H. P. Lovecraft

Providence. Night walks. A man who treated the twentieth century as a personal insult. He sold to Weird Tales for pennies, lived on correspondence, and built a private cosmology in the leftover hours: a colour that should not fall from the sky, a harbour town that should not have gills, mountains that should not be climbed, a painter whose models were not posing. The Call of Cthulhu is one dossier in a drawer full of them. He died at forty-six, almost unread. The cult came later. The sentences are baroque on purpose. So is the loathing. Read him for the dread. Do not confuse the mythos with the man.