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Yog-Sothoth knows the gate. Yog-Sothoth is the gate. Yog-Sothoth is the key and guardian of the gate. Past, present, future, all are one in Yog-Sothoth.

H. P. Lovecraft

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H. P. Lovecraft
Age: 46 †
Born: 1890
Born: August 20
Died: 1937
Died: March 15
Author
Essayist
Journalist
Novelist
Poet
Science Fiction Writer
Writer
Providence
Rhode Island
Howard Phillips Lovecraft
H.P. Lovecraft
Lovecraft
Ward Phillips
HP Lovecraft
Richard Raleigh
Edgar Softly
Augustus T. Swift
Lewis Theobald
Jr.
Albert Frederick Willie
Humphrey Littlewit
Gate
Guardian
Gates
Keys
Present
Future
Past

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So far as English versification is concerned, Pope was the world, and all the world was Pope.
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In my dreams I found a little of the beauty I had vainly sought in life, and wandered through old gardens and enchanted woods.
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I do not regard the rise of woman as a bad sign. Rather do I fancy that her traditional subordination was itself an artificial and undesirable condition based on Oriental influences. Our virile Teutonic ancestors did not think their wives unworthy to follow them into battle, or scorn to dream of winged Valkyries bearing them to Valhalla.
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Intellectually, the Republican idea deserves the tolerance and respect one gives to the dead.
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We love kitties, gawd bless their little whiskers, and we don't give a damn whether they or we are superior or inferior! They're confounded pretty, and that's all we know and all we need to know!
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Pleasure to me is wonder—the unexplored, the unexpected, the thing that is hidden and the changeless thing that lurks behind superficial mutability. To trace the remote in the immediate the eternal in the ephemeral the past in the present the infinite in the finite these are to me the springs of delight and beauty.
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Children will always be afraid of the dark, and men with minds sensitive to hereditary impulse will always tremble at the thought of the hidden and fathomless worlds of strange life which may pulsate in the gulfs beyond the stars, or press hideously upon our own globe in unholy dimensions which only the dead and the moonstruck can glimpse.
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You see them? You see the things that float and flop about you and through you ever moment of your life? You see the creatures that form what men call the pure air and the blue sky? Have I not succeeded in breaking down the barrier have I not shown you worlds that no other living men have seen?
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There are horrors beyond life's edge that we do not suspect, and once in a while man's evil prying calls them just within our range.
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There are probably seven persons, in all, who really like my work and they are enough. I should write even if I were the only patient reader, for my aim is merely self-expression.
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As human beings, our only sensible scale of values is one based on lessening the agony of existence.
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No new horror can be more terrible than the daily torture of the commonplace.
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The process of delving into the black abyss is to me the keenest form of fascination.
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Memories and possibilities are even more hideous than realities.
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I am so beastly tired of mankind and the world that nothing can interest me unless it contains a couple of murders on each page or deals with the horrors unnameable and unaccountable that leer down from the external universes.
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Life is a hideous thing.
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