Lovecraft’s psychology has always intrigued me. His tone wobbles between grandiosity and fragility. One moment you get “unspeakable aeons,” the next you get a man alone in a room, obsessed with a door, a book, a tomb. The scale keeps collapsing back down to a single, trembling consciousness.
He writes like someone who is deeply in love with the idea of being haunted. Not just haunted by monsters, but haunted by lineage, by lost civilisations, by secret knowledge that only a very special, very sensitive narrator can perceive. His narrators are almost always convinced that they are uniquely tuned to some cosmic frequency that everyone else is too dull, too modern, too vulgar to hear.
In The Tomb especially, the protagonist is basically a teenager who found a crypt and went,
this was obviously meant for me, playing with decadent-era Romanticism: the idea that you are spiritually descended from something ancient and aristocratic and therefore more real than the present. It’s a fantasy of being chosen by the past. The problem is that he takes it absolutely straight-faced.
Apparently, (although I struggle to sympathise with him) Lovecraft is often critiquing that mindset even while indulging it. His narrators think they’re special, but they’re also deeply unstable, isolated, and sliding into obsession. They aren’t enlightened. He doesn’t give you the modern wink that says “this guy is unreliable.” He expects you to pick it up from the vibes.
Lovecraft in real life was a sickly, financially unstable, socially awkward, extremely racist and elitist man who felt constantly out of step with the modern world. He dropped out of school, never really held a job, lived off aunts and friends, and wrote thousands of letters because face-to-face life terrified him. He was also obsessed with the idea that civilisation was in decline and that he himself was a kind of stranded relic from a better, more refined past. That’s not the psychology of a secure person.
Racism and elitism are not just feelings. They are projects that require rehearsal, repetition, community, and choice. Lovecraft didn’t merely have private fears, he constructed an ideology around them. He wrote essays, letters, poems, entire cosmologies that turned his anxieties into a theory of who deserved to exist comfortably in the future. That’s not an accident. That’s a commitment.
But there’s an uncomfortable truth that sits in the middle, as insecurity does not cancel power— insecurity often wants power.
Feeling small, threatened, and out of place does not automatically produce kindness. For a lot of people, it produces a hunger for hierarchy. If you can convince yourself you are inherently superior, then your pain becomes evidence of injustice rather than just suffering. The world isn’t indifferent; it’s wronging you. And someone must be to blame.
So, Lovecraft found psychological comfort in believing he was part of a refined, superior lineage. That belief didn’t remove his insecurity. It papered over it. It gave it a narrative.
“I am superior, yet I am miserable” becomes “the world is degenerating and doesn’t recognise true worth anymore.”That is a far more tolerable story than “I am lonely, afraid, and failing to adapt.”
If you decide not only that others are to blame, but that you are above them, you get a surge of psychological safety. You are no longer a frightened animal in a storm; you are a besieged noble in a fallen kingdom. Your suffering becomes proof of your refinement. That feels good. It stabilises you. It gives you an identity. This is why I struggle to sympathise with him at all. Because at some point, arguably, insecurity just horseshoes around and becomes egotism.
And the placebo works, the body calms, and the mind feels more coherent. That’s why ideologies of supremacy are so sticky. They actually do regulate anxiety, at least in the short term. They replace existential dread with moral certainty.
The relief only lasts as long as the story is maintained. Reality keeps poking holes in it, as the world keeps changing and other people keep existing. So the belief has to get more extreme, more rigid, more defensive. What started as self soothing turns into paranoia and rage.
Lovecraft lived in that loop. He felt briefly less terrified. The ideology functioned like laudanum for his nerves: numbing, not healing.
I still think his racism and elitism was entirely a choice, even if they were chosen because they worked, he could have simply just… not thought that way and looked for a new outlook. This pattern is timeless. Insecure people discovering that blaming others feels better than sitting with pain is one of the oldest algorithms in the human psyche. And I really struggle to enjoy the art of and be in contact with any such of these people because I genuinely can’t understand them nor do I care to try and hear them out or rationalise it
Rationalising someone like Lovecraft is dangerous when it slides into “he couldn’t help it.”
Explaining him is only useful if it sharpens the reality that he could have done otherwise and didn’t.
Psychology tells us how the machine works, it does not tell us that the machine was inevitable.
Lovecraft’s insecurity helps explain why racist fantasy was emotionally attractive to him. It does not make it less racist. His fear of modernity helps explain his obsession with decay and contamination, but it does not make those metaphors less violent when they get mapped onto real people.
Lovecraft is interesting not because he deserves any sympathy, but because he shows how easily human vulnerability can be alchemised into cruelty when given the wrong story to live inside. And noticing that mechanism, without romanticising it, is one of the few ways to keep it from quietly reproducing itself in the present. However we haven’t been very good at doing that lately