And Where Nyarlathotep Went, Rest

I Can Look Back . . . At Two Distinct Periods Of Opinion Whose Foundations I Have Successively Come To Distrust - A Period Before 1919 Or So, When The Weight Of Classic Authority Unduly Influenced Me, And Another Period From 1919 To About 1925, When I Placed Too High A Value On The Elements Of Revolt, Florid Colour, And Emotional Extravagance Or Intensity.

Some Of Us Awake In The Night With Strange Phantasms Of Enchanted Hills And Gardens, Of Fountains That Sing In The Sun, Of Golden Cliffs Overhanging Murmuring Seas, Of Plains That Stretch Down To Sleeping Cities Of Bronze Andstone, And Of Shadowy Companies Of Heroes That Ride Caparisoned White Horsesalong The Edges Of Thick Forests, And Then We Know That We Have Looked Backthrough The Ivory Gates Into That World Of Wonder That Was Ours, Before We Were Wise And Unhappy.

Pleasure To Me Is Wonder—the Unexplored, The Unexpected, The Thing That Is Hidden And The Changeless Thing That Lurks Behind Superficial Mutability.

Nothing Really Known Can Continue To Be Acutely Fascinating.

The Unknown ... Became For Our Primitive Forefathers A Terrible And Omnipotent Source Of Boons And Calamities Visited Upon Mankind For Cryptic And Wholly Extra-terrestrial Reasons, And Thus Clearly Belonging To Spheres Of Existence Whereof We Know Nothing And Wherein We Have No Part.