A Dreamer & A Visionary; H.P. Lovecraft in His Time

Lovecraft’s final years were characterised both by much hardship (painful rejections of his best tales and concomitant depression over the merit of his work; increasing poverty; and, toward the very end, the onset of his terminal illness) and by moments of joy (travels all along the eastern seaboard; the intellectual stimulus of correspondence with a variety of distinctive colleagues; increasing adulation in the tiny worlds of amateur journalism and fantasy fandom). But to the end, Lovecraft continued to wrestle, mostly in letters, with the fundamental issues of politics, economics, society, and culture, with a breadth of learning, acuity of logic, and a deep humanity born of wide observation and experience that could not have been conceived by the ‘eccentric recluse’ who had so timidly emerged from self-imposed hermitry in 1914. That his largely private discussions did not have any influence on the intellectual temper of the age is unfortunate; but his unceasing intellectual vigour, even as he was descending into the final stages of cancer, is as poignant a testimonial to his courage and his devotion to the life of the mind as anyone could wish. Lovecraft himself, at any rate, certainly did not think the effort wasted.

CHAPTER TWENTY

The End of One’s Life (1935–37)

For the time being ‘The Shadow out of Time’ remained in manuscript; Lovecraft was so unsure of its quality that he didn’t know whether to type it up or tear it up. Finally, in a kind of despair, he sent the notebook containing the handwritten draft to August Derleth at the end of February 1935—as if he no longer wished to look at it. Meanwhile the fifth proposal by a publisher to issue a collection of Lovecraft’s stories emerged in mid-February—this time through the intercession of Derleth—but ended in a rejection, as Loring & Mussey declined on a collection of tales in July.

Lovecraft went to see Edward H. Cole in Boston on 3–5 May, and in spite of the unusually cold weather managed at least to get to beloved Marblehead. On 25 May Charles D. Hornig, the erstwhile editor of the Fantasy Fan, visited Lovecraft in Providence. By this time, however, he was already in the midst of planning for another grand southern tour—the last, as it happened, he would ever take. For in early May Barlow had invited him down to Florida for another stay of indefinite length. Lovecraft was naturally inclined to accept, and only money stood in the way; but by 29 May Lovecraft concluded optimistically, ‘Counting sestertii, & I think I can make it!’¹

Once again we do not know much of Lovecraft’s activities during his unprecedently long stay with Barlow (9 June to 18 August). Correspondence to others is our sole guide, and this time we do not even have the supplements of any memoirs by Barlow himself. In a postcard to Donald and Howard Wandrei written in July, Lovecraft gives some idea of his activities:

Programme much the same as last year … Bob has built a cabin in an oak grove across the lake from the house, & is busy there with various printing projects—of some of which you’ll hear later on … Last month we explored a marvellous tropical river near the Barlow place. It is called Black Water Creek, & is lined on both sides by a cypress jungle with festoons of Spanish moss. Twisted roots claw at the water’s edge, & palms lean precariously on every hand. Vines & creepers—sunken logs—snakes & alligators—all the colour of the Congo or Amazon.²

Of the printing projects Lovecraft mentions, we know one in particular—an edition of Long’s collected poetry written subsequent to The Man from Genoa (1926), entitled The Goblin Tower. Lovecraft helped to set type on this very slim pamphlet, which Barlow managed to print and bind by late October. Lovecraft took occasion to correct Long’s faulty metre in some of the poems. Barlow was bursting with ideas for other projects, chiefly a collection of Clark Ashton Smith’s poems entitled Incantations; but, as with so many other of his ambitious endeavours, this venture hung fire for years before finally coming to nothing.