You don’t get any points for treating pulp as serious literature, especially not with Lovecraft. And even if you did, disputations about genre are not a hill that anyone should want to die on. That being said I want to shout at the clouds about science fiction & horror for a minute. Fans of the lowbrow often come off as defensive, ensconced in a slightly delusional persecution complex; these days, there are far more defenders of popular art forms than there are snobs pillorying them. So this is not another bellicose salvo in a tedious & irrelevant debate, I'd just like to make some observations about the mechanics of the books themselves. I think the question of genre is one of the more interesting endemic to Lovecraft’s work and legacy. And I think it has become vexed in recent times.
The gothic is the pulp arm of romanticism; Lovecraft’s own genre, the Weird, is the pulp arm of modernism (and of surrealism to whatever extent it has a separate identity), but it is not modern or anti-modern so much as metamodern. Both the modernist genre products meant for mass consumption & the highbrow, avant garde or countercultural niches are dynamic conceptual poles & most novels, stories, poems & whatever else, exist somewhere on a spectrum between them; and at the risk of sounding like a dilettantish Deleuzo-Derridean, this is a continuum of variously assembled protocols, each with its own hybrid atomic structure which determines the thematic or narratological coordinates the work itself receives.
So the genre categories I’m referring to are by way of reference diachronic or etiological, a historicized family tree sutured together by influence & inheritance rather than an overdetermined natural essence. I tilt toward lowbrow genre pulp, an aspecific but pragmatic pattern for the combination of these tropes, because I instinctively feel that there’s more room for creativity and vision within their loose (but instantaneously recognizable) structuration. And, well, literary theory is mostly ex post facto rationalization for intuitive claims. Or so my intuition tells me. But lately I'm not sure what the point of it is, except as a rubric for periodization.
Some of the better postmodern writers, at least the ones with an interest in pulp like Thomas Pynchon & JG Ballard, worked to blur these distinctions, to show that high and low art existed symbiotically, that they are never fully independent of one another. And comics, horror movies & science fiction have become raw ore for post-postmodernist, lyrical realist, ‘new sincere’ and slipstream attempts to eclipse the logic of postmodernism. They are fully integrated into the deep grammar of self-styled serious art. I think the problem with many of these approaches is that an internal condition of postmodernism is the occlusion of broad consensus, so its lineage is necessarily multifarious. But these nascent pretenders-to-the-throne are still beholden to the grand narrative structure of modernism, usually replete with their own manifestos, that odd hangover from industrial age organizing credos. A friend sent me the manifesto for the #AltWoke movement the other day and despite the freshness of its declarations, I couldn't believe how outdated it felt. How can you have a manifesto after Derrida and Baudrillard? These thinkers can and (in my opinion) should be supplanted, but their accomplishments still call for new forms of resistance. More to the point, returning to an inflexible binary of high and low art (or any kind of strict genre demarcation) is a pointless and reactionary move.
Here’s something to think on; when did the inclusion of ghosts, monsters, battles, etc. become the Master Signifiers of genre work, irreconcilable with serious literature except via irony or pastiche? And why is the horror genre until WWII, which is usually about the neurosis of the emergent petit bourgeois professional class (a subject universal to novels of every stripe since medievalism), suddenly warded off as a lowbrow deviation from literary canonicity? Shelley, Radcliffe, Poe, De Fanu, Machen, Blackwood & many, many others were at least as gifted as their contemporaries in the realist traditions.
But lapsing into relativism is callow and uninteresting, so how do we prosecute a 21st century cartography of genre? That is, without writing a manifesto. I don't actually know the answer to this question but I'm sure that it must be done & the enduring vitality of certain genre works is a good place to start.
I think I’ve rambled headlong into H.P. Lovecraft himself. Lovecraft’s abilities as a writer were immense. Even his worst stories contain all the quality of the novelistic tradition in style, composition and structure. And his best work approaches the classics, both in merit and longterm cultural resonance. But as with any artist broadly imitated, his lineage of influence has not always been positive. Not everyone learned the right lessons from Lovecraft.
Modern authors of horror are too character focused, I think. You can probably blame this on the popularity of someone like Stephen King, who pilfered cosmic abominations from Lovecraft but left at the doorway the context which made them horrifying in the first place. Creating sympathetic characters in cozy domestic settings only to maim & kill them is a cheap bit. But it has proven endlessly popular & was enthusiastically picked up by the mostly unimpressive horror movie machine in hollywood. The only reason for authors of horror to forge a sympathetic character is to evoke a gratuitous or sadistic libidinal thrill from violence done to them. Thematically speaking, it shouldn’t matter if the victims of Pennywise or Cthulhu are well wrought representations of the human psyche. It’s not really the point. As Thomas Ligotti puts it,“…the consolation of horror in art is that it actually intensifies our panic, loudens it on the sounding-board of our horror-hollowed hearts, turns terror up full blast, all the while reaching for that perfect and deafening amplitude at which we may dance to the bizarre music of our own misery.” Jump scares have a limited shelf life & Lovecraft’s ability to shock has long expired, but there is something in his stories which still rises to Ligotti’s challenge. This component piece of Lovecraft is ageing well and is more acutely pertinent today than it was when I first read him as a teenager. It has comfortably assumed a new precedence in the stories.
Call Lovecraft’s characters one-dimensional if you must, I’ll concede at least that the rotating dramatis personae of antiquarians, scientists and academics are indistinguishable from one another. But he’s a more patient & meticulous writer than anyone working in the immense ambit of his legacy. New England architecture, arctic geography, alien biology, family histories, fossil patterns, etc. are lovingly, sometimes appallingly, detailed. This can be a slog to read through but it creates the sense of a lived in world. This is very important for the meaning & effect of his stories. The minutiae of the world, which Lovecraft archives very well, is exactly as meaningful as it helps people navigate their busy little lives. But implanted in an even slightly broadened perspective, it becomes the subject of cosmic horror stories with power that reaches undiminished across the long & varied century since they were written.
As Ray Brassier said of our species, we ‘crafty apes with opposable thumbs’ have catalogued and indexed an almost unbelievable scope of the cosmos, an extraordinary accomplishment which Lovecraft duly reveres. In his stories, the sincerity & nobility of scientific enterprise is never stymied by romantic or sentimental conceitedness. But this earnestness and courage in science is always inevitably humiliated by the literally unthinkable vastness of its address. Astronomers and geologists are doing the best and most important work humanly possible; it’s just, in proportion to its context, human possibility is unimportant and insignificant.
I cracked open this collection because it contained several stories I hadn’t read. Unfortunately they were mostly inessential juvenalia, a sequence of Lovecraft’s Dunsany-inspired dreamscape stories. These stories are...fine but somewhat forgettable, and indistinct upon recollection. The real draw to ‘The Thing on the Doorstep & other Weird Stories’ are 3 of Lovecraft’s best known & longest works, all of which are full-throated in his own voice; Charles Dexter Ward, The Dunwich Horror & At the Mountains of Madness. Together they span more than half the collection & especially read in succession, they seem to go on forever. Despite their seemingly interminable aggregate length & unified representation of Lovecraft’s artistic maturity, there’s a sea change between each text and they have bold & discreet identities. That said, if I were editing these collections, I wouldn’t have stacked them all atop one another.
Incidentally, I think Nick Land is the only inheritor of Lovecraft worthy of the name. And not just because they’re both deranged eugenicists with skeletal bodies made from angles & elbows. I didn’t touch on this enough in my, shall we say, expansive review of Fanged Noumena, but Land’s earnest attempt to represent a cosmic materialism unvarnished by human self esteem is more Lovecraftian than the thousand year reich of b-movie tentacle monsters. In Land, as in Lovecraft, the quest for meaning is portrayed as embarrassing & slightly hysterical. But a splenetic angst always arises in rebellion against the cleaving toward ahuman perspectives & if the dark Promethean act survives amidst this opprobrium, it is obviated by our biological limitations.
(actually Thomas Ligotti is good for this too, but I’ve written about that elsewhere)
What does Science Fiction mean when the day-to-day life of your average first-world reader contains more technological marvels than the wildest speculation of books released just several decades prior? What does Horror mean when the population of earth lives in a constant state of emergency? What kind of realism would not deal with these vectors? Does the genre just refer to a narrative emphasis on the excitations of spectacle rather than the mindful pleasures of serious literature? In that case, Lovecraft is not a science fiction writer, and despite his own suspiciously overstated protestations to the contrary, he has far more in common with Eliot and Pound than comic books and alien invasion films. ‘Realism’ can’t possibly keep up with reality anymore; in the time that it takes to write a novel its cultural-technological paradigm for (post)((post))(((meta?)))modernity will be obsolete. Whatever the fate of realism & fantasy as storytelling devices, Lovecraft seems more true to life than ever in 2018.