I love. Love love love the writing of HP. Absolutely strikes a cord in my heart somehow, ever since I began reading his beautiful words in 2016 So after last weeks Triffids effort, I decided to “Re-word” some of HP’s work. Except, that would be sacrilegious of me, so I smashed two of his works together below. Let me know if you can guess which stories I used and the way in which I re-arranged them ♥
West of Arkham the hills rise wild, and there are valleys with deep woods that no axe has ever cut. The most merciful thing in the world, I think, is the inability of the human mind to correlate all its contents. The old folk have gone away, and foreigners do not like to live there. We live on a placid island of ignorance in the midst of black seas of infinity, and it was not meant that we should voyage far. There was once a road over the hills and through the valleys, that ran straight where the blasted heath is now; but people ceased to use it and a new road was laid curving far toward the south. The sciences, each straining in its own direction, have hitherto harmed us little; but some day the piecing together of dissociated knowledge will open up such terrifying vistas of reality, and of our frightful position therein, that we shall either go mad from the revelation or flee from the deadly light into the peace and safety of a new dark age.
When I went into the hills and vales to survey for the new reservoir they told me the place was evil. They told me this in Arkham, and because that is a very old town full of witch legends I thought the evil must be something which grandams had whispered to children through centuries. Theosophists have guessed at the awesome grandeur of the cosmic cycle wherein our world and human race form transient incidents. In the open spaces, mostly along the line of the old road, there were little hillside farms; sometimes with all the buildings standing, sometimes with only one or two, and sometimes with only a lone chimney or fast-filling cellar. They have hinted at strange survivals in terms which would freeze the blood if not masked by a bland optimism. But it is not from them that there came the single glimpse of forbidden aeons which chills me when I think of it and maddens me when I dream of it. That glimpse, like all dread glimpses of truth, flashed out from an accidental piecing together of separated things—in this case an old newspaper item and the notes of a dead professor.
Stay weird beautiful people ❤