Sometimes a name fits a person or object like a glove. Take for instance the German word for team, as in soccer team. To my foreign ears, Mannschaft connotes a group of men banding together to perform an operation of great violence or skill; overhauling a submarine, for instance. Fitting, right?
For a few years now I’ve associated the name “Lovecraft” with one of the classical names of early science fiction. I mistakenly categorized HP Lovecraft into the company of the visionary HG Wells, the prophetic Jules Verne, the ground-breaking Isaac Asimov. But not only was Lovecraft American born, unlike these three writers, he was more eclectic in his fiction writing.
Because I first heard the name mentioned in a college course studying 19th century ghost stories, I ought to have taken the hint Lovecraft was in the business of writing horror. But to me the name spoke of a grand voyage taken by fantastical creatures to a rainbow galaxy, so how was I to suspect otherwise?
I finally took the hint on a visit last weekend to Barnes and Noble, when waiting for me in the atrium was a collection of HP Lovecraft of Hebrew Scriptural proportions. Having no shame when it comes to public displays of affection with a codex, with two hands I tenderly took the book from its place on the quick-sell rack and flipped its pages lovingly. Only then did I understand this book was a collection of horror fiction. Rainbow galaxy indeed.
But nobody had to know of my little blunder, did they? So I entered the store with my head held high, taking in the wonder of books and living in the endorphin rush. HP Lovecraft was no longer a writer of the cosmic but of corpses, which explained my inability to find him at our giant used Books and CDs store in the science fiction section, no matter how often I walked the genre aisle.
As you've probably guessed by now, or perhaps already know, Lovecraft writes horror as well as science fiction, and--what's this?--fantasy to boot. What a loveable craft this man was blessed with.
And so, at the book store, I moved on to fondling other merchandise, namely the two last books of a certain American essayist my wife and I lack for our collection. At first I couldn’t locate an aisle named "essays," mistakenly scouring the generously stocked World War II history section twice over. The self-search computer was jammed as luck would have it, so this English major swallowed his pride once again and lined up at the customer help desk, where out of the corner of my eye was the missing aisle. Patiently awaiting my audience by the conveniently placed steps to the coffee bar.
For a fascinating discourse on Lovecraft's life and mythos:
http://www.crackle.com/c/Lovecraft_Fear_Of_The_Unknown
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