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- Herausgeber: Booksell-Verlag
- Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
- Sprache: Englisch
'ÄúThe Night Ocean'Äù encapsulates the eerie and enigmatic underpinning of cosmic horror and psychological unease within a literary context, drawing together a spectrum of stories that spellbind the reader with their atmospheric intricacies and unsettling themes. This anthology showcases a compelling tapestry, ranging from vividly wrought narratives of dread to introspective ponderings on the limitless expanses of the beyond. The assembled pieces in this collection capture moments of horror and existential dread, ominously echoing Lovecraftian tradition and exploring a multitude of terror's forms'Äîoceanic and otherwise'Äîwhile inviting contemplation on ancient fears and the fathomless mysteries of the universe. Editors Howard Phillips Lovecraft and Robert Hayward Barlow forge this compendium of the uncanny, blending influences from the early twentieth-century horror literature and broader cultural motifs. Their collaborative endeavor harnesses tales from various writers propelled by the spirit of the Weird Fiction movement, a rebellion of sorts against the limitations of conventional realism. This anthology is essential in revealing how these distinct, yet thematically unified voices enrich and expand the tapestry of horror, lending a complex yet coherent voice to often inexpressible fears that shape human existence. Recommended for both ardent horror aficionados and curious literary enthusiasts alike, 'ÄúThe Night Ocean'Äù offers a unique opportunity to traverse a labyrinth of terrifyingly beautiful prose. The volume encourages readers to engage with the uncanny through its sumptuous narrative variety and intricate thematic layering, making it a valuable exploration into the heart of horror. By engaging with the anthology, readers unlock a rich educational journey that bridges multiple perspectives, inspiring a deeper dialogue with the phantasmagorical elements of the genre.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020
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The Night Ocean
Table of Contents
I WENT to Ellston Beach not only for the pleasures of sun and ocean, but to rest a weary mind. Since I knew no person in the little town, which thrives on summer vacationists and presents only blank windows during most of the year, there seemed no likelihood that I might be disturbed. This pleased me, for I did not wish to see anything but the expanse of pounding surf and the beach lying before my temporary home.
My long work of the summer was completed when I left the city, and the large mural design produced by it had been entered in the contest. It had taken me the bulk of the year to finish the painting, and when the last brush was cleaned I was no longer reluctant to yield to the claims of health and find rest and seclusion for a time. Indeed, when I had been a week on the beach I recalled only now and then the work whose success had so recently seemed all-important. There was no longer the old concern with a hundred complexities of colour and ornament; no longer the fear and mistrust of my ability to render a mental image actual, and turn by my own skill alone the dim-conceived idea into the careful draught of a design. And yet that which later befell me by the lonely shore may have grown solely from the mental constitution behind such concern and fear and mistrust. For I have always been a seeker, a dreamer, and a ponderer on seeking and dreaming; and who can say that such a nature does not open latent eyes sensitive to unsuspected worlds and orders of being?
Now that I am trying to tell what I saw I am conscious of a thousand maddening limitations. Things seen by the inward sight, like those flashing visions which come as we drift into the blankness of sleep, are more vivid and meaningful to us in that form than when we have sought to weld them with reality. Set a pen to a dream, and the colour drains from it. The ink with which we write seems diluted with something holding too much of reality, and we find that after all we cannot delineate the incredible memory. It is as if our inward selves, released from the bonds of daytime and objectivity, revelled in prisoned emotions which are hastily stifled when we would translate them. In dreams and visions lie the greatest creations of man, for on them rests no yoke of line or hue. Forgotten scenes, and lands more obscure than the golden world of childhood, spring into the sleeping mind to reign until awakening puts them to rout. Amid these may be attained something of the glory and contentment for which we yearn; some adumbration of sharp beauties suspected but not before revealed, which are to us as the Grail to holy spirits of the mediaeval world. To shape these things on the wheel of art, to seek to bring some faded trophy from that intangible realm of shadow and gossamer, requires equal skill and memory. For although dreams are in all of us, few hands may grasp their moth-wings without tearing them.
Such skill this narrative does not have. If I might, I would reveal to you the hinted events which I perceived dimly, like one who peers into an unlit realm and glimpses forms whose motion is concealed. In my mural design, which then lay with a multitude of others in the building for which they were planned, I had striven equally to catch a trace of this elusive shadow-world, and had perhaps succeeded better than I shall now succeed. My stay in Ellston was to await the judging of that design; and when days of unfamiliar leisure had given me perspective, I discovered that—in spite of those weaknesses which a creator always detects most clearly—I had indeed managed to retain in line and colour some fragments snatched from the endless world of imagining. The difficulties of the process, and the resulting strain on all my powers, had undermined my health and brought me to the beach during this period of waiting.
Since I wished to be wholly alone, I rented (to the delight of the incredulous owner) a small house some distance from the village of Ellston—which, because of the waning season, was alive with a moribund bustle of tourists, uniformly uninteresting to me. The house, dark from the sea-wind though it had not been painted, was not even a satellite of the village; but swung below it on the coast like a pendulum beneath a still clock, quite alone upon a hill of weed-grown sand. Like a solitary warm animal it crouched facing the sea, and its inscrutable dirty windows stared upon a lonely realm of earth and sky and enormous sea. It will not do to use too much imagining in a narrative whose facts, could they be augmented and fitted into a mosaic, would be strange enough in themselves; but I thought the little house was lonely when I saw it, and that like myself, it was conscious of its meaningless nature before the great sea.
