The Quest of Iranon

Dream Cycle

by H.P. Lovecraft

"The Quest of Iranon" is a short story by H. P. Lovecraft. It was written on February 28, 1921, and was first published in the July/August 1935 issue of the magazine Galleon.

The story is about a golden-haired youth who wanders into the city of Teloth, telling tales of the great city of Aira, where he was prince. While Iranon enjoys singing and telling his tales of wonder, few appreciate it. When a disenfranchised boy named Romnod suggests leaving Teloth to go to the famed city of Oonai (which he thinks may be Aira, now under a different name), Iranon takes him up on his offer.

Genres: Short Stories, Fantasy, Horror, Lovecraftian, Fiction, Classics, Audiobook

10 pages, Kindle Edition

First published July 1, 1935

About the author

Howard Phillips Lovecraft, of Providence, Rhode Island, was an American author of horror, fantasy and science fiction.

Lovecraft's major inspiration and invention was cosmic horror: life is incomprehensible to human minds and the universe is fundamentally alien. Those who genuinely reason, like his protagonists, gamble with sanity. Lovecraft has developed a cult following for his Cthulhu Mythos, a series of loosely interconnected fictions featuring a pantheon of human-nullifying entities, as well as the Necronomicon, a fictional grimoire of magical rites and forbidden lore. His works were deeply pessimistic and cynical, challenging the values of the Enlightenment, Romanticism and Christianity. Lovecraft's protagonists usually achieve the mirror-opposite of traditional gnosis and mysticism by momentarily glimpsing the horror of ultimate reality.

Although Lovecraft's readership was limited during his life, his reputation has grown over the decades. He is now commonly regarded as one of the most influential horror writers of the 20th Century, exerting widespread and indirect influence, and frequently compared to Edgar Allan Poe.
See also Howard Phillips Lovecraft.

— Wikipedia

Reviews

[Peter · Rating 4 out of 5]

Iranon a wandering singer is trying to find his way back to Aira, his hometown, he left many years ago. When forced to work in Teloth he wanders on with a young man to a town Oonai. There his travel companion dies after some years and Iranon moves on. Will Iranon ever reach his destination? A very poetic story with deeper philosophical meaning. Recommended!

[Bill Kerwin · Rating 2 out of 5]

“The Quest of Iranon,” an early fantasy in the style of Lord Dunsany, was not published until fourteen years after its composition in the magazine Galleon of 1935. It tells of the wandering bard and prince-in-exile Iranon, who sings of his home city of Aira, a city his hearers do not know and have not heard of, and how he seeks to find Aira through his wanderings. Iranon eventually achieves this quest, but with disastrous consequences.

This is not a bad story, really, but, although it is a good imitation, it reveals little of H.P.’s originality, his characteristic horror or humor.

Here is a representative sample from “The Quest of Iranon”:

Often at night Iranon sang to the revellers, but he was always as before, crowned only with the vine of the mountains and remembering the marble streets of Aira and the hyaline Nithra. In the frescoed halls of the Monarch did he sing, upon a crystal dais raised over a floor that was a mirror, and as he sang he brought pictures to his hearers till the floor seemed to reflect old, beautiful, and half-remembered things instead of the wine-reddened feasters who pelted him with roses. And the King bade him put away his tattered purple, and clothed him in satin and cloth-of-gold, with rings of green jade and bracelets of tinted ivory, and lodged him in a gilded and tapestried chamber on a bed of sweet carven wood with canopies and coverlets of flower-embroidered silk. Thus dwelt Iranon in Oonai, the city of lutes and dancing.

[Markus · Rating 4 out of 5]

Scrambling to complete my reading challenge after a relatively passive year means going for a tried and true method: Lovecraft stories. The shorter, the better.

Bonus points for when the story is actually quite wonderful. The Quest of Iranon was very different from good old HP's normal repertoire, and felt more like some early pre-Tolkien fantasy story in the vein of Howard and Burroughs. Not a bad thing at all. Just different.

[ᴥ Irena ᴥ · Rating 3 out of 5]

A heartbreaking story of a never-ending search for perfection and a place where people appreciate beauty, song and art.
A beautiful, young singer Iranon spends his time singing and searching for a great city of Aira, where he was a prince.


The language is at times tedious, but the story is not bad. If you manage to get through the language, you'll get a wonderful bitter-sweet story. I liked it.

[Andrei Vasilachi · Rating 4 out of 5]

What a beautiful and enduring short story. It dwells on the naiveté and sense of wonder of the youth that always seeks the unreachable; that which seems so close, yet with age is revealed to be a fantasy.

Iranon, a singer of songs whose calling is "to make beauty with the things remembered of childhood", is on a quest to find the city of Aira, in which he vaguely recalls growing up in, where he was a prince, the son of the king.

"My wealth is in little memories and dreams, and in hopes that I sing in gardens when the moon is tender and the west wind stirs the lotos-buds." (Complete Fiction of H.P. Lovecraft, p. 141)

He travels to faraway lands for years and years, singing his songs and wanting admiration, whilst all he gets is laughs, yawns, and slight interest from locals. His childish naiveté is put to test, and is ultimately adjusted by the real world, which was there all along, if only he tempered his dreaming and accepted his faith of being born in the city of Teloth, a city that he didn't (or pretended not to) recognize, where "all men most toil, for that is the law."

Was the city of Aira a figment of his imagination, a desire for an easy life with no toil where he would be destined to be a prince, or was it a past that he longed for and that could never be relived again, a time of childlike innocence when he thought of life as an easy endeavor?

"And in the twilight, as the stars came out one by one and the moon cast on the marsh a radiance like that which a child sees quivering on the floor as he is rocked to sleep at evening, there walked into the lethal quicksands a very old man in tattered purple, crowned with withered vine-leaves and gazing ahead as if upon the golden domes of a fair city where dreams are understood. That night something of youth and beauty died in the elder world." (p. 146)

[Andrew Leon · Rating 4 out of 5]

"The Quest of Iranon" is the most interesting of the Lovecraft stories I've read so far (I'm somewhere in the two dozen range). I'm not saying it's the best, but it's the only one that has give me a "huh, that was interesting" reaction. [Ignore the image. This is in no way a horror story.]

This will be full of spoilers and, actually, I'm going to ruin the ending, so you should go read it before going on with my review.

To put it simply, Iranon is a dreamer. He's a singer of songs and a teller of stories. And he's on a quest for his homeland, a land he remembers from his infancy, a land in which he was a prince. But he was for whatever reason left to be raised by another family, and he now seeks home.

During his journey, he acquires a travelling companion, a youth who wants to move on to a better place than where he lives, another dreamer, though not one who dreams as deeply as Iranon. They travel together for years, until the youth passes Iranon by in age and, eventually, dies, all the while Iranon ages not a day. There's no explanation as to why Iranon doesn't age, so it's to be assumed that it is because he is of a people of another place, a superior people.

This is the bit that's interesting to me (and here comes the real spoiler), because, at the end, Iranon, still on his quest, stays with an old man, an old man with whom it turns out he was friends with during his childhood. The old man only has distant memories of the boy, Iranon, who used to tell fantastic tales, tales about being a prince from a far off land, but tales that couldn't be true because he and everyone had known Iranon since birth,

Hearing the truth deprives Iranon of his eternal youth, and he becomes the old man that he really ought to be. The general interpretation of this is that Iranon had stayed eternally youthful because he was a dreamer, and that it is the death of his dream that causes him to grow old. I suppose this is a logical interpretation and it is what it presented in the story.

However, if you look deeper, it's possible to see that Iranon was only youthful in his own eyes. He was, for a while, a famous and popular entertainer in the city Oonai, but, eventually, the people turn to a new group of entertainers. It is pointed out in the story that these are young people. Iranon, no longer feeling appreciated, leaves the city. But, maybe, he's just grown old and he's the only one who doesn't see it. It's an interesting question.

[Mika · Rating 3 out of 5]

I believe that this story was about holding on to dreams that can never be fulfilled, only to be so disappointed in the end that it was all not worth it.

One may dream, one may imagine the most fantastical things, but one also has to know the limits between reality and fantasy.

I liked the theme of this book as it's like from a child perspective which changes so fast that it was quite surprising.

[Akrabar · Rating 5 out of 5]

One of the greatest HP Lovecraft stories.

[Hannah Froncek · Rating 5 out of 5]

This was an odd little bit of Lovecraft.
It may be one of his Dunsanian works, but it's still very easy to detect the helplessness that Lovecraft so often puts in his stories. This is an outline of a boy who dared to try and follow his dreams and wishes, but was crushed by the weight of the world.
This was a beautiful, sad story.
Iranon is almost representative of youth and innocence, deluding himself into believing he really was a prince, and aching for all of the things he couldn't have.
For a while, he was the archetypal immortal boy, forever trapped in a cruel world where he was constantly berated by adults for his imaginings, and outgrowing any children he befriended.
I personally think that it was a mercy to him that he ended up dying, and that he was finally granted peace from the tiresome world.
Once again, a beautiful read and a wonderful story to draw on.

[Himanshu Karmacharya · Rating 5 out of 5]

"My wealth is in little memories and dreams, and in hopes that I sing in gardens when the moon is tender and the west wind stirs the lotus-buds."

Wow! I am lost for words. This is so different from the other works of Lovecraft. It is so beautiful and heart breaking at the same time. I feel that it would make an amazing animated motion picture if done right.

[Orthopedropout · Rating 5 out of 5]

Together with The Outsider, quite possibly the saddest Lovecraft story I've read yet. I've still got a lot more to go. Would recommend if you like his overall Dunsanian imitations. I, for one, love his Dream Cycle, I always want to go visit the fantastical places in those stories

[Jon Swanson · Rating 4 out of 5]

First bit of Lovecraft I've ever read, was almost disappointed by the lack of tentacles and mind rending horrors.

It is a good short story, oddly poignant.

[Salam Almahi · Rating 4 out of 5]

First Lovecraft!
Whimsical. Sad. Hear-wrenching.

[Dave · Rating 2 out of 5]

Not a book that I'd recommend to anyone.
Definitely Lovecraft, but nowhere near his best.

[Liz · Rating 1 out of 5]

Soporific.

[Amelia Bujar · Rating 1 out of 5]

FULL REVIEW ON MY WEBSITE
https://thebookcornerchronicles.com/2...

The thing which made HP Lovecraft popular in the first place, you won’t find it in this short story. This story isn’t bad nor is it good. After all this story gives us some good imitation but the characteristic horror to HP Lovecraft is gone here.

The ending was sad but it also was an ending which we deserved. Which I love when something like this happens. The ending doesn’t need to have a “happy ending” as long as the author gives us the ending which we deserved.

The writing style for the most part was okay but of course it could have been much better than it actually was.

[Josh · Rating 3 out of 5]

The Bard in Purple

Another really strong Dreamcycle entry, albeit, yet again, too many made up fantasy names, my guy. Love the anti-grind philosophy here though. Always appreciate, a bit of l'art pour l'art. I'm surprised the idea hasn't come up more in his stories. He seems like the kind to believe art should exist for its own sake. There's more characterisation here than were used to getting in the dream stories, and Iranon and Romnod deserve a full trilogy of fantasy novels, Frodo and Sam style. I feel like Lovecraft always had a fantasy author in him, he just never got to writing big enough books. This is surprisingly solid though, if a bit meandering. Theres a dark and beautiful atmosphere, that feels more tactile than his other dramquest stuff. Some of the world building, while somehow both superficial and over the top, is quite pretty and intriguing. Lots of cool "X People from Y place", but no further details. The ending itself elevates the whole tale, and leaves us with some solid haunting visuals, as well as an absolute banger of a tragic final line.

3 Tattered Purple Robes out of 5

💜💜💜⬛⬛

[Anne · Rating 3 out of 5]

What is it with Lovecraft writing stories about people wandering into dark cities? In this one, at least, the prince goes back to his own home. This story feels like reading a Greek or Roman myth, as you can see with many of Lovecraft's stories. His writing is certainly inspired by old mythology. It follows a quest-type journey, as Iranon hopes to returns home after going through other cities which are not as beautiful as his city.

[Ian D · Rating 4 out of 5]

Το ταξίδι του ήρωα, στην προκειμένη περίπτωση είναι σκοτεινό, ατμοσφαιρικό και μυστήριο. Χωρίς να έχει το βάθος άλλων εκτενέστερων έργων του Lovecraft, έχει μια καλλιτεχνική προβολή στην αναζήτηση του ονείρου, του απραγματοποίητου, του τέλειου.
Σύντομο και περιεκτικό.

[Gueniver · Rating 2 out of 5]

Interesting but incredibly repetitive

[Tony Ciak · Rating 5 out of 5]

Weird, short story by a master,with Great Narration!!

[Bill · Rating 4 out of 5]

Here is the entire book:

The Quest of Iranon

By H. P. LOVECRAFT

Into the granite city of Teloth wandered the youth, vine-crowned, his yellow hair glistening with myrrh and his purple robe torn with briers of the mountain Sidrak that lies across the antique bridge of stone. The men of Teloth are dark and stern, and dwell in square houses, and with frowns they asked the stranger whence he had come and what were his name and fortune. So the youth answered:
"I am Iranon, and come from Aira, a far city that I recall only dimly but seek to find again. I am a singer of songs that I learned in the far city, and my calling is to make beauty with the things remembered of childhood. My wealth is in little memories and dreams, and in hopes that I sing in gardens when the moon is tender and the west wind stirs the lotus-buds."
When the men of Teloth heard these things they whispered to one another; for though in the granite city there is no laughter or song, the stern men sometimes look to the Karthian hills in the spring and think of the lutes of distant Oonai whereof travelers have told. And thinking thus, they bade the stranger stay and sing in the square before the Tower of Mlin, though they liked not the color of his tattered robe, nor the myrrh in his hair, nor his chaplet of vine-leaves, nor the youth in his golden voice. At evening Iranon sang, and while he sang an old man prayed and a blind man said he saw a nimbus over the singer's head. But most of the men of Teloth yawned, and some laughed and some went away to sleep; for Iranon told nothing useful, singing only his memories, his dreams, and his hopes.
"I remember the twilight, the moon, and soft songs, and the window where I was rocked to sleep. And through the window was the street where the golden lights came, and where the shadows danced on houses of marble. I remember the square of moonlight on the floor, that was not like any other light, and the visions that danced in the moonbeams when my mother sang to me. And too, I remember the sun of morning bright above the many-colored hills in summer, and the sweetness of flowers borne on the south wind that made the trees sing.
"O Aira, city of marble and beryl, how many are thy beauties! How loved I the warm and fragrant groves across the hyaline Nithra, and the falls of the tiny Kra that flowed through the verdant valley! In those groves and in that vale the children wove wreaths for one another, and at dusk I dreamed strange dreams under the yath-trees on the mountain as I saw below me the lights of the city, and the curving Nithra reflecting a ribbon of stars.
"And in the city were palaces of veined and tinted marble, with golden domes and painted walls, and green gardens with cerulean pools and crystal fountains. Often I played in the gardens and waded in the pools, and lay and dreamed among the pale flowers under the trees. And sometimes at sunset I would climb the long hilly street to the citadel and the open place, and look down upon Aira, the magic city of marble and beryl, splendid in a robe of golden flame.
"Long have I missed thee, Aira, for I was but young when we went into exile; but my father was thy King and I shall come again to thee, for it is so decreed of Fate. All through seven lands have I sought thee, and some day shall I reign over thy groves and gardens, thy streets and palaces, and sing to men who shall know whereof I sing, and laugh not. For I am Iranon, who was a Prince in Aira."
That night the men of Teloth lodged the stranger in a stable, and in the morning an archon came to him and told him to go to the shop of Athok the cobbler, and be apprenticed to him.
"But I am Iranon, a singer of songs," he said, "and have no heart for the cobbler's trade."
"All in Teloth must toil," replied the archon, "for that is the law." Then said Iranon:
"Wherefore do ye toil; is it not that ye may live and be happy? And if ye toil only that ye may toil more, when shall happiness find you? Ye toil to live, but is not life made of beauty and song? And if ye suffer no singers among you, where shall be the fruits of your toil? Toil without song is like a weary journey without an end. Were not death more pleasing?" But the archon was sullen and did not understand, and rebuked the stranger.
"Thou art a strange youth, and I like not thy face or thy voice. The words thou speakest are blasphemy, for the gods of Teloth have said that toil is good. Our gods have promised us a haven of life beyond death, where there shall be rest without end, and crystal coldness amidst which none shall vex his mind with thought or his eyes with beauty. Go thou then to Athok the cobbler or be gone out of the city by sunset. All here must serve, and song is folly."

So Iranon went out of the stable and walked over the narrow stone streets between the gloomy square houses of granite, seeking something green, for all was of stone. On the faces of men were frowns, but by the stone embankment along the sluggish river Zuro sate a young boy with sad eyes gazing into the waters to spy green budding branches washed down from the hills by the freshets. And the boy said to him: "Art thou not indeed he of whom the archons tell, who seekest a far city in a fair land? I am Romnod, and born in the blood of Teloth, but am not old in the ways of the granite city, and yearn daily for the warm groves and the distant lands of beauty and song. Beyond the Karthian hills lieth Oonai, the city of lutes and dancing, which men whisper of and say is both lovely and terrible. Thither would I go were I old enough to find the way, and thither shouldst thou go and thou wouldst sing and have men listen to thee. Let us leave the city Teloth and fare together among the hills of spring. Thou shalt show me the ways of travel and I will attend thy songs at evening when the stars one by one bring dreams to the minds of dreamers. And peradventure it may be that Oonai the city of lutes and dancing is even the fair Aira thou seekest, for it is told that thou hast not known Aira since old days, and a name often changeth. Let us go to Oonai, O Iranon of the golden head, where men shall know our longings and welcome us as brothers, nor ever laugh or frown at what we say." And Iranon answered:
"Be it so, small one; if any in this stone place yearn for beauty he must seek the mountains and beyond, and I would not leave thee to pine by the sluggish Zuro. But think not that delight and understanding dwell just across the Karthian hills, or in any spot thou canst find in a day's, or a year's, or a lustrum's journey. Behold, when I was small like thee I dwelt in the valley of Narthos by the frigid Xari, where none would listen to my dreams; and I told myself that when older I would go to Sinara on the southern slope, and sing to smiling dromedarymen in the market place. But when I went to Sinara I found the dromedarymen all drunken and ribald, and saw that their songs were not as mine; so I travelled in a barge down the Xari to onyx-walled Jaren. And the soldiers at Jaren laughed at me and drave me out, so that I wandered to other cities.
"I have seen Stethelos that is below the great cataract, and have gazed on the marsh where Sarnath once stood. I have been to Thraa, Ilarnek, and Kadatheron on the winding river Ai, and have dwelt long in Olathoë in the land of Lomar. But though I have had listeners sometimes, they have ever been few, and I know that welcome shall wait me only in Aira, the city of marble and beryl where my father once ruled as King. So for Aira shall we seek, though it were well to visit distant and lute-blessed Oonai across the Karthian hills, which may indeed be Aira, though I think not. Aira's beauty is past imagining, and none can tell of it without rapture, whilst of Oonai the camel-drivers whisper leeringly."
At the sunset Iranon and small Romnod went forth from Teloth, and for long wandered amidst the green hills and cool forests. The way was rough and obscure, and never did they seem nearer to Oonai the city of lutes and dancing; but in the dusk as the stars came out Iranon would sing of Aira and its beauties and Romnod would listen, so that they were both happy after a fashion. They ate plentifully of fruit and red berries, and marked not the passing of time, but many years must have slipped away. Small Romnod was now not so small, and spoke deeply instead of shrilly, though Iranon was always the same, and decked his golden hair with vines and fragrant resins found in the woods. So it came to pass one day that Romnod seemed older than Iranon, though he had been very small when Iranon had found him watching for green budding branches in Teloth beside the sluggish stone-banked Zura.
Then one night when the moon was full the travellers came to a mountain crest and looked down upon the myriad lights of Oonai. Peasants had told them they were near, and Iranon knew that this was not his native city of Aira. The lights of Oonai were not like those of Aira; for they were harsh and glaring, whilst the lights of Aira shine as softly and magically as shone the moonlight on the floor by the window where Iranon's mother once rocked him to sleep with song. But Oonai was a city of lutes and dancing; so Iranon and Romnod went down the steep slope that they might find men to whom songs and dreams would bring pleasure. And when they were come into the town they found rose-wreathed revellers bound from house to house and leaning from windows and balconies, who listened to the songs of Iranon and tossed him flowers and applauded when he was done. Then for a moment did Iranon believe he had found those who thought and felt even as he, though the town was not an hundredth so fair as Aira.
When dawn came Iranon looked about with dismay, for the domes of Oonai were not golden in the sun, but gray and dismal. And the men of Oonai were pale with revelling, and dull with wine, and unlike the radiant men of Aira. But because the people had thrown him blossoms and acclaimed his songs Iranon stayed on, and with him Romnod, who liked the revelry of the town and wore in his dark hair roses and myrtle. Often at night Iranon sang to the revellers, but he was always as before, crowned only with the vine of the mountains and remembering the marble streets of Aira and the hyaline Nithra. In the frescoed halls of the monarch did he sing, upon a crystal dais raised over a floor that was a mirror, and as he sang, he brought pictures to his hearers till the floor seemed to reflect old, beautiful and half-remembered things instead of the wine-reddened feasters who pelted him with roses. And the King bade him put away his tattered purple, and clothed him in satin and cloth-of-gold, with rings of green jade and bracelets of tinted ivory, and lodged him in a gilded and tapestried chamber on a bed of sweet carven wood with canopies and coverlets of flower-embroidered silk. Thus dwelt Iranon in Oonai, the city of lutes and dancing.
It is not known how long Iranon tarried in Oonai, but one day the King brought to the palace some wild whirling dancers from the Liranian desert, and dusky flute-players from Drinen in the East, and after that the revellers threw their roses not so much at Iranon as at the dancers and the flute-players. And day by day that Romnod who had been a small boy in granite Teloth grew coarser and redder with wine, till he dreamed less and less, and listened with less delight to the songs of Iranon. But though Iranon was sad he ceased not to sing, and at evening told again his dreams of Aira, the city of marble and beryl. Then one night the reddened and fattened Romnod snored heavily amidst the poppied silks of his banquet-couch and died writhing, whilst Iranon, pale and slender, sang to himself in a far corner. And when Iranon had wept over the grave of Romnod and strewn it with green budding branches, such as Romnod used to love, he put aside his silks and gauds and went forgotten out of Oonai the city of lutes and dancing clad only in the ragged purple in which he had come, and garlanded with fresh vines from the mountains.
Into the sunset wandered Iranon, seeking still for his native land and for men who would understand and cherish his songs and dreams. In all the cities of Cydathria and in the lands beyond the Bnazic desert gay-faced children laughed at his olden songs and tattered robe of purple; but Iranon stayed ever young, and wore wreaths upon his golden head whilst he sang of Aira.
So came he one night to the squalid cot of an antique shepherd, bent and dirty, who kept flocks on a stony slope above a quicksand marsh. To this man Iranon spoke, as to so many others:
"Canst thou tell me where I may find Aira, the city of marble and beryl, where flows the hyaline Nithra and where the falls of the tiny Kra sing to verdant valleys and hills forested with yath-trees?" And the shepherd, hearing, looked long and strangely at Iranon, as if recalling something very far away in time, and noted each line of the stranger's face, and his golden hair, and his crown of vine-leaves. But he was old, and replied:
"O stranger, I have indeed heard the name of Aira, and the other names thou hast spoken, but they come to me from afar down the waste of long years. I heard them in my youth from the lips of a playmate, a beggar's boy given to strange dreams, who would weave long tales about the moon and the flowers and the west wind. We used to laugh at him, for we knew him from his birth though he thought himself a King's son. He was comely, even as thou, but full of folly and strangeness; and he ran away when small to find those who would listen gladly to his songs and dreams. How often hath he sung to me of lands that never were, and things that never can be! Of Aira did he speak much; of Aira and the river Nithra, and the falls of the tiny Kra. There would he ever say he once dwelt as a Prince, though here we knew him from his birth. Nor was there ever a marble city of Aira, or those who could delight in strange songs, save in the dreams of mine old playmate Iranon who is gone."
And in the twilight, as the stars came out one by one and the moon cast on the marsh a radiance like that which a child sees quivering on the floor as he is rocked to sleep at evening, there walked into the lethal quicksands a very old man in tattered purple, crowned with withered vine leaves and gazing ahead as if upon the golden domes of a fair city where dreams are understood.
That night something of youth and beauty died in the elder world.

The end

[Aleksei · Rating 3 out of 5]

Sad but in a good way.

[Wiki · Rating 5 out of 5]

Beautiful

[Dunai Fanni · Rating 4 out of 5]

Iranon is a young singer who once lived in a beautiful city of Aria where his father was a king. He is trying to get back in this city, searching for it in his whole life, where people love his singing and perfomances. He ages and finally meets with an old man, asks him if he knows where can he find Aria, the old city, and the old man starts to tell a story about his young friend who ones left their city to find Aria, a city that nobody knows, and never existed... he was called Iranon...

[Godzilla · Rating 3 out of 5]

Less of a horror story and more of a mythical adventure, following traditional lines.

Lovecraft weaves the worlds and cities so well, and this is no exception.

Iranon's quest seems so simple, yet leaves the reader in no doubt that striving for such things does not reward you.

In the tradition of all great tragedies, the ending seems very fitting.

[Love of Hopeless Causes · Rating 3 out of 5]

It struck me how similar the Dreamlands are to the worlds of Dr. Suess. Especially the place names, the impossible angles of the architecture (R'Lyeh), and the mad proportions of his abominations. :) Lovecraft also had a treasure fetish, though not to Gygaxian extremes. A beautiful tale, perhaps about the dissatisfied nature of the ego.

[Sohail · Rating 2 out of 5]

Another extremely boring story about how the protagonist is a superman from another world and other people are fools who cannot understand his greatness (basically what Lovecraft considered himself to be). Boring as hell, and extremely egoistic. Lovecraft's horror fiction was excellent, but his dream cycle quests were products of superiority complex.

[Rizzie · Rating 3 out of 5]

I must be the only person on Earth who actually prefers Lovecraft's otherworldly fantasies to his urban horrors. But here we are. This one isn't quite as transcendent as "Till A the Seas" but still a fun little story. Lovecraft had a wonderful way of crafting bizarre unknown histories in a manner devoid of tedium, a talent fully displayed here.

[JL Shioshita · Rating 4 out of 5]

Out of all of Lovecraft's Dream Cycle/Fantasy Stories, this is one of my favorites. The idea of a dream sustaining the titular hero, and the subsequent destruction of that dream destroying him is very sentimental and not something Lovecraft did very often.