The Book

af H. P. Lovecraft & Agent C


My memories, very confused where they begin at an isolated point in a grey, formless infinity, commmunicating this message, speaking, have a vague impression that some strange identity outgrowth of my cycles stem from that book. I remember a place near the black, oily river and the shelves endlessly through windowless inner rooms besides great formless heaps of books on the floor. I found the thing, never its title, pages were missing. The end gave me a glimpse of something, a formula – a sort of list of things to say and do – black and forbidden in paragraphs of ancient secrets – a key to gateways of dream and whisper beyond the dimensions of life and matter.

Not for centuries recalled or known where his hand had traced how I remember a curious sign with his hand away. Guess why those impressions of feet alive with a closed channel of evil had opened those walls with eyelike fragments crushing me before closing the book and away.

I remember how the locked room was very still. I think I had a family then, though very uncertain what the year was since many ages and dimensions have dissolved.

I seemed to keep track of the first scratching and fumbling above the city. It came as a shadow I had evoked. The book was all. Night passed the vortex morning in the room in the walls and that which I had never seen before.

I see the world as present scene past and the future object alien in sight from dream of unknown shapes with each new gateway crossed. Things of the narrow sphere saw me and I grew silent and mad. A fear of me felt the outside shadow in forgotten books and gateways of space and being and life-patterns.

The walls melted away and I was swept by mountains below the light of stars that dreamed in space to be cut off from my body in unknown abysses whence I could never return.

in the dark2 pp copy



(‘The Book’ følger principperne i Manifesto C)

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