Kyrie
Then, slowly advancing to meet the Comte, he pronounced in dull yet terrible accents the curse that ever afterward haunted the house of C——. “May ne'er a noble of thy murd'rous line Survive to reach a greater age than thine!” spake he, when, suddenly leaping backwards into the black wood, he drew from his tunic a phial of colourless liquid which he threw into the face of his father's slayer as he disappeared behind the inky curtain of the night.
Classic Charles Le Sorcier.
My youngest brother is finally starting to read Lovecraft this year, so I've decided to go along with him - not necessarily reading the same thing at the same time, but working my way back through Lovecraft's catalog, one story at a time. In alphabetical order. Because my brain likes it when I set arbitrary limitations on myself like that.
Anyway, The Alchemist is one of Lovecraft's earlier stories, and it shows. There's not much to the story, outside of the immediate plot. The prose is so purple that it makes Grimace appear dull in comparison, and the story itself is just cheesily overdramatic.
I love it.
I've got to admit, the man could craft a fine sentence, though.
High up, crowning the grassy summit of a swelling mound whose sides are wooded near the base with the gnarled trees of the primeval forest, stands the old chateau of my ancestors. For centuries its lofty battlements have frowned down upon the wild and rugged countryside about, serving as a home and stronghold for the proud house whose honoured line is older even than the moss-grown castle walls.
Then, slowly advancing to meet the Comte, he pronounced in dull yet terrible accents the curse that ever afterward haunted the house of C——. “May ne'er a noble of thy murd'rous line Survive to reach a greater age than thine!” spake he, when, suddenly leaping backwards into the black wood, he drew from his tunic a phial of colourless liquid which he threw into the face of his father's slayer as he disappeared behind the inky curtain of the night.
Classic Charles Le Sorcier.
My youngest brother is finally starting to read Lovecraft this year, so I've decided to go along with him - not necessarily reading the same thing at the same time, but working my way back through Lovecraft's catalog, one story at a time. In alphabetical order. Because my brain likes it when I set arbitrary limitations on myself like that.
Anyway, The Alchemist is one of Lovecraft's earlier stories, and it shows. There's not much to the story, outside of the immediate plot. The prose is so purple that it makes Grimace appear dull in comparison, and the story itself is just cheesily overdramatic.
I love it.
I've got to admit, the man could craft a fine sentence, though.
High up, crowning the grassy summit of a swelling mound whose sides are wooded near the base with the gnarled trees of the primeval forest, stands the old chateau of my ancestors. For centuries its lofty battlements have frowned down upon the wild and rugged countryside about, serving as a home and stronghold for the proud house whose honoured line is older even than the moss-grown castle walls.