered glen has long been known by the name of Sleepy Hollow. Some say that the place was bewitched during the early days of the Dutch settlement; others, that an old Indian chief, the wizard of his tribe, held his powwows there before the country was discovered by Master Hendrick Hudson.

 

     Certain it is, the place still continues under the sway of some witching power that holds a spell over the minds of the descendants of the original settlers. They are given to all kinds of marvelous beliefs, are subject to trances and visions, and frequently hear music and voices in the air. The whole neighborhood abounds with local tales, haunted spots, and twilight superstitions.

 

Dracula's Guest by Bram Stoker

When we started for our drive the sun was shining brightly on Munich and the air was full of the joyousness of early summer.

 

Just as we were about to depart, Herr Delbruck (the maitre d'hotel of the Quatre Saisons, where I was staying) came down, bareheaded, to the carriage and, after wishing me a pleasant drive, said to the coachman, still holding his hand on the handle of the carriage door: "Remember you are back by nightfall. The sky looks bright but there is a shiver in the north wind that says there may be a sudden storm. But I am sure you will not be late." Here he smiled and added, "for you know what night it is."

 

Johann answered with an emphatic, "Ja, mein Herr," and, touching his hat, drove off quickly. When we had cleared the town, I said, after signalling him to stop: "Tell me, Johann, what is tonight?"

 

He crossed himself as he answered laconically: "Walpurgisnacht." Then he took out his watch, a great, old-fashioned German silver thing as big as a turnip, and looked at it, with his eyebrows gathered together and a little impatient shrug of his shoulders. I realized that this was his way of respectfully protesting against the unnecessary delay and sank back in the carriage, merely motioning him to proceed. He started off rapidly, as if to make up for lost time. Every now and then the horses seemed to throw up their heads and sniffed the air suspiciously. On such occasions I often looked round in alarm. The road was pretty bleak, for we were traversing a sort of high, wind-swept plateau.

As we drove, I saw a road that looked but little used and which seemed to dip through a little, winding valley. It looked so inviting that, even at the risk of offending him, I called Johann to stop — and when he had pulled up I told him I would like to drive down that road. He made all sorts of excuses and frequently crossed himself as he spoke. This somewhat piqued my curiosity, so I asked him various questions. He answered fencingly and repeatedly looked at his watch in protest. Finally I said: "Well, Johann, I want to go down this road. I shall not ask you to come unless you like; but tell me why you do not like to go, that is all I ask." For answer he seemed to throw himself off the box, so quickly did he reach the ground. Then he stretched out his hands appealingly to me and implored me not to go. There was just enough of English mixed with the German for me to understand the drift of his talk. He seemed always just about to tell me something — the very idea of which evidently frightened him, but each time he pulled himself up, saying, as he crossed himself: "Walpurgisnacht!"

 

Mocked By The Mockingjay

The Hunger Games books took the world by storm and will forever be immortalized. The first book, The Hunger Games, is original and engaging--a world of unfairness, strict governmental control and children death games. Katniss sacrifices herself for her little sister and unwittingly takes up the rebel cause, garnering recognition as she fights for her life. The story is addicting and the characters are dynamic; it's impossible to not be captivated.

 

In Catching Fire, we watch as Katniss' ambivalence breaks Peeta's heart as they fight to survive, again, as punishment for their rebellious actions. Previous winners are introduced and we're given more strong characters to root for. Readers were captivated by the Games and we're given another one here. The 75th Hunger Games is built even better than the 74th and their survival in the field is well written.

 

But upon closing the pages of the final book in the trilogy, Mockingjay, the story feels incomplete, heavy-handed and disheartening. At its core, the series is about fighting to survive; Katniss and Peeta fighting for their lives in the Hunger Games, the Districts fighting for freedom from the Capitol, a rebellion fighting for change and an end to tyranny. The first two books build up to the ultimate fight, the rebellious Districts against the tyranny of the Capitol. But this is not what happens.

 

The recently discovered District 13 and rebellion take in Katniss and the surviving rebels. The rebellion seizes control of the Capitol and the Districts and one of the first decisions they make in power is to uphold the abomination they so hated; the Hunger Games will continue, but with Capitol children rather than District ones.

 

As part of the rebellion, Katniss isn't allowed to fight but instead must star in propaganda films. She is manipulated as the poster girl for the rebellion and decisions that should have been made out of goodness and the moral right, such as rescuing Peeta, are only made to ensure her cooperation with the cause. Ultimately, Katniss discovers that Coin, the rebellion leader, plotted to have Prim killed (using Gale's war tactics) and framed the Capitol for her death. Learning this, Katniss realizes that there is no winning; not only has the rebellion been hypocritical immediately upon gaining power, it is no different than the leaders they just overthrew.

 

Mockingjay brings adult politics and deception to this children's book that had, up until this point, centered around the concept of freedom. If Collins was going to use this level of political scheming, she should have woven it throughout the trilogy and not thrown it in at the end. The lack of consistency is jarring and it undermines all that came before it.

 

The book ends in hopelessness; there is no triumphing over an evil regime or hope for a better future. This impacts every event in the book. The marriage and subsequent death of Finnick is especially painful because not only is one of the few happy events in the work tainted, Finnick didn't even die for a good cause. He died fighting for a leader just like Snow. Gale's warrior-like commitment to the rebellion makes him the equivalent of a Capitol guard, Peeta's loss of limb, torture and brainwashing were for naught, and the Districts empowered someone who seeks to reign as Snow had.

 

At the end of the series, we have learned that all leaders and governments have an agenda that goes against the will of the people. Revenge is a powerful motivator, power exists to be abused, and hope is a dangerous thing.

 

The sense of expectation and the subsequent emptiness left by the books is summed up rather eloquently by the opening line:

 

"When I wake up, the other side of the bed is cold."

Christine by Stephen King

Book: Christine

Author: Stephen King

Why I Read It: I was on a scary book binge.

First Line: "This is the story of a lover's triange, I suppose you'd say--Arnie Cunningham, Leigh Cabot, and, of course, Christine."
 

First Impression: Well, I like old cars. This might be okay.

Last Impression: Oh my. So long winded and boring.

 

Ratings

Overall – 3 Resting Heart Rate The first 276 pages bored me to tears. It was clear what was happening to the car, to Arnie, to their friendship, to all of Christine's victims. Everything was evident, though his prose implied he felt it was suspenseful.

Characters – 2 The human characters were flat and boring. Christine, however, was a strong character, and that's what really matters as she is our main character. Still, she was very outnumbered in the novel, and the rest of the cast isn't engaging.

Story – 3 The majority of the story felt overly long and had no suspense, but the end of the book had me on the edge of my seat. The wrap-up was poetic and realistic.

Narration – 3 King is truly a great writer, but sadly not as talented as an editor. If he had cut the book by about 300 pages, I would have been there 100%.

Read Again? Most definitely not. I didn't enjoy it the first time, and there are much better Stephen King books out there.

Tell Others to Read? The one thing about Stephen King is you don't tell others to read him, you ask what they've already read. This book is a classic, for many good reasons, and I'm sure it sits on may shelves, well-worn and well-loved.

Excerpt: She was a bad joke, and what Arnie saw in her that day I'll never know. The left side of her wind shield was a snarled spiderweb of cracks. The right rear deck was bashed in, and an ugly nest of rust had grown in the paint-scraped valley. The back bumper was askew, the trunk lid was ajar, and upholstery was bleeding out through several long tears in the seat cover, both front and back. It looked as i fsomeone had worked on the upholstery with a knife. One tire was flat. The others were bald enough to show the canvas cording. Worst of all, there was a dark puddle of oil under the engine block.

     Arnie had fallen in love with a 1958 Plymouth Fury, one of the long ones with the big fins.