H. P. Lovecraft: Against the World, Against Life by Michel Houellebecq (1991)

 I've read quite a few essays which were published before the Second World War, and I haven't yet come across one which valorises overstatement as though it were passion. I don't quite get the genesis of this recent peculiarity, particularly among the French. It seems a superficial understanding, to be frank, of the terms of passion, like a little kid's idea of love. One can imagine the child, having seen some films, emoting like hell, waving their arms about, and saying something hilariously smoochy and over the top. This feels a little like that, but with an academic carapace. The further astonishment is that academia has seriously taken this attitude of "passion" on board, as though it's a new language, a development into subtlety and deeper understanding. I've read a little bit of Lovecraft, and have absorbed whatever that's given me of his way with things, have a sense of how he goes about telling his tale. So when I read things like "a supreme antidote against all forms of realism" as describing Lovecraft's modus, I feel I'm at sea (already, as this is on the first page). Lovecraft seems to use all manner of realistic tropes, for one. One might say it was this situating realism that made more of his fantastic exertions. So, a dubious claim contentually, and then put in this "all forms", "supreme"-ly excessive way, evocative of French academia's worst. But, if one can mentally filter out the noise from all this stuff, there's a load of interesting detail here. Biographical notes filling in a picture of this worried, harassed, bitter, socially limited man in particular. Again filtering like mad, one can build up one's own picture of who he was, how he functioned. Another observation: I can't put this down to Houellebecq alone, because it's more universal than that, but there is the "usual" commentary here about how, in Lovecraft's stories, we come face to face with (definitively and classically) absolute terror, complete horror, etc. It seems to me that, in the stories I've read at least, the impact is not that. It's much more of a hinting. I don't get creeps up my spine, I get a feeling of fascination tempered with the author's love of queasy detail. Biographically, Lovecraft seems "ick"-laden: he had a horror, post the New York years particularly, of other races and their seemingly animalistic qualities; even earlier, he withdrew in a nervous state from the world for a long period, and then delimited his life to gentlemanly and polite pursuits after the big reclusion had ended; he didn't want to much engage with sexuality or the elements of any sort of physical hedonism, certainly not publically anyway. The impact of his stories seems allied to this - a feeling of ick. And, thanks, despite himself, to Houellebecq, I now see this echo more clearly. Lovecraft and Houellebecq are the two primary authors here, but there are a couple of others to mention: Stephen King provides an introduction, and celebrates the author's "passion", whilst also decrying it - very gently; Dorna Khazeni is the translator, who has felt the need to add an appendix listing all the times she found it impossible to locate Houellebecq's sources for quotes. He mentions early on that this book, his first, was "almost a first novel" - giving himself a neat little out for invention? I dunno, it doesn't recommend itself as a cause for confidence. The details through this piece are great, despite one's need to constantly mentally edit as one reads, until Khazeni's appendix is reached. I think on the whole Houellebecq can be relied on for the spirit/essence of his "facts", but can't help feeling a sense of caution.