The Man Who Collected Machen and Other Weird Tales
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Cryptic and potent languages, bizarre cults, mysteries that span the gulf between life and death, occult influences that reverberate through history like a dying echo, irresistible cosmic decay, forces of nightmare that distort reality itself, gateways to worlds where esoteric knowledge rots the future. Here, from Mark Samuels, the author of Glyphotech and Other Macabre Processes and modern exemplar of mystical horror, is a collection of tales that forms a veritable Rosetta Stone for scholars of cosmic wonder and terror.
vomit the regurgitated pulp into huge bins. Every few minutes a servitor would wheel these bins away, presumably to another part of the building. The chamber was filled with banks of decayed computer terminals. They were machines the likes of which Glickman had not previously seen or even imagined might exist: half-mechanical, half-organic structures that seemed to operate on a basis of mutual degeneracy. The clerks were wholly absorbed in their tasks. In fact, as he drew closer, Glickman very
remarkable as the territory without, across which I have traveled in order to reach you. But I am here as a physician, and, it is this duty to which I must apply myself rather than the distractions of untrammeled imagination. Come, let me examine you,” I replied. We retired to a chamber into which boiling water might be brought easily by his aged valet, and it was therein I commenced my ministrations. They were successful, and afforded “Mr. Arnold” instant relief, but I saw the benefits provided
covered in blood. I was told I raved incessantly, like some lunatic and had to be taken to the Mad-House. But, for my own part, I have no memory of the immediate aftermath—yet, what of the hideous face? Alas, that memory is an indelible stain upon my thoughts. Night after night it rises from the well of dream. During the day, persons glimpsed in shadow wear it like a mask. It troubles every mirror in which I see my reflection. Had the face of “Mr. Arnold” been merely the corpse-face of the Lady
killed in the Capitol. Brutus killed me. (Hamlet Act 3, Scene 2, 87–92) When the José Vasconcelos Library opened in Mexico City in May 2006 it was mired in controversy. The opening was not public, but was by invitation only, and the whole project was forced through by President Vicente Fox who saw the building as his final chance to establish a permanent cultural legacy. Named after the celebrated Mexican philosopher and Government Head of Education, José Vasconcelos (b.1882 d.1959), the
fact, one of the foremost collectors of Machen’s work in this country. “You will find,” he said, “the holdings of the British Library are somewhat deficient when compared to those of the Newport Library. At present, they possess the most extensive collection of Machen’s work in public hands. But, of course, it is a trial to be constantly shuttling back and forth between London and Newport. For my own part, I boast that my collection is the most extensive in private hands.” Condor took out a