#1921

Marion Davies

Welp, it's past time for a new source text. This next one is The Outsider (1921), one of Lovecraft's most-repreinted stories.

Here’s what the parser kicked out when I preprocessed the story:

gen_text.py -i "The Outsider.txt" -m 3 -c 20 -o "TheOutsider.3.pkl" All at once, after an infinity of awesome, sightless, crawling up that concave and desperate precipice, I felt my head touch a solid thing, and I turned upward again, pushing the slab or door with my head as I used both hands in my fearful ascent. Many covered their eyes with their hands, and plunged blindly and awkwardly in their race to escape, overturning furniture and stumbling against the walls before they managed to reach one of the most terrifying demonstrations I had ever conceived. Ghastly and terrible was that dead, stairless cylinder of rock; black, ruined, and deserted, and sinister with startled bats whose wings made no noise. I ran frantically back lest I lose my way in a labyrinth of nighted silence. Then the moon came out. All at once, after an infinity of awesome, sightless, crawling up that concave and desperate precipice, I felt my way more slowly in the dark. Nearly mad, I found it locked; but with a supreme burst of strength I overcame all obstacles and dragged it open inward. Unhappy. The attempt, however, was enough to disturb my balance; so that I ran frantically back lest I lose my way in a labyrinth of nighted silence. God knows it was not of this world—yet to my horror I saw in its eaten-away and bone-revealing outlines a leering, abhorrent travesty on the human shape; and in its moldy, disintegrating apparel an unspeakable quality that chilled me even more. All at once, after an infinity of awesome, sightless, crawling up that concave and desperate precipice, I felt my way more slowly in the dark. Once I swam across a swift river where crumbling, mossy masonry told of a bridge long vanished. And at last I resolved to scale that tower, fall though I might; since it were better to glimpse the sky and perish, than to live without ever beholding day. Beings must have cared for my needs, yet I cannot recall any person except myself, or anything alive but the noiseless rats and bats and spiders. Many covered their eyes with their hands, and plunged blindly and awkwardly in their race to escape, overturning furniture and stumbling against the walls before they managed to reach one of the many doors. Now I ride with the mocking and friendly ghouls on the night-wind shrieked for me as in that same second there crashed down upon my mind a single fleeting avalanche of soul-annihilating memory. But what I observed with chief interest and delight were the open windows—gorgeously ablaze with light and sending forth sound of the gayest revelry. But in the cosmos there is balm as well as bitterness, and that balm is nepenthe. Flight was universal, and in the clamor and panic several fell in a swoon and were dragged away by their madly fleeing companions. Ghastly and terrible was that dead, stairless cylinder of rock; black, ruined, and deserted, and sinister with startled bats whose wings made no noise.

اشتُهر السير جون لافيري (١٨٥٦-١٩٤١) بلوحاته الذاتية وتصويره لزمن الحرب. في يناير عام ١٩٢١، وبعد أشهرٍ قضاها في لندن ليُشرف على تجديدات منزله، هرب جون وزوجته هيزل لافيري إلى جنوب فرنسا. هناك، من المرجح أنهما إلتقيا بتلميذ الفنان ونستون سبنسر تشرشل (نعم، ونستون تشرشل ذاته)، الذي كان يقضي عطلةً قصيرة مع زوجته في نيس قبل إستئناف جلسات البرلمان في نهاية الشهر. كتب لافيري إلى ابنتهِ: "الطقس خيالي"، واصفاً الريفييرا بأنها "الجنة"، حتى أنها فاقت أيام طنجة المشمسة. حيث سيرسم لاحقاً "لوحاتٍ من أشعة الشمس". أسفرت الرحلة عن إنتاجاتٍ غزيرة. رسم لافيري المدرجات والمناظر الساحلية قرب بوليو، وخليج لا مالا المعزول، وسلسلةٌ من مشاهد الحدائق في فيلا سيلفيا على كاب فيرات. وبينما كانت هيزل تختلط بالناس وتفكر في إستئجار مكانٍ قريب، واضب لافيري على العمل، مجسداً الربيع المبكر الذي حل قبل موعده في ذاك العام. Spring in a Riviera Garden

Jonhn Lavery