⭐ 4.5
"You’ve been touched by Sesqua Valley, and you’ll never be as you were.”
Introduction by Jessica Amanda Salmonson.
There are really only two living authors I believe took a lot of what they learned from H. P. Lovecraft and Edgar Allan Poe, then made those lessons into something strictly their own—emotive, decadent, lonesome dark jewels. One is W. H. Pugmire, the other is Tom Ligotti. In both cases, having read their stuff before they were published anywhere but the amateur press, I felt they were probably too original for popular success. The public likes crap, and preferably particolored unoriginal crap. And here were depths of darkness and sorrow and disturbing moments of humor and grotesquerie that seemed to have seeped from bleakly loving souls, broken rather than twisted, broken by an ugly world perhaps, manifesting in our material world like diamonds of jet.
Some passages:
“Out of the depths of dreaming came The antique thing that called my name. It shook me from my placid rest, Commanding me to kiss its breast. My mouth pressed to its marble hide. New longing was not satisfied. The pale thing called me brother, said, ‘I am the Dreaming and the Dead, Fallen from distant vortices, From whirling far-off galaxies, Past dying suns and chilly stars. I come to kiss thy psychic scars.’ Looking down I was perplexed To see the beast was double-sexed. ‘Kiss me there,’ it spoke to me, ‘And penetrate my mystery.’ I did not heed its queer command; Instead I took its pale hooked hand And with its talons pierced my eyes. Through blood and tears I scanned the skies. I saw the crawling stars that named Me as their own. Thus I am claimed.”
“Ah, subtle scream beneath disrupted earth, Oh, moaning of one mouth beneath the sod, The choking of one final cry, the dearth Of air spilled forth in prayer to heedless god. Allow all breath to cease, allow the stream Of mortal blood within to stop its course. Allow the liquid eye to dull its gleam. Abandon misery, unclench remorse. Your ache, so lunatic, is realized. You have achieved your fitful mortal goal. You have accomplished that so highly prized: The valley has embraced your mortal soul. You now are kindred with our shadow-race As you dissolve beneath the Hungry Place.”
"It is the effect of night that swims within my liquid eyes as I kneel on this tainted soil and dig my fingers into unhallowed earth. Windsong moans through the cracks and crevices of a ruined church where air is no longer sanctified and sinless, and as I work my hand into the churchyard sod I pray the name of one strange god who tastes me in my deepest dreaming."
"My human hands reached out. One caught my sister’s hair, and the other was clutched by her fiendish hand. Aided by her alchemy, I floated from the altar, into her embrace, and we danced as the earth beneath us crumbled into dust that was scattered as cosmic waste. Chortling, we stepped beyond the stars, guided by a Nameless One, past space and time, to hoary Yuggoth, where we buzzed in ecstasy among immortal fungi."
"I have looked through black trees to a dry and dead moon, There in a darkened sky, a place of ultimate omission, Which expands overhead like some cauldron of nightmare, An abyss of evening. Overhead, a yawning universe seethes, As if to devour this world and we Who creep insignificantly on it, We who stumble and find no hold of sanity. A chill madness seeps down from darkness; It touches the hoary stones Of this unholy house in this valley Where chaos and lunacy dance, Where they move in an atmosphere haunted By the mockery there on His mask, His façade of Imperial Midnight. He offers His hand to our tongue. (rough draft of a poem by William Davis Manly, left unfinished at the time of his disappearance)"
"The crowd I hang out with at home—they try so hard to be radical, but they’re all so very normal and bland. Their radical natures are things they’ve learned from the lives of others, which they try to duplicate; but they aren’t authentic, it’s all just cliche."