The House on the Borderland by William Hope Hodgson

Sphere PB, art by Terry Oakes

The title alone is enough to earn Hodgson’s 1908 novel a place at the heart of any weird fiction canon. And the book’s first quarter, with its nameless narrator (known as “the Recluse” to this found-manuscript’s editor) holing himself up in a remote country house and fending off nightly attacks from noxious swine-things like a classic Doctor Who base-under-siege story, feels like the perfect set up for a weird adventure story. But then things take a ninety-degree swerve into the cosmic, visionary, and psychedelic, with a long trip through accelerated time. We see the death of our Earth and the Sun, then follow a slow, abstract path to the heart of the universe, to glimpse the truth behind “the scheme of material creation”: a pair of massive central suns, one a giant, weird green (“the abode of some vast Intelligence?”), the other utterly dark. Then back to the present and the house under siege, though not, now, by a host of fleshy-white swine-things, but one giant green glowing one, whose touch leaves a fungous infection that recalls, to my mind, the bleak and inexplicable creeping death in Lovecraft’s most coldly cosmic tale, “The Colour Out of Space”.

Ian Miller art for Panther PB

To be wrenched out of what seems like such a brilliant set up for a weird adventure novel into that rather abstract, visionary journey to the heart of the cosmos always leaves me wondering if The House on the Borderland has a single, unifying idea behind its various, brilliantly weird episodes, or is just a collection of Hodgson’s wilder imaginings. As well as the swine-things and the time journey, there’s a curtailed afterlife love story, as the Recluse has a perhaps visionary, perhaps extra-dimensional, meeting with his lost, dead love — and this is another jarring moment, because at this point it’s revealed that most of this section of the manuscript is missing. It’s almost modernistic in effect, as we experience the Recluse’s feelings of loss through having the relevant portion of the story itself missing, apart from hints and echoes.

Lovecraft loved the book (though he couldn’t help squirming at its “few touches of commonplace sentimentality”), but came to it too late for it to really be an influence. And I feel that Hodgson is far more of a gut writer than one like Lovecraft, who had a definite outlook and philosophy. (I almost wonder if the book didn’t kick off after a fevered reading of Wells’s The Time Machine, which has the same mix of beast-men (the Morlocks) and a trip to the end of time. Only, Hodgson takes things to far weirder extremes.) Still, it seems, from his author’s note at the start, that The House on the Borderland has some unifying meaning:

“The inner story must be uncovered, personally, by each reader, according to ability and desire. And even should any fail to see, as now I see, the shadowed picture and conception of that to which one may well give the accepted titles of Heaven and Hell; yet can I promise certain thrills, merely taking the story as a story.”

The start of the novel, with its nightly assaults by semi-human swine-things, is chock full of classic Gothic imagery of the dark subconscious: a bottomless Pit, an unexplored cellar, a trapdoor opening onto unimaginable depths, an overpowering rush of water, the swine-things themselves, and the fact that they don’t seem to be seen by the Recluse’s sister, the one person with whom he lives. Plus there’s the lure of the shadow-self, and that need to stare into one’s personal Nietzschean Abyss:

“Sometimes, I have an inexplicable desire to go down to the great cellar, open the trap, and gaze into the impenetrable, spray-damp darkness. At times, the desire becomes almost overpowering, in its intensity.”

The novel feels like a wholesale reaction to all the nineteenth century’s upendings of religious certainties: Darwin’s linking of man to the animals (the swine-things), the realisation that the sun must one day die, even the germ theory of disease (in the way the dog’s eerily glowing wound infects a cut on the Recluse’s arm), plus the gradual replacement of a Christian Heaven by an astronomical cosmos of suns, planets, and nebulae.

Ace Books (1962) edition, art by Ed Emshwiller

But I think the thing that unifies Hodgson’s novel is clear in its title. This house stands on a borderland, and so it is the house, by being where it is, that unites the various weird realities it touches. Living in it, the Recluse is living between the bestial (attacks by the swine-things) and the spiritual (his visions of his dead love in her seashore afterlife); also between life and death (the gods that surround the house’s visionary twin in the Arena seem to represent “a state of life-in-death”); and between Heaven and Hell (the house has “Little curved towers and pinnacles, with outlines suggestive of leaping flames”), or hope and despair, in the way the narrator’s connection with his lost love at the Sea of Sleep, and his apprehension of the Green Sun as some sort of ultimate intelligence, are set against the swine-things, the beast-headed gods of the Plain of Silence, the Dark Sun that twins the Green Sun, and the Dark Nebula (“a very hell-fog”), which seems to contain souls trapped in agony (“A face, human in its outline; but so tortured with woe, that I stared, aghast. I had not thought there was such sorrow, as I saw there.”)

These extremes of Heaven and Hell, hope and despair, are part of a package. You can’t have one without at least risking the other. Or so the Recluse’s dead love tells him, at one point:

“Strangely, she warned me; warned me passionately against this house; begged me to leave it; but admitted, when I questioned her, that she could not have come to me, had I been elsewhere.”

William Hope Hodgson

And if it’s the house that unifies the various elements in Hodgson’s weird novel, then it’s not much of a leap to taking that house as a metaphor for the human condition. Its cellars are the outermost regions of the unconscious, whose key the narrator keeps with him at all times (though he only, at first, goes down there to store and retrieve wine, inebriation being one way into the realms of the unconscious). Below these are far vaster, perhaps limitless depths. The Recluse spends most of his time, though, in his study, a room which symbolises the intellect. It’s this room that has the weakest external door, and where the swine-things get closest to breaking in. As a final indicator that the house and the man who lives in it are one, it’s only when the Recluse’s body is invaded by the giant green swine-beast’s infection that the swine-thing(s) manage to get inside the house.

It seems to me that, though The House on the Borderland’s depiction of humankind as standing on the edge of all sorts of weird realms is undoubtedly cosmic, it’s not as despairing as Lovecraft’s cosmicism. Hodgson isn’t saying, as Lovecraft did, that humankind is utterly insignificant compared to the vastness of the cosmos, but he is saying that it’s possible, in such enormous and strange spaces, to be infinitely lonely:

“…I realised, despairingly, that the world might wander forever, through that enormous night. For a while, the unwholesome idea filled me, with a sensation of overbearing desolation; so that I could have cried like a child.”

But this could just be a depiction of the Recluse’s own particular type of Hell. He seems to have become locked in loss since the death of his loved one. He still, for instance, lives with a woman (his sister), but appears to have absolutely no emotional or intellectual connection with her (“I have made a rule never to speak to her about the strange things that happen in this great, old house”). Similarly, after his dog dies, he acquires another one, but can’t bring himself to take it into the house, even when it’s being attacked at night by the massive green swine-thing. His one physical contact with it results in his own infection.

The House on the Borderland is undoubtedly a classic of weird fiction. I still find the central time-travel section too slow-moving and abstract, and the Doctor Who fan in me would love to read a version that was only about the swine-things assailing the house at night, but perhaps it’s the unforgiving strangeness of the book’s jarring shifts in narrative direction that really encapsulate its meaning and power: we’re all of us living in houses on many strange and disquieting borderlands, and had better watch out.

The House on the Borderland is available at Project Gutenberg. The William Hope Hodgson blog contains a lot of information about the writer and his works.

The Witch-Cult in Western Europe by Margaret Murray

Like Jessie Weston’s From Ritual to Romance, Margaret Murray’s The Witch-Cult in Western Europe (1921) is an academic book in part inspired by Frazer’s Golden Bough, and more notable today for its cultural influence than its now-dismissed scholarship. Weston’s book is largely remembered for being mentioned by T S Eliot in connection with The Waste Land, but Murray’s has had a more pervasive and widespread influence (among other things, feeding into the formation of Wicca, but also, I think, providing a key ingredient for a lot of 1960s and 1970s folk horror). I first came across it thanks to H P Lovecraft, who refers to it in “The Horror of Red Hook” and “The Call of Cthulhu”, and whose key idea — that the witches persecuted in the 15th-, 16th- and 17th-century trials in Europe and New England weren’t Satan-worshippers, madwomen, or victims of a mass delusion, but members of an ancient, if decadent, fertility cult, misinterpreted and demonised by their Christian persecutors — is referred to in “The Dreams in the Witch House”, “The Haunter of the Dark”, and his essay “Supernatural Horror in Literature”, where he associates it with Machen’s “The White People”. (Murray subscribed to the idea, which informs a lot of Machen’s weird fiction, that a “dwarf race” once inhabited Europe and “has survived in innumerable stories of fairies and elves”.)

Margaret Murray

Born in 1863 (and dying 100 years later), Margaret Murray made her initial academic reputation as an Egyptologist, working alongside Flinders Petrie. When the First World War made archeological fieldwork in Egypt impossible, Murray branched out. She at first strayed into Jessie Weston territory, writing a paper on “Egyptian Elements in the Grail Romance” (which Weston criticised), before settling on witchcraft in 1917. The Witch-Cult in Western Europe was her definitive statement, and because of it she was asked to write the entry on the subject for the 1929 edition of the Encyclopedia Britannica (which was still there in the 1968 edition). As Jacqueline Simpson, in an essay entitled “Margaret Murray: Who Believed Her, and Why?” (published in Folklore in 1994, and readable online here), says, in the encyclopedia entry Murray “set out her own interpretation of the topic as if it were the universally accepted one”. Her book had been read by academics, and some accepted it, but others — largely those whose specialities she touched on, it seems — dismissed it; but the encyclopedia article lent authority to her theories and reached a much wider, non-specialist public. Murray wrote a more populist take on the book, The God of the Witches (1931), playing down some elements (the sexual and baby-eating ones) and introducing others, such as the phrases “the Old Religion” and “the Horned God”, which would go on to become folk horror staples. By the 1950s and 1960s, her books had become bestsellers.

Much to the horror, it has to be said, of some of those working in the same field. Jacqueline Simpson says that:

“Precisely because [Murray’s] material is so diverse, the links so tenuous and the tone so dogmatic, untrained readers are naturally mystified, and assume that their own limited knowledge is at fault; overawed, they feel themselves to be in the presence of great scholarship…”

Compounding this, most academics in the same field:

“…deliberately ignored her… Normally this is an effective technique for ensuring the oblivion of bad books, but in this case it backfired, since it left her theory free to spread, seemingly unchallenged, among an eager public.”

Part of this is down to Murray’s approach, which is obvious from a statement she makes early in her book:

“The evidence which I now bring forward is taken entirely from contemporary sources, i.e. the legal records of the trials, pamphlets giving accounts of individual witches, and the works of Inquisitors and other writers. I have omitted the opinions of the authors, and have examined only the recorded facts, without however including the stories of ghosts and other ‘occult’ phenomena with which all the commentators confuse the subject. I have also, for the reason given below, omitted all reference to charms and spells when performed by one witch alone, and have confined myself to those statements only which show the beliefs, organization, and ritual of a hitherto unrecognized cult.”

Which even to me, an untrained reader, sounded like she was ignoring what didn’t support her theory (“the opinions of the authors”), and quoting only what did (“the recorded facts”). (Apparently what she left out, even by the use of a brief “…”, could, at times, turn out to completely undermine what she was using a quote to prove.)

But what’s interesting is the effect her book had. People — particularly novelists, film-makers, poets and 20th century witches — took to it not because it was academically convincing, but because there was a need for the idea it was putting across. There was, as Jacqueline Simpson says above, an “eager public”.

Part of this is down to the ideas held about witches at the start of the 20th century. Murray wasn’t the first to suggest witches were part of a single pre-Christian cult — that idea had been around in Germany and France a hundred years before — but coming at the time it did, her book seemed to provide a third way into a subject otherwise split between two increasingly unrealistic alternatives. As Jacqueline Simpson puts it, on the one hand there was the likes of Montague Summers, “maintaining that [witches] really had worshipped Satan, and that by his help they really had been able to fly, change shape, do magic and so forth.” On the other, there was a more widespread but frankly less interesting idea held by “sceptics who said that all so-called witches were totally innocent victims of hysterical panics whipped up by the Churches for devious political or financial reasons”.

Murray asserted that the witch-cult was a real thing, but explained away the supernatural elements. The Devil, she said, was present before the witches because he was a man (or sometimes a woman) in a mask and costume. This also explained why so many witches claimed the Devil was cold to the touch. (And, Murray says, “when the woman admitted having had sexual intercourse with the Devil, in a large proportion of cases she added, ‘The Devil was cold and his seed likewise’”, which Murray explains in part through use of an “artificial phallus”, a necessary requirement, she adds, because a mortal man playing the part of the Devil couldn’t be expected to perform without one for a whole coven of witches.)

(…And a note on covens: Margaret Murray is, apparently, the sole source of the idea that a coven of witches must have thirteen members, something she admitted getting from a single quotation from one Scottish witch trial.)

Another aspect of the witch-cult were witches’ marks which, she says, were of two types, either an artificial mark given to the witch when she or he was initiated (and which Murray suggests was most likely a tattoo, as it was caused by pricking of the skin and was often coloured), the other type being a “little teat”, which Murray says was probably a pre-existing supernumerary nipple, something she takes pains to prove occurs more commonly than is generally thought.

Meanwhile, of a witch’s ability to transform herself into an animal, she says:

“In many cases it is very certain that the transformation was ritual and not actual; that is to say the witches did not attempt to change their actual forms but called themselves cats, hares, or other animals.”

What struck me, on reading the book, and considering the way it aggravated some academics (the Wikipedia article on “the Witch-cult hypothesis” is full of quotes from reviewers pouring scorn on just about every aspect of Murray’s scholarship) yet was accepted by artists and writers, was that Murray’s ideas may not have been historically true, but they certainly met an imaginative need. The way witches were presented, through Murray’s extracts from the trials, seems to me to be painting a picture that’s very much the shadow image of the more intolerant side of Christianity that would have prevailed at the time. All the key characteristics of the “witch-cult” as Murray presents it — a mostly female priesthood, folk-style magic and fertility rituals, close ties with natural cycles and the natural world, plus lots of dancing, eating, and general carnality — were things repressed by Christianity but a vital part of humanity.

(This isn’t to say it was all about fun. In The Witch-Cult in Western Europe — though not in The God of the Witches — Murray does go into the witches’ practice of baby-eating which, she says, being only ever of un-baptised babies, was at least probably only practised on the cult’s own children.)

Whatever Murray’s academic reputation, the idea that witches are part of a single belief, rather than being a scattering of lone-wolf wise-women lumped together simply because they didn’t fit anywhere else, is certainly the one you’ll meet with in horror films to this day, so much so it’s become part of the accepted lore of fictional witches. In a way, Murray’s Witch-Cult is as important to witches in their fictional incarnations as, say, Dracula is to vampires — an essential cultural foundation, but not to be taken as factually accurate. In this way, then, it fits perfectly with the other (mostly fictional) books H P Lovecraft grouped it with when he mentions it in his stories — a book that straddles the shady boundary between weird fact and dark fantasy, and so becomes a perfect gateway to that realm of the real-seeming weird he was trying to conjure.

You can read Margaret Murray’s The Witch-Cult in Western Europe at Project Gutenberg.

Lovecraft and Trauma

Earlier this year I read Bessel van der Kolk’s book on the effects and treatment of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, The Body Keeps the Score (2014). Its description of what happens to the brain under traumatic stress and afterwards, when the trauma is re-triggered, was fascinating, as were the various methods that could be used to treat PTSD. One that really got me thinking was van der Kolk’s description of how taking part in reenactments of Ancient Greek tragedies helped traumatised combat veterans. This worked in two ways. One — and this was one of the main themes of van der Kolk’s book — was in the way that acting, and other sorts of physical therapy, provided a means of re-establishing a relationship with the body, as sufferers of PTSD become dissociated from their bodies as a wholesale means of cutting off the overwhelming feelings arising from trauma. The other way it works is that the subject matter of the dramas gives veterans words by which to express their feelings about the traumatic situations they’ve been in. (Alexithymia, the inability to name or identify feelings, is another aspect of PTSD.) Van der Kolk even puts forward the idea that Ancient Greek tragedy “may have served as a ritual reintegration for combat veterans”.

This got me thinking about modern myths that might address similar areas, and I realised it was something I’d touched on in Mewsings before, when I called it “crisis literature” — novels and stories written by people who seem to be on the edge of a still-live and still-dangerous emotional experience, who are using their writing to try to process it. And it turned out that some of the aspects of “crisis literature” I identified — such as the way disparate collections of things are lumped together with the insistence they make up one thing, as with the “terminal documents” of Ballard’s Atrocity Exhibition stories, the multiple interweaving time-strands of Garner’s Red Shift, or the lumped-together fragments of Eliot’s Waste Land — are part of the experience of trauma, and van der Kolk can even explain why, using data from brain scans.

But the writer that first popped into my head after reading about veterans’ use of Ancient Greek drama was, oddly, that least veteran-like of writers, H P Lovecraft, who I haven’t previously considered part of this idea of “crisis literature”. He does, however, have his equivalents of Ballard’s “terminal documents”, most evidently in his 1920 story “The Call of Cthulhu”, a tale which is all about the piecing together of disparate strands into one impossible-to-face whole — the impossible-to-face whole known as Cthulhu, a being whose very appearance is a merging together of impossibilities:

“It seemed to be a sort of monster, or symbol representing a monster, of a form which only a diseased fancy could conceive. If I say that my somewhat extravagant imagination yielded simultaneous pictures of an octopus, a dragon, and a human caricature, I shall not be unfaithful to the spirit of the thing. A pulpy, tentacled head surmounted a grotesque and scaly body with rudimentary wings; but it was the general outline of the whole which made it most shockingly frightful.”

The more I thought about it, the more I saw that aspects of how the brain reacts under trauma can be found throughout Lovecraft’s fiction. Which probably sounds obvious — surprise!, a horror writer’s work deals with trauma! — but what I mean is not that Lovecraft’s characters exhibit the effects of trauma, but that the way Lovecraft’s fictional world works expresses some of the effects of trauma. I’m not at all saying Lovecraft himself suffered from PTSD, but I’m going to look into some key aspects of the condition that van der Kolk touches on, and relate them to Lovecraft’s fiction, as I think it throws light on areas of his work that have received criticism, or at least might be better appreciated.

Take, for instance, the Lovecraftian cliché of the protagonist who, faced with the ultimate horror, faints. It’s hardly conducive to survival. Whatever happened to fight or flight?

It turns out that fight or flight are just part of a wider continuum of possible reactions to threat. The initial reaction, van der Kolk says, is milder than either fight or flight. Humans are social animals, so we look around for help. If there’s none to be had, but the threat remains, then there’s flight — running away — or fight. But there are situations where there’s no help to be had, no escape route is available, and where fighting not only won’t help, but may make things worse. A child cornered by a violent adult, for instance, who hasn’t the physical strength to fight back, and who may well feel that fighting would only lead to worse consequences; or, in Lovecraft’s fiction, a human suddenly finding himself in the presence of a giant, god-like extraterrestrial monster. As van der Kolk says, if:

“…we can’t get away, we’re held down or trapped… the organism tries to preserve itself by shutting down and expending as little energy as possible. We are then in a state of freeze or collapse.”

“Freeze or collapse” in Lovecraft’s fictional world becomes fainting. But it goes deeper than that, I think. It’s something Lovecraft incorporated into the very structure of his fiction. He worked hard to orchestrate his stories so they end in a crescendo of horror — he builds up the various narrative strands so it’s only in the final sentence that all the horrific facts explicitly come together. And at this point the story ends, meaning the reader experiences the same fall into blankness as the story’s protagonist, leaving you alone with that moment of absolute horror.

I said above that having his protagonists faint was something Lovecraft was criticised for. This criticism came during his own lifetime, so he had a chance to respond, in a story called “The Unnameable” (from 1923), where his protagonist (a writer) says he has been accused of:

“…ending my stories with sights or sounds which paralysed my heroes’ faculties and left them without courage, words, or associations to tell what they had experienced.”

I mentioned “alexithymia” earlier, the condition of not having words to describe one’s feelings, and this is something Lovecraft sums up in the above quote’s “words, or associations to tell what they had experienced”. In “The Statement of Randolph Carter” (1919), he presents the same idea, only much more vividly, as Harley Warren, faced with some awful subterranean horror, screams down a portable telephone:

I can’t tell you, Carter! It’s too utterly beyond thought—I dare not tell you—no man could know it and live—Great God! I never dreamed of THIS!

Trauma is the experience of something “unnameable”, something “utterly beyond thought”. It’s caused when stress hormones flood the brain to such an extent that they overwhelm the conscious mind, causing it to shut down and hand control entirely over to the more instinctual parts of the brain (which are faster in their response to danger, but far less nuanced). Van der Kolk describes how brain scans reveal the workings of trauma, with the main areas that represent one’s ability to consciously control reactions being shut down, while the instinctual danger-response areas light up. We can, he says, only properly process our experiences when we do so consciously (even if it has to be after the event), weighing them up, deciding what they mean, and integrating them into our autobiographical memory, fitting them into our idea of who we are. With trauma, though, and even during re-triggered trauma, the conscious mind doesn’t get a look-in. The memory becomes inaccessible to the conscious mind, because remembering is identical with re-triggering, which shuts down the conscious mind. When traumatic memory is triggered, the brain fires up exactly as it did when it experienced the originating incident — right down to the part of the brain that reacts to new, incoming visual data activating as if it were seeing the trauma anew. During re-triggering, as far as the brain’s concerned, the trauma is happening again, right now.

To me, this explains the ending of another early Lovecraft story, “Dagon” (1917), which can otherwise feel a little unsatisfying. The tale’s narrator writes about an encounter he had with a horrific monster while adrift on a boat at sea. He escapes, but ever after has to take drugs to deaden himself to his continuing feelings of terror. Now, having run out of money, and so also of drugs, he sits down to write what is, basically, a suicide note. As he finishes it, he sees the monster come back for him:

“I hear a noise at the door, as of some immense slippery body lumbering against it. It shall not find me. God, that hand!

On my first reading of the story, when I was young and monster-hungry, I assumed the creature had actually come back for him, and didn’t question how unlikely it was that this giant sea-thing would follow one poor guy for years through various American cities until — what, the man ran out of money for drugs? How did that work? But at the time I was just happy for the story to end with a monster and didn’t question it. Now I see what happens at the end of the story is that, having run out of mind-numbing drugs, the narrator can’t hold back the feelings of horror anymore. But it’s not just the feelings he’s holding back, it’s the way traumatic memory replays as if it were happening in the moment. The monster might not be physically there, but as far as the narrator’s brain is concerned, it is, and the danger feels viscerally real — enough to make the narrator throw himself out of the window. The monster may not have come for him, but in a sense the narrator’s been carrying it inside him all this time.

There are other examples of Lovecraftian protagonists experiencing traumatic flashbacks, or a heightened terror of triggering conditions (think of the narrator of “Pickman’s Model” (1926), who refuses to use the underground railway, or of “Cool Air” (also 1926), whose narrator explains why he reacts badly to the slightest cold draught). The most obvious one, though, is Malone, the protagonist of “The Horror at Red Hook” (1927), who, at the start of the tale suffers a PTSD response, fleeing in uncontrollable terror at the mere sight of some red-brick buildings. Van der Kolk explains this as being down to the way the brain monitors incoming signals for danger. Before passing sensory input to the conscious mind, which is slower to process what it receives, this data passes through other areas of the brain which have cruder but more immediate responses. For instance, the amygdala, whose function is to decide:

“…whether incoming information is a threat to our survival even before we are consciously aware of the danger. By the time we realize what is happening, our body may already be on the move.”

PTSD responses are immediate and without nuance. Small sensory details can trigger an over-the-top reaction, simply because the conscious mind has no say in sorting out which aspects of the initial traumatic experience were genuine danger signs, and which were simply incidental. This links to Lovecraft’s use of the word “courage” in the quote from “The Unnameable” above. Not only does PTSD result in experiences that feel as though they cannot be explained, but it can result in someone suffering from PTSD feeling humiliated because they can’t explain their own reaction even to themselves — they are overpowered by feelings beyond their understanding. It can feel like being in the grip of some overpowering alien monster, leaving one feeling less than fully human.

And the feeling of being less than human is another thing that can come with PTSD. Van der Kolk calls it “depersonalisation”:

“In response to the trauma itself, and in coping with the dread that persisted long afterward, these patients had learned to shut down the brain areas that transmit the visceral feelings and emotions that accompany and define terror. Yet in everyday life, those same brain areas are responsible for registering the entire range of emotions and sensations that form the foundation of our self-awareness, our sense of who we are.”

Trauma, he says elsewhere, “compromises the brain area that communicates the physical, embodied feeling of being alive.” Lovecraft’s fiction is full of people who are neither dead nor alive, the most notable being the narrator of “The Outsider” (1921), whose horror when he confronts a walking corpse is topped by the realisation that the walking corpse is himself, something he can only have been unaware of by thoroughly dissociating himself from his own body. Horror of, or alienation from, one’s body is another part of this aspect of PTSD, and can be found in other Lovecraft stories where narrators, for instance, find their minds transported to other bodies that they only gradually become aware of as being alien, as in “The Shadow Out of Time” (1934), a story which to me feels like a summation of so many aspects of trauma in Lovecraft’s fiction, that it might be a good way to mop up a few topics I haven’t yet covered.

The first half of “The Shadow Out of Time” reads like the story of a man trying to cope with the effects of PTSD. Something happened to him which wiped out a portion of his conscious memory, and he does his best to piece together what fragments he can to make sense of it. This is where trauma links with Ballard’s “terminal documents”. Because the conscious mind has had no chance to analyse the traumatic memory, the memories themselves feel like a welter of confusing, disparate-seeming elements: sights, sounds, smells, not in any logical order or making any sense, a chaos of sensations, not a rational experience. (In many early Lovecraft stories, up to and including “The Horror at Red Hook”, when the protagonists encounter the supernatural, it’s often as a chaotic welter of darkness, demonic figures and overpowering winds, all mixed together in one overwhelming and confusing experience. A similar thing happens at the end of “The Shadow Out of Time”, with its darkness, rubble and strong, subterranean winds.)

This leads to another aspect of PTSD, the fact that it can lead to the lingering suspicion that the trauma wasn’t actually real. The sufferer does their best to dismiss it. After all, the memory has been suppressed, except during humiliating re-triggering events which the sufferer will only want to repress. PTSD is an isolating condition, alienating those who have it not only from others who haven’t had the same experience, but from parts of themselves. (Part of the treatment, according to van der Kolk, is bringing it into the open, having the experience acknowledged and affirmed by others.)

Self-dissociation, with its deadening of all feelings, not just the traumatic ones, leads to a feeling that life is that much less meaningful (thus leading to feelings of despair, which I’d certainly say characterise Lovecraft’s fictional universe). At the same time, at some instinctual level, there’s a feeling that it’s only through the trauma that one can truly experience the full meaning of life. Van der Kolk says:

“Somehow the very event that caused them so much pain had also become their sole source of meaning. They felt fully alive only when they were revisiting their traumatic past.”

Hence, in “The Shadow Out of Time” (and many other Lovecraft stories), the protagonist’s compulsion to unveil the full horror, even at the expense of his own sanity. The instinctual need for wholeness drives Lovecraft’s characters to face the darkness, even while they consciously reject it.

Though the memory of trauma is kept from the conscious mind, it’s still there, in the unconscious, and in the body, where it is felt, and can even be re-activated. As van der Kolk says:

“Dissociation means simultaneously knowing and not knowing.”

Part of you knows, part of you doesn’t, but can’t help being aware of a sort of distanced-but-powerful emotional force, something monstrous lurking behind a kind of inner door (as with the monster at the end of “Dagon”, or the chaos behind the curtains in “The Music of Erich Zann” (1921).) Which makes me think of Lovecraft’s perhaps most famous pronouncement, from the start of “The Call of Cthulhu”:

“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.”

Lovecraft’s fictional universe is one of visceral unsafety, the dread of knowledge, and deeply ambivalent feelings about oneself, one’s body, and one’s mind. It’s a world that seems, on the surface, very unemotional, except when emotion breaks through in (as Lovecraft puts it in “The Horror at Red Hook”) an overwhelming “Walpurgis-riot of horror”. Feeling is either absent, or it’s full-on chaos closer to madness than anything else.

As I say, I’m not presenting any of this as an argument that Lovecraft himself suffered from PTSD, though I do believe it would have been a need to, at some level, understand his own psychological state, which may have had similar elements, and achieve some sort of wholeness (“I am it and it is I”) that drove Lovecraft’s writing (as with many other writers). The very urge to tell a story may have been a means of seeking a self-cure. As van der Kolk says:

“Telling the story is important; without stories, memory becomes frozen; and without memory you cannot imagine how things can be different.”

Lovecraft’s insistence on presenting the utterly fantastic and irrational through the lens of a very strict rationality encapsulates both the difficulty and the means of treatment for PTSD. Because it’s by bringing the traumatic experience into the light of conscious awareness (if I understand van der Kolk correctly) that PTSD can be worked with. Van der Kolk’s book contains many stories of people who recovered from PTSD, using a wide variety of methods. I found it fascinating, and highly readable. There are a few videos of talks van der Kolk has given (such as this one, and his website is here), and it’s worth watching one if you’re interested. He comes across as very personable, open to new ideas, and entirely sympathetic to his patients, while not taking himself too seriously.

(I’d like to add that I am not at all an expert in any of the subjects covered in this Mewsings. Any errors are mine, and don’t come to me for medical advice!)