”Her life was saved by rock´n roll” sjunger tjejgruppen Runaways i slutet av sjuttiotalet. Kanske lite drastiskt, men jag upplevde nog något liknande om popmusik under slutet av sextiotalet.
Innan dess var det något annat. Min inställning till popmusik före 1967, då jag var 12, kan sammanfattas med orden: jag hade för mig att den var oseriös, skränig och ovårdad. Det var inte en egen åsikt, det var en ren internalisering av vuxenåsikter. Jag lyssnade inte på den, jag ogillade den men vågade inte ens försöka lyssna.
Under våren 1966 hände det en gång trots allt att min bror och jag faktiskt lyssnade på Tio i topp. Det mest bestående intrycket av det äventyret blev att jag gillade ”L.O.D.” med Lee Kings. Men jag fortsatte inte lysna på tio i topp, i stället blev det en kompromiss. Jag tänkte att Svensktoppen var mer accepterad bland de vuxna, den kanske jag vågade lyssna på.
Så jag lyssnade en massa på Sven-Ingvars och Hootenanny Singers den sommaren. Men något fattades, helt klart.
Julen 1966 fick jag till julklapp av någon släkting en plastdocka , en sån där man bygger själv, som föreställde en av beatlarna. Jag byggde den, OK, men deklarerade stolt att det minsann inte innebar att jag var intresserad av sånt skrän.
Men det blev jag. Mycket snart.
Det började egentligen med Monkees, våren 1967. Det var en amerikansk kommersiell popgrupp som musikkritkerna inte gillade. De hade utvalts för en TV-serie och elaka röster påstod att de inte ens spelade själva. Men de låg etta på topplistorna och TV-serien blev väldigt populär.
När mina klasskamrater började prata om Monkees så fnös jag. Men de försäkrade mig: serien är rolig, du behöver inte gilla popmusik alls för att uppskatta den. Så jag testade.
Det var så det började. Ja, jag tyckte den var rolig, och framförallt tyckte jag om musiken. Och jag började inse att det var något jag missat.
Jag började så försiktigt utforska fältet. I början av maj 1967 såg jag ett program om Beatles på TV, och framförallt upptäckte jag Tio i topp och Kvällstoppen. Det senare ledde till att jag slutade gå på vargungarnas möten, de var nämligen på tisdagar, liksom Kvällstoppen.
Jag minns första gången jag lyssnade på Kvällstoppen, jag minns till och med vilket rum jag satt i. ”Ha! Ha! Said the Clown” med Manfred Mann minns jag väl från den gången.
Så hela sommaren 1967 lyssnade jag på popmusik så mycket jag kunde. Jag hade en nästan obefintlig veckopeng men när jag fick råd köpte jag Bildjournalen, en ungdomstidning som skrev mycket om popmusik. Jag älskade den. Trots att jag, lillgammal som jag var, flitigt läste kultursidor som placerade denna tidning, liksom för övrigt Monkees, i kategorin kommersiellt skräp. Men , faktiskt, jag brydde mig inte.
Det var enklare med Beatles. För där hade jag svart på vitt på att Times seriöse musikkritiker hade kallat Lennon/McCartney för de största kompositörerna sedan Schubert. Ja, just det, där ser ni… tänkte jag
Men även att gilla Beatles kunde vara problematiskt. Det insåg jag den 6 augusti 1967 när Håkan Sandblad och Arne Ruth i artikeln ”Den påtända generationen” i DN förklarade att Beatles LP Sgt. Peppers Lonely Hearts Club Band var LSD-propaganda ”från omslaget till innerspåret”. Jag gick i chock, det kunde väl inte vara sant, så jag började öva upp argumenten för att detta absolut inte var sant och att vad Sgt. Pepper än handlade om (och jag såg ju själv att den var ganska gåtfull) så var det något annat än droger.
Men detta ledde också till upptäckten att det fanns hippies. Hippies var snälla människor som framförallt bodde i San Francisco och de kanske drogade men dom var för kärlek och mot våld. Jag började idealisera dom, och drömde om att få åka till San Fransisco.
Min veckopeng blev aningen högre och på hösten hade jag råd att köpa Bildjournalen nästan varje vecka. Mina klasskamrater fick till sin förvåning se att den lillgamle kufen, som endast kunde prata om politik och annat tråkigt, började visa ett brinnande intresse för vilka låtar som var nykomlingar på tio i topp.
Jag gillade både den enkla kommersiella musiken typ Hollies och Monkees, och psykedeliska experiment, och tyckte inte om att musikkritiker ställde upp en motsättning mellan dessa två genrer. Ludvig Rasmusson var den strängt moraliske politiskt korrekte domaren, som dömde ut alla kommersiella avarter. På den andra extremkanten stod Klas Burling, som gillade den mest kommersiella musiken och fnös åt ”avantgarde-popen”. Jag kunde som sagt inte förstå motsättningen.
För mig stod popmusik för glädje, den stod för uppror mot den identitet jag hade tvingats in i. Den stod för något radikalt nytt. Om den inte , som Runaways sjunger om rock´n roll, ”räddade mitt liv” gjorde den i alla fall det mycket mer uthärdligt.
Erik Rodenborg september 2006
Saturday, December 31, 2011
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
Men vad handlar "Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds" om?
Första gången jag hörde talas om "Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds" var den 6 augusti 1967 då jag läste en artikel i DN:s söndagsbilaga som hävdade att Beatles Sgt.Pepper-LP var LSD-propaganda "från omslaget till innerspåret". Den var skriven av Håkan Sandblad och Arne Ruth och den fyllde mig med olust.
Det främsta argumentet i artikeln vad just "Lucy"… Texten och musiken i den låten var drömlikt hallucinatorisk och de första bokstäverna i substantiven bildade ju initialerna LSD. Jag hade just börjat gilla Beatles och popmusik och det där ville jag då inte tro på....
Jag var inte ensam om den reaktionen. Förnekandet kom efter ett tag att dominera debatten - i synnerhet sedan John Lennon gick ut och hävdade att titeln byggde på en barnteckning av Julian Lennon som just hette "Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds".
Detta blev sedan en officiell sanning i det mesta som skrevs. Fast jag misstänker att det i grunden avspeglade ett förnekande som liknade mitt eget i tolvårsåldern.
För hur var det nu? Ungefär samtidigt som Sgt. Pepper kom ut hade Paul McCartney dumt nog gått ut och sagt inte bara att Beatles hade tagit LSD utan att om de ledande politikerna i världen hade tagit LSD skulle världen ha varit mycket bättre! Påståendet är ju milt sagt bisarrt - vad skulle kunna hända om de ansvariga för världens kärnvapenarsenaler tar LSD och får en av dessa inte alltför ovanliga snedtändningar? LSD är ju en förrädisk drog -medan somliga får ljuva visioner får många andra som bekant mardrömslika skräckvisioner - inte sällan med paranoida undertoner.
Om man därtill läger till att hela Sgt. Pepper-LP:n vimlar av drogantydningar (BBC förbjöd spelning av "A Day in the Life" av den anledningen!), att det även på omslaget finns bilder på många personer som var kända för sina drogexperiment, och att just "Lucy" har en längtansfullt hallucinatorisk drömlik karaktär blir ju den "officiella" versionen ganska så tveksam.
Men hur var det då med barnteckningen? Svårt att säga, men John Lennon var en förmögen man med ett klart intresse för sitt barns kulturella utveckling. Julian hade med all säkerhet obegränsad tillgång till papper, penna och målarredskap och måste ha gjort hur många barnteckningar som helst. Var det då inte lite märkligt att Beatles valde den förmodligen enda av dessa som hade initialerna LSD och lade ut den som låttitel på en LP som var fylld med drogsymbolik?
Den officiella bortförklaringen var ohållbar från början, och ett antal år efter John Lennons död " medgav faktiskt Paul McCartney att låten faktiskt var inspirerad av LSD.
Men det är förstås inte ALLT man kan säga om "Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds"...
För oavsett vad Beatles egentligen menade beskriver ju texten - om man läser den bokstavligt - en övernaturlig kvinnlig gudinneliknande entitet som har förmågan att sätta sig över tid och rum. Det är så jag tycker man bör se den idag. Det skulle gå hur lätt som helst att byta ut namnet "Lucy" mot namnet på exempelvis en hinduisk gudinna så skulle innebörden bli en helt annan....
Och i viss mån fick namnet "Lucy" ytterligare en annan innebörd 1974. Då upptäcktes skelettfragment av en av våra äldsta anmödrar vid en utgrävning i Afrika. Precis när upptäckten gjordes spelades "Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds" på radion som stod på. Så skelettet som delvis skulle förändra vår syn på mänsklighetens förhistoria döptes till "Lucy".
Och liksom låtens "Lucy" hade hon verkligen förmågan att dyka upp och försvinna. Hon försvann för 3,2 miljoner år sedan och dök upp igen för 37 år sedan... Det är mer intressant än alla LSD-hallucinationer tillsammans.
Det främsta argumentet i artikeln vad just "Lucy"… Texten och musiken i den låten var drömlikt hallucinatorisk och de första bokstäverna i substantiven bildade ju initialerna LSD. Jag hade just börjat gilla Beatles och popmusik och det där ville jag då inte tro på....
Jag var inte ensam om den reaktionen. Förnekandet kom efter ett tag att dominera debatten - i synnerhet sedan John Lennon gick ut och hävdade att titeln byggde på en barnteckning av Julian Lennon som just hette "Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds".
Detta blev sedan en officiell sanning i det mesta som skrevs. Fast jag misstänker att det i grunden avspeglade ett förnekande som liknade mitt eget i tolvårsåldern.
För hur var det nu? Ungefär samtidigt som Sgt. Pepper kom ut hade Paul McCartney dumt nog gått ut och sagt inte bara att Beatles hade tagit LSD utan att om de ledande politikerna i världen hade tagit LSD skulle världen ha varit mycket bättre! Påståendet är ju milt sagt bisarrt - vad skulle kunna hända om de ansvariga för världens kärnvapenarsenaler tar LSD och får en av dessa inte alltför ovanliga snedtändningar? LSD är ju en förrädisk drog -medan somliga får ljuva visioner får många andra som bekant mardrömslika skräckvisioner - inte sällan med paranoida undertoner.
Om man därtill läger till att hela Sgt. Pepper-LP:n vimlar av drogantydningar (BBC förbjöd spelning av "A Day in the Life" av den anledningen!), att det även på omslaget finns bilder på många personer som var kända för sina drogexperiment, och att just "Lucy" har en längtansfullt hallucinatorisk drömlik karaktär blir ju den "officiella" versionen ganska så tveksam.
Men hur var det då med barnteckningen? Svårt att säga, men John Lennon var en förmögen man med ett klart intresse för sitt barns kulturella utveckling. Julian hade med all säkerhet obegränsad tillgång till papper, penna och målarredskap och måste ha gjort hur många barnteckningar som helst. Var det då inte lite märkligt att Beatles valde den förmodligen enda av dessa som hade initialerna LSD och lade ut den som låttitel på en LP som var fylld med drogsymbolik?
Den officiella bortförklaringen var ohållbar från början, och ett antal år efter John Lennons död " medgav faktiskt Paul McCartney att låten faktiskt var inspirerad av LSD.
Men det är förstås inte ALLT man kan säga om "Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds"...
För oavsett vad Beatles egentligen menade beskriver ju texten - om man läser den bokstavligt - en övernaturlig kvinnlig gudinneliknande entitet som har förmågan att sätta sig över tid och rum. Det är så jag tycker man bör se den idag. Det skulle gå hur lätt som helst att byta ut namnet "Lucy" mot namnet på exempelvis en hinduisk gudinna så skulle innebörden bli en helt annan....
Och i viss mån fick namnet "Lucy" ytterligare en annan innebörd 1974. Då upptäcktes skelettfragment av en av våra äldsta anmödrar vid en utgrävning i Afrika. Precis när upptäckten gjordes spelades "Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds" på radion som stod på. Så skelettet som delvis skulle förändra vår syn på mänsklighetens förhistoria döptes till "Lucy".
Och liksom låtens "Lucy" hade hon verkligen förmågan att dyka upp och försvinna. Hon försvann för 3,2 miljoner år sedan och dök upp igen för 37 år sedan... Det är mer intressant än alla LSD-hallucinationer tillsammans.
"Try it"
Lyssna gärna på denna psykedeliska låt av Hollies från 1967 . Jag hörde den första gången i radioserien "Sound of Protest, Sound of Love" i ett avsnitt i december 1968. Jag blev väldigt fascinerad av den då. Sedan dess har jag inte hört den. Men nu upptäckte jag den på You Tube.
1967 försökte väl var och varannan popgrupp göra åtminstone några psykedeliska låtar. Den psykedeliska vågen vitaliserade onekligen popmusiken, men en obehaglig bieffekt blev att det förledde en hel del människor till att pröva LSD. Resultaten blev ju ofta ganska så tragiska.
Men på något sätt öppnade flower power och psykedelisk musik ändå för insikter om vad som med en utsliten klyscha brukar kallas "andliga dimensioner". Ja, mycket i den New Age-rörelse som i hög grad inspirerades av den psykedeliska vågen är ju elände. Men bokslutet över Flower Power-perioden och vad den har betytt och kommer att betyda på lång sikt tror jag nog faktiskt ändå (trots allt!) kommer att sluta på plus...
1967 försökte väl var och varannan popgrupp göra åtminstone några psykedeliska låtar. Den psykedeliska vågen vitaliserade onekligen popmusiken, men en obehaglig bieffekt blev att det förledde en hel del människor till att pröva LSD. Resultaten blev ju ofta ganska så tragiska.
Men på något sätt öppnade flower power och psykedelisk musik ändå för insikter om vad som med en utsliten klyscha brukar kallas "andliga dimensioner". Ja, mycket i den New Age-rörelse som i hög grad inspirerades av den psykedeliska vågen är ju elände. Men bokslutet över Flower Power-perioden och vad den har betytt och kommer att betyda på lång sikt tror jag nog faktiskt ändå (trots allt!) kommer att sluta på plus...
Saturday, December 24, 2011
H. P. Lovecraft: "The Nameless City"
/Ett av Lovecrafts främsta teman är vad som brukar kallas Cthulhu-myten. Den grundas på idén att jorden en gång befolkades av entiteter som sedan trängdes undan, men som än idag finns i någon sorts skymningsvärld. Där dväljs de, och strävar efter att en gång ta tillbaka sin forna position.
Den första novell som brukar räknas till denna mytcykel är "The Nameless City" från 1921. Här finns temat endast antytt, men det finns redan här en referens till "den galne araben Abdul Alhazred", som senare regelbundet återkommer i Lovecrafts berättelser. Från och med "The Hound" från 1922 beskrivs denne framförallt som författaren till den "förbjudna" Necronomicon, ett imaginärt och "onämnbart" verk som sedan återkommer i alla berättelserna i Cthulhu-myten.
Lägg förresten märke till hur Lovecraft här först beskriver bilderna av "reptiler" i "den namnlösa staden" som "allegoriska" beskrivningar av de människor som bodde där - ända till dess huvudpersonen slutligen börjar ana att de verkligen VAR reptiler - och att de på något plan lever än idag. Alhazreds märkliga och vackra vers “That is not dead which can eternal lie, And with strange aeons even death may die” får ju på så sätt här någon form av förklaring...
David Icke hade kanske studerat Lovecraft innan han utvecklade sin bisarra reptilteori?
"The Nameless City" är ganska poetisk, och vacker. Tycker jag i alla fall. Den är en "tidig" Lovecraftberättelse och hans stil har ännu inte helt utvecklats. Men jag lägger ut den här och hoppas att den alltid kan glädja någon.../
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When I drew nigh the nameless city I knew it was accursed. I was travelling in a parched and terrible valley under the moon, and afar I saw it protruding uncannily above the sands as parts of a corpse may protrude from an ill-made grave. Fear spoke from the age-worn stones of this hoary survivor of the deluge, this great-grandmother of the eldest pyramid; and a viewless aura repelled me and bade me retreat from antique and sinister secrets that no man should see, and no man else had ever dared to see.
Remote in the desert of Araby lies the nameless city, crumbling and inarticulate, its low walls nearly hidden by the sands of uncounted ages. It must have been thus before the first stones of Memphis were laid, and while the bricks of Babylon were yet unbaked. There is no legend so old as to give it a name, or to recall that it was ever alive; but it is told of in whispers around campfires and muttered about by grandams in the tents of sheiks, so that all the tribes shun it without wholly knowing why. It was of this place that Abdul Alhazred the mad poet dreamed on the night before he sang his unexplainable couplet:
“That is not dead which can eternal lie,
And with strange aeons even death may die.”
I should have known that the Arabs had good reason for shunning the nameless city, the city told of in strange tales but seen by no living man, yet I defied them and went into the untrodden waste with my camel. I alone have seen it, and that is why no other face bears such hideous lines of fear as mine; why no other man shivers so horribly when the night-wind rattles the windows. When I came upon it in the ghastly stillness of unending sleep it looked at me, chilly from the rays of a cold moon amidst the desert’s heat. And as I returned its look I forgot my triumph at finding it, and stopped still with my camel to wait for the dawn.
For hours I waited, till the east grew grey and the stars faded, and the grey turned to roseal light edged with gold. I heard a moaning and saw a storm of sand stirring among the antique stones though the sky was clear and the vast reaches of the desert still. Then suddenly above the desert’s far rim came the blazing edge of the sun, seen through the tiny sandstorm which was passing away, and in my fevered state I fancied that from some remote depth there came a crash of musical metal to hail the fiery disc as Memnon hails it from the banks of the Nile. My ears rang and my imagination seethed as I led my camel slowly across the sand to that unvocal stone place; that place too old for Egypt and Meroë to remember; that place which I alone of living men had seen.
In and out amongst the shapeless foundations of houses and palaces I wandered, finding never a carving or inscription to tell of those men, if men they were, who built the city and dwelt therein so long ago. The antiquity of the spot was unwholesome, and I longed to encounter some sign or device to prove that the city was indeed fashioned by mankind. There were certain proportions and dimensions in the ruins which I did not like. I had with me many tools, and dug much within the walls of the obliterated edifices; but progress was slow, and nothing significant was revealed. When night and the moon returned I felt a chill wind which brought new fear, so that I did not dare to remain in the city. And as I went outside the antique walls to sleep, a small sighing sandstorm gathered behind me, blowing over the grey stones though the moon was bright and most of the desert still.
I awaked just at dawn from a pageant of horrible dreams, my ears ringing as from some metallic peal. I saw the sun peering redly through the last gusts of a little sandstorm that hovered over the nameless city, and marked the quietness of the rest of the landscape. Once more I ventured within those brooding ruins that swelled beneath the sand like an ogre under a coverlet, and again dug vainly for relics of the forgotten race. At noon I rested, and in the afternoon I spent much time tracing the walls, and the bygone streets, and the outlines of the nearly vanished buildings. I saw that the city had been mighty indeed, and wondered at the sources of its greatness. To myself I pictured all the splendours of an age so distant that Chaldaea could not recall it, and thought of Sarnath the Doomed, that stood in the land of Mnar when mankind was young, and of Ib, that was carven of grey stone before mankind existed.
All at once I came upon a place where the bed-rock rose stark through the sand and formed a low cliff; and here I saw with joy what seemed to promise further traces of the antediluvian people. Hewn rudely on the face of the cliff were the unmistakable facades of several small, squat rock houses or temples; whose interiors might preserve many secrets of ages too remote for calculation, though sandstorms had long since effaced any carvings which may have been outside.
Very low and sand-choked were all of the dark apertures near me, but I cleared one with my spade and crawled through it, carrying a torch to reveal whatever mysteries it might hold. When I was inside I saw that the cavern was indeed a temple, and beheld plain signs of the race that had lived and worshipped before the desert was a desert. Primitive altars, pillars, and niches, all curiously low, were not absent; and though I saw no sculptures nor frescoes, there were many singular stones clearly shaped into symbols by artificial means. The lowness of the chiselled chamber was very strange, for I could hardly more than kneel upright; but the area was so great that my torch shewed only part at a time. I shuddered oddly in some of the far corners; for certain altars and stones suggested forgotten rites of terrible, revolting, and inexplicable nature, and made me wonder what manner of men could have made and frequented such a temple. When I had seen all that the place contained, I crawled out again, avid to find what the other temples might yield.
Night had now approached, yet the tangible things I had seen made curiosity stronger than fear, so that I did not flee from the long moon-cast shadows that had daunted me when first I saw the nameless city. In the twilight I cleared another aperture and with a new torch crawled into it, finding more vague stones and symbols, though nothing more definite than the other temple had contained. The room was just as low, but much less broad, ending in a very narrow passage crowded with obscure and cryptical shrines. About these shrines I was prying when the noise of a wind and of my camel outside broke through the stillness and drew me forth to see what could have frightened the beast.
The moon was gleaming vividly over the primeval ruins, lighting a dense cloud of sand that seemed blown by a strong but decreasing wind from some point along the cliff ahead of me. I knew it was this chilly, sandy wind which had disturbed the camel, and was about to lead him to a place of better shelter when I chanced to glance up and saw that there was no wind atop the cliff. This astonished me and made me fearful again, but I immediately recalled the sudden local winds I had seen and heard before at sunrise and sunset, and judged it was a normal thing. I decided that it came from some rock fissure leading to a cave, and watched the troubled sand to trace it to its source; soon perceiving that it came from the black orifice of a temple a long distance south of me, almost out of sight. Against the choking sand-cloud I plodded toward this temple, which as I neared it loomed larger than the rest, and shewed a doorway far less clogged with caked sand. I would have entered had not the terrific force of the icy wind almost quenched my torch. It poured madly out of the dark door, sighing uncannily as it ruffled the sand and spread about the weird ruins. Soon it grew fainter and the sand grew more and more still, till finally all was at rest again; but a presence seemed stalking among the spectral stones of the city, and when I glanced at the moon it seemed to quiver as though mirrored in unquiet waters. I was more afraid than I could explain, but not enough to dull my thirst for wonder; so as soon as the wind was quite gone I crossed into the dark chamber from which it had come.
This temple, as I had fancied from the outside, was larger than either of those I had visited before; and was presumably a natural cavern, since it bore winds from some region beyond. Here I could stand quite upright, but saw that the stones and altars were as low as those in the other temples. On the walls and roof I beheld for the first time some traces of the pictorial art of the ancient race, curious curling streaks of paint that had almost faded or crumbled away; and on two of the altars I saw with rising excitement a maze of well-fashioned curvilinear carvings. As I held my torch aloft it seemed to me that the shape of the roof was too regular to be natural, and I wondered what the prehistoric cutters of stone had first worked upon. Their engineering skill must have been vast.
Then a brighter flare of the fantastic flame shewed me that for which I had been seeking, the opening to those remoter abysses whence the sudden wind had blown; and I grew faint when I saw that it was a small and plainly artificial door chiselled in the solid rock. I thrust my torch within, beholding a black tunnel with the roof arching low over a rough flight of very small, numerous, and steeply descending steps. I shall always see those steps in my dreams, for I came to learn what they meant. At the time I hardly knew whether to call them steps or mere foot-holds in a precipitous descent. My mind was whirling with mad thoughts, and the words and warnings of Arab prophets seemed to float across the desert from the lands that men know to the nameless city that men dare not know. Yet I hesitated only a moment before advancing through the portal and commencing to climb cautiously down the steep passage, feet first, as though on a ladder.
It is only in the terrible phantasms of drugs or delirium that any other man can have had such a descent as mine. The narrow passage led infinitely down like some hideous haunted well, and the torch I held above my head could not light the unknown depths toward which I was crawling. I lost track of the hours and forgot to consult my watch, though I was frightened when I thought of the distance I must be traversing. There were changes of direction and of steepness, and once I came to a long, low, level passage where I had to wriggle feet first along the rocky floor, holding my torch at arm’s length beyond my head. The place was not high enough for kneeling. After that were more of the steep steps, and I was still scrambling down interminably when my failing torch died out. I do not think I noticed it at the time, for when I did notice it I was still holding it high above me as if it were ablaze. I was quite unbalanced with that instinct for the strange and the unknown which has made me a wanderer upon earth and a haunter of far, ancient, and forbidden places.
In the darkness there flashed before my mind fragments of my cherished treasury of daemoniac lore; sentences from Alhazred the mad Arab, paragraphs from the apocryphal nightmares of Damascius, and infamous lines from the delirious Image du Monde of Gauthier de Metz. I repeated queer extracts, and muttered of Afrasiab and the daemons that floated with him down the Oxus; later chanting over and over again a phrase from one of Lord Dunsany’s tales—“the unreverberate blackness of the abyss”. Once when the descent grew amazingly steep I recited something in sing-song from Thomas Moore until I feared to recite more:
“A reservoir of darkness, black
As witches’ cauldrons are, when fill’d
With moon-drugs in th’ eclipse distill’d.
Leaning to look if foot might pass
Down thro’ that chasm, I saw, beneath,
As far as vision could explore,
The jetty sides as smooth as glass,
Looking as if just varnish’d o’er
With that dark pitch the Sea of Death
Throws out upon its slimy shore.”
Time had quite ceased to exist when my feet again felt a level floor, and I found myself in a place slightly higher than the rooms in the two smaller temples now so incalculably far above my head. I could not quite stand, but could kneel upright, and in the dark I shuffled and crept hither and thither at random. I soon knew that I was in a narrow passage whose walls were lined with cases of wood having glass fronts. As in that Palaeozoic and abysmal place I felt of such things as polished wood and glass I shuddered at the possible implications. The cases were apparently ranged along each side of the passage at regular intervals, and were oblong and horizontal, hideously like coffins in shape and size. When I tried to move two or three for further examination, I found they were firmly fastened.
I saw that the passage was a long one, so floundered ahead rapidly in a creeping run that would have seemed horrible had any eye watched me in the blackness; crossing from side to side occasionally to feel of my surroundings and be sure the walls and rows of cases still stretched on. Man is so used to thinking visually that I almost forgot the darkness and pictured the endless corridor of wood and glass in its low-studded monotony as though I saw it. And then in a moment of indescribable emotion I did see it.
Just when my fancy merged into real sight I cannot tell; but there came a gradual glow ahead, and all at once I knew that I saw the dim outlines of the corridor and the cases, revealed by some unknown subterranean phosphorescence. For a little while all was exactly as I had imagined it, since the glow was very faint; but as I mechanically kept on stumbling ahead into the stronger light I realised that my fancy had been but feeble. This hall was no relic of crudity like the temples in the city above, but a monument of the most magnificent and exotic art. Rich, vivid, and daringly fantastic designs and pictures formed a continuous scheme of mural painting whose lines and colours were beyond description. The cases were of a strange golden wood, with fronts of exquisite glass, and contained the mummified forms of creatures outreaching in grotesqueness the most chaotic dreams of man.
To convey any idea of these monstrosities is impossible. They were of the reptile kind, with body lines suggesting sometimes the crocodile, sometimes the seal, but more often nothing of which either the naturalist or the palaeontologist ever heard. In size they approximated a small man, and their fore legs bore delicate and evidently flexible feet curiously like human hands and fingers. But strangest of all were their heads, which presented a contour violating all known biological principles. To nothing can such things be well compared—in one flash I thought of comparisons as varied as the cat, the bulldog, the mythic Satyr, and the human being. Not Jove himself had so colossal and protuberant a forehead, yet the horns and the noselessness and the alligator-like jaw placed the things outside all established categories. I debated for a time on the reality of the mummies, half suspecting they were artificial idols; but soon decided they were indeed some palaeogean species which had lived when the nameless city was alive. To crown their grotesqueness, most of them were gorgeously enrobed in the costliest of fabrics, and lavishly laden with ornaments of gold, jewels, and unknown shining metals.
The importance of these crawling creatures must have been vast, for they held first place among the wild designs on the frescoed walls and ceiling. With matchless skill had the artist drawn them in a world of their own, wherein they had cities and gardens fashioned to suit their dimensions; and I could not but think that their pictured history was allegorical, perhaps shewing the progress of the race that worshipped them. These creatures, I said to myself, were to the men of the nameless city what the she-wolf was to Rome, or some totem-beast is to a tribe of Indians.
Holding this view, I thought I could trace roughly a wonderful epic of the nameless city; the tale of a mighty sea-coast metropolis that ruled the world before Africa rose out of the waves, and of its struggles as the sea shrank away, and the desert crept into the fertile valley that held it. I saw its wars and triumphs, its troubles and defeats, and afterward its terrible fight against the desert when thousands of its people—here represented in allegory by the grotesque reptiles—were driven to chisel their way down through the rocks in some marvellous manner to another world whereof their prophets had told them. It was all vividly weird and realistic, and its connexion with the awesome descent I had made was unmistakable. I even recognised the passages.
As I crept along the corridor toward the brighter light I saw later stages of the painted epic—the leave-taking of the race that had dwelt in the nameless city and the valley around for ten million years; the race whose souls shrank from quitting scenes their bodies had known so long, where they had settled as nomads in the earth’s youth, hewing in the virgin rock those primal shrines at which they never ceased to worship. Now that the light was better I studied the pictures more closely, and, remembering that the strange reptiles must represent the unknown men, pondered upon the customs of the nameless city. Many things were peculiar and inexplicable. The civilisation, which included a written alphabet, had seemingly risen to a higher order than those immeasurably later civilisations of Egypt and Chaldaea, yet there were curious omissions. I could, for example, find no pictures to represent deaths or funeral customs, save such as were related to wars, violence, and plagues; and I wondered at the reticence shewn concerning natural death. It was as though an ideal of earthly immortality had been fostered as a cheering illusion.
Still nearer the end of the passage were painted scenes of the utmost picturesqueness and extravagance; contrasted views of the nameless city in its desertion and growing ruin, and of the strange new realm or paradise to which the race had hewed its way through the stone. In these views the city and the desert valley were shewn always by moonlight, a golden nimbus hovering over the fallen walls and half revealing the splendid perfection of former times, shewn spectrally and elusively by the artist. The paradisal scenes were almost too extravagant to be believed; portraying a hidden world of eternal day filled with glorious cities and ethereal hills and valleys. At the very last I thought I saw signs of an artistic anti-climax. The paintings were less skilful, and much more bizarre than even the wildest of the earlier scenes. They seemed to record a slow decadence of the ancient stock, coupled with a growing ferocity toward the outside world from which it was driven by the desert. The forms of the people—always represented by the sacred reptiles—appeared to be gradually wasting away, though their spirit as shewn hovering about the ruins by moonlight gained in proportion. Emaciated priests, displayed as reptiles in ornate robes, cursed the upper air and all who breathed it; and one terrible final scene shewed a primitive-looking man, perhaps a pioneer of ancient Irem, the City of Pillars, torn to pieces by members of the elder race. I remembered how the Arabs fear the nameless city, and was glad that beyond this place the grey walls and ceiling were bare.
As I viewed the pageant of mural history I had approached very closely the end of the low-ceiled hall, and was aware of a great gate through which came all of the illuminating phosphorescence. Creeping up to it, I cried aloud in transcendent amazement at what lay beyond; for instead of other and brighter chambers there was only an illimitable void of uniform radiance, such as one might fancy when gazing down from the peak of Mount Everest upon a sea of sunlit mist. Behind me was a passage so cramped that I could not stand upright in it; before me was an infinity of subterranean effulgence.
Reaching down from the passage into the abyss was the head of a steep flight of steps—small numerous steps like those of the black passages I had traversed—but after a few feet the glowing vapours concealed everything. Swung back open against the left-hand wall of the passage was a massive door of brass, incredibly thick and decorated with fantastic bas-reliefs, which could if closed shut the whole inner world of light away from the vaults and passages of rock. I looked at the steps, and for the nonce dared not try them. I touched the open brass door, and could not move it. Then I sank prone to the stone floor, my mind aflame with prodigious reflections which not even a death-like exhaustion could banish.
As I lay still with closed eyes, free to ponder, many things I had lightly noted in the frescoes came back to me with new and terrible significance—scenes representing the nameless city in its heyday, the vegetation of the valley around it, and the distant lands with which its merchants traded. The allegory of the crawling creatures puzzled me by its universal prominence, and I wondered that it should be so closely followed in a pictured history of such importance. In the frescoes the nameless city had been shewn in proportions fitted to the reptiles. I wondered what its real proportions and magnificence had been, and reflected a moment on certain oddities I had noticed in the ruins. I thought curiously of the lowness of the primal temples and of the underground corridor, which were doubtless hewn thus out of deference to the reptile deities there honoured; though it perforce reduced the worshippers to crawling. Perhaps the very rites had involved a crawling in imitation of the creatures. No religious theory, however, could easily explain why the level passage in that awesome descent should be as low as the temples—or lower, since one could not even kneel in it. As I thought of the crawling creatures, whose hideous mummified forms were so close to me, I felt a new throb of fear. Mental associations are curious, and I shrank from the idea that except for the poor primitive man torn to pieces in the last painting, mine was the only human form amidst the many relics and symbols of primordial life.
But as always in my strange and roving existence, wonder soon drove out fear; for the luminous abyss and what it might contain presented a problem worthy of the greatest explorer. That a weird world of mystery lay far down that flight of peculiarly small steps I could not doubt, and I hoped to find there those human memorials which the painted corridor had failed to give. The frescoes had pictured unbelievable cities, hills, and valleys in this lower realm, and my fancy dwelt on the rich and colossal ruins that awaited me.
My fears, indeed, concerned the past rather than the future. Not even the physical horror of my position in that cramped corridor of dead reptiles and antediluvian frescoes, miles below the world I knew and faced by another world of eerie light and mist, could match the lethal dread I felt at the abysmal antiquity of the scene and its soul. An ancientness so vast that measurement is feeble seemed to leer down from the primal stones and rock-hewn temples in the nameless city, while the very latest of the astounding maps in the frescoes shewed oceans and continents that man has forgotten, with only here and there some vaguely familiar outline. Of what could have happened in the geological aeons since the paintings ceased and the death-hating race resentfully succumbed to decay, no man might say. Life had once teemed in these caverns and in the luminous realm beyond; now I was alone with vivid relics, and I trembled to think of the countless ages through which these relics had kept a silent and deserted vigil.
Suddenly there came another burst of that acute fear which had intermittently seized me ever since I first saw the terrible valley and the nameless city under a cold moon, and despite my exhaustion I found myself starting frantically to a sitting posture and gazing back along the black corridor toward the tunnels that rose to the outer world. My sensations were much like those which had made me shun the nameless city at night, and were as inexplicable as they were poignant. In another moment, however, I received a still greater shock in the form of a definite sound—the first which had broken the utter silence of these tomb-like depths. It was a deep, low moaning, as of a distant throng of condemned spirits, and came from the direction in which I was staring. Its volume rapidly grew, till soon it reverberated frightfully through the low passage, and at the same time I became conscious of an increasing draught of cold air, likewise flowing from the tunnels and the city above. The touch of this air seemed to restore my balance, for I instantly recalled the sudden gusts which had risen around the mouth of the abyss each sunset and sunrise, one of which had indeed served to reveal the hidden tunnels to me. I looked at my watch and saw that sunrise was near, so braced myself to resist the gale which was sweeping down to its cavern home as it had swept forth at evening. My fear again waned low, since a natural phenomenon tends to dispel broodings over the unknown.
More and more madly poured the shrieking, moaning night-wind into that gulf of the inner earth. I dropped prone again and clutched vainly at the floor for fear of being swept bodily through the open gate into the phosphorescent abyss. Such fury I had not expected, and as I grew aware of an actual slipping of my form toward the abyss I was beset by a thousand new terrors of apprehension and imagination. The malignancy of the blast awakened incredible fancies; once more I compared myself shudderingly to the only other human image in that frightful corridor, the man who was torn to pieces by the nameless race, for in the fiendish clawing of the swirling currents there seemed to abide a vindictive rage all the stronger because it was largely impotent. I think I screamed frantically near the last—I was almost mad—but if I did so my cries were lost in the hell-born babel of the howling wind-wraiths. I tried to crawl against the murderous invisible torrent, but I could not even hold my own as I was pushed slowly and inexorably toward the unknown world. Finally reason must have wholly snapped, for I fell to babbling over and over that unexplainable couplet of the mad Arab Alhazred, who dreamed of the nameless city:
“That is not dead which can eternal lie,
And with strange aeons even death may die.”
Only the grim brooding desert gods know what really took place—what indescribable struggles and scrambles in the dark I endured or what Abaddon guided me back to life, where I must always remember and shiver in the night-wind till oblivion—or worse—claims me. Monstrous, unnatural, colossal, was the thing—too far beyond all the ideas of man to be believed except in the silent damnable small hours when one cannot sleep.
I have said that the fury of the rushing blast was infernal—cacodaemoniacal—and that its voices were hideous with the pent-up viciousness of desolate eternities. Presently those voices, while still chaotic before me, seemed to my beating brain to take articulate form behind me; and down there in the grave of unnumbered aeon-dead antiquities, leagues below the dawn-lit world of men, I heard the ghastly cursing and snarling of strange-tongued fiends. Turning, I saw outlined against the luminous aether of the abyss what could not be seen against the dusk of the corridor—a nightmare horde of rushing devils; hate-distorted, grotesquely panoplied, half-transparent; devils of a race no man might mistake—the crawling reptiles of the nameless city.
And as the wind died away I was plunged into the ghoul-peopled blackness of earth’s bowels; for behind the last of the creatures the great brazen door clanged shut with a deafening peal of metallic music whose reverberations swelled out to the distant world to hail the rising sun as Memnon hails it from the banks of the Nile.
Den första novell som brukar räknas till denna mytcykel är "The Nameless City" från 1921. Här finns temat endast antytt, men det finns redan här en referens till "den galne araben Abdul Alhazred", som senare regelbundet återkommer i Lovecrafts berättelser. Från och med "The Hound" från 1922 beskrivs denne framförallt som författaren till den "förbjudna" Necronomicon, ett imaginärt och "onämnbart" verk som sedan återkommer i alla berättelserna i Cthulhu-myten.
Lägg förresten märke till hur Lovecraft här först beskriver bilderna av "reptiler" i "den namnlösa staden" som "allegoriska" beskrivningar av de människor som bodde där - ända till dess huvudpersonen slutligen börjar ana att de verkligen VAR reptiler - och att de på något plan lever än idag. Alhazreds märkliga och vackra vers “That is not dead which can eternal lie, And with strange aeons even death may die” får ju på så sätt här någon form av förklaring...
David Icke hade kanske studerat Lovecraft innan han utvecklade sin bisarra reptilteori?
"The Nameless City" är ganska poetisk, och vacker. Tycker jag i alla fall. Den är en "tidig" Lovecraftberättelse och hans stil har ännu inte helt utvecklats. Men jag lägger ut den här och hoppas att den alltid kan glädja någon.../
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When I drew nigh the nameless city I knew it was accursed. I was travelling in a parched and terrible valley under the moon, and afar I saw it protruding uncannily above the sands as parts of a corpse may protrude from an ill-made grave. Fear spoke from the age-worn stones of this hoary survivor of the deluge, this great-grandmother of the eldest pyramid; and a viewless aura repelled me and bade me retreat from antique and sinister secrets that no man should see, and no man else had ever dared to see.
Remote in the desert of Araby lies the nameless city, crumbling and inarticulate, its low walls nearly hidden by the sands of uncounted ages. It must have been thus before the first stones of Memphis were laid, and while the bricks of Babylon were yet unbaked. There is no legend so old as to give it a name, or to recall that it was ever alive; but it is told of in whispers around campfires and muttered about by grandams in the tents of sheiks, so that all the tribes shun it without wholly knowing why. It was of this place that Abdul Alhazred the mad poet dreamed on the night before he sang his unexplainable couplet:
“That is not dead which can eternal lie,
And with strange aeons even death may die.”
I should have known that the Arabs had good reason for shunning the nameless city, the city told of in strange tales but seen by no living man, yet I defied them and went into the untrodden waste with my camel. I alone have seen it, and that is why no other face bears such hideous lines of fear as mine; why no other man shivers so horribly when the night-wind rattles the windows. When I came upon it in the ghastly stillness of unending sleep it looked at me, chilly from the rays of a cold moon amidst the desert’s heat. And as I returned its look I forgot my triumph at finding it, and stopped still with my camel to wait for the dawn.
For hours I waited, till the east grew grey and the stars faded, and the grey turned to roseal light edged with gold. I heard a moaning and saw a storm of sand stirring among the antique stones though the sky was clear and the vast reaches of the desert still. Then suddenly above the desert’s far rim came the blazing edge of the sun, seen through the tiny sandstorm which was passing away, and in my fevered state I fancied that from some remote depth there came a crash of musical metal to hail the fiery disc as Memnon hails it from the banks of the Nile. My ears rang and my imagination seethed as I led my camel slowly across the sand to that unvocal stone place; that place too old for Egypt and Meroë to remember; that place which I alone of living men had seen.
In and out amongst the shapeless foundations of houses and palaces I wandered, finding never a carving or inscription to tell of those men, if men they were, who built the city and dwelt therein so long ago. The antiquity of the spot was unwholesome, and I longed to encounter some sign or device to prove that the city was indeed fashioned by mankind. There were certain proportions and dimensions in the ruins which I did not like. I had with me many tools, and dug much within the walls of the obliterated edifices; but progress was slow, and nothing significant was revealed. When night and the moon returned I felt a chill wind which brought new fear, so that I did not dare to remain in the city. And as I went outside the antique walls to sleep, a small sighing sandstorm gathered behind me, blowing over the grey stones though the moon was bright and most of the desert still.
I awaked just at dawn from a pageant of horrible dreams, my ears ringing as from some metallic peal. I saw the sun peering redly through the last gusts of a little sandstorm that hovered over the nameless city, and marked the quietness of the rest of the landscape. Once more I ventured within those brooding ruins that swelled beneath the sand like an ogre under a coverlet, and again dug vainly for relics of the forgotten race. At noon I rested, and in the afternoon I spent much time tracing the walls, and the bygone streets, and the outlines of the nearly vanished buildings. I saw that the city had been mighty indeed, and wondered at the sources of its greatness. To myself I pictured all the splendours of an age so distant that Chaldaea could not recall it, and thought of Sarnath the Doomed, that stood in the land of Mnar when mankind was young, and of Ib, that was carven of grey stone before mankind existed.
All at once I came upon a place where the bed-rock rose stark through the sand and formed a low cliff; and here I saw with joy what seemed to promise further traces of the antediluvian people. Hewn rudely on the face of the cliff were the unmistakable facades of several small, squat rock houses or temples; whose interiors might preserve many secrets of ages too remote for calculation, though sandstorms had long since effaced any carvings which may have been outside.
Very low and sand-choked were all of the dark apertures near me, but I cleared one with my spade and crawled through it, carrying a torch to reveal whatever mysteries it might hold. When I was inside I saw that the cavern was indeed a temple, and beheld plain signs of the race that had lived and worshipped before the desert was a desert. Primitive altars, pillars, and niches, all curiously low, were not absent; and though I saw no sculptures nor frescoes, there were many singular stones clearly shaped into symbols by artificial means. The lowness of the chiselled chamber was very strange, for I could hardly more than kneel upright; but the area was so great that my torch shewed only part at a time. I shuddered oddly in some of the far corners; for certain altars and stones suggested forgotten rites of terrible, revolting, and inexplicable nature, and made me wonder what manner of men could have made and frequented such a temple. When I had seen all that the place contained, I crawled out again, avid to find what the other temples might yield.
Night had now approached, yet the tangible things I had seen made curiosity stronger than fear, so that I did not flee from the long moon-cast shadows that had daunted me when first I saw the nameless city. In the twilight I cleared another aperture and with a new torch crawled into it, finding more vague stones and symbols, though nothing more definite than the other temple had contained. The room was just as low, but much less broad, ending in a very narrow passage crowded with obscure and cryptical shrines. About these shrines I was prying when the noise of a wind and of my camel outside broke through the stillness and drew me forth to see what could have frightened the beast.
The moon was gleaming vividly over the primeval ruins, lighting a dense cloud of sand that seemed blown by a strong but decreasing wind from some point along the cliff ahead of me. I knew it was this chilly, sandy wind which had disturbed the camel, and was about to lead him to a place of better shelter when I chanced to glance up and saw that there was no wind atop the cliff. This astonished me and made me fearful again, but I immediately recalled the sudden local winds I had seen and heard before at sunrise and sunset, and judged it was a normal thing. I decided that it came from some rock fissure leading to a cave, and watched the troubled sand to trace it to its source; soon perceiving that it came from the black orifice of a temple a long distance south of me, almost out of sight. Against the choking sand-cloud I plodded toward this temple, which as I neared it loomed larger than the rest, and shewed a doorway far less clogged with caked sand. I would have entered had not the terrific force of the icy wind almost quenched my torch. It poured madly out of the dark door, sighing uncannily as it ruffled the sand and spread about the weird ruins. Soon it grew fainter and the sand grew more and more still, till finally all was at rest again; but a presence seemed stalking among the spectral stones of the city, and when I glanced at the moon it seemed to quiver as though mirrored in unquiet waters. I was more afraid than I could explain, but not enough to dull my thirst for wonder; so as soon as the wind was quite gone I crossed into the dark chamber from which it had come.
This temple, as I had fancied from the outside, was larger than either of those I had visited before; and was presumably a natural cavern, since it bore winds from some region beyond. Here I could stand quite upright, but saw that the stones and altars were as low as those in the other temples. On the walls and roof I beheld for the first time some traces of the pictorial art of the ancient race, curious curling streaks of paint that had almost faded or crumbled away; and on two of the altars I saw with rising excitement a maze of well-fashioned curvilinear carvings. As I held my torch aloft it seemed to me that the shape of the roof was too regular to be natural, and I wondered what the prehistoric cutters of stone had first worked upon. Their engineering skill must have been vast.
Then a brighter flare of the fantastic flame shewed me that for which I had been seeking, the opening to those remoter abysses whence the sudden wind had blown; and I grew faint when I saw that it was a small and plainly artificial door chiselled in the solid rock. I thrust my torch within, beholding a black tunnel with the roof arching low over a rough flight of very small, numerous, and steeply descending steps. I shall always see those steps in my dreams, for I came to learn what they meant. At the time I hardly knew whether to call them steps or mere foot-holds in a precipitous descent. My mind was whirling with mad thoughts, and the words and warnings of Arab prophets seemed to float across the desert from the lands that men know to the nameless city that men dare not know. Yet I hesitated only a moment before advancing through the portal and commencing to climb cautiously down the steep passage, feet first, as though on a ladder.
It is only in the terrible phantasms of drugs or delirium that any other man can have had such a descent as mine. The narrow passage led infinitely down like some hideous haunted well, and the torch I held above my head could not light the unknown depths toward which I was crawling. I lost track of the hours and forgot to consult my watch, though I was frightened when I thought of the distance I must be traversing. There were changes of direction and of steepness, and once I came to a long, low, level passage where I had to wriggle feet first along the rocky floor, holding my torch at arm’s length beyond my head. The place was not high enough for kneeling. After that were more of the steep steps, and I was still scrambling down interminably when my failing torch died out. I do not think I noticed it at the time, for when I did notice it I was still holding it high above me as if it were ablaze. I was quite unbalanced with that instinct for the strange and the unknown which has made me a wanderer upon earth and a haunter of far, ancient, and forbidden places.
In the darkness there flashed before my mind fragments of my cherished treasury of daemoniac lore; sentences from Alhazred the mad Arab, paragraphs from the apocryphal nightmares of Damascius, and infamous lines from the delirious Image du Monde of Gauthier de Metz. I repeated queer extracts, and muttered of Afrasiab and the daemons that floated with him down the Oxus; later chanting over and over again a phrase from one of Lord Dunsany’s tales—“the unreverberate blackness of the abyss”. Once when the descent grew amazingly steep I recited something in sing-song from Thomas Moore until I feared to recite more:
“A reservoir of darkness, black
As witches’ cauldrons are, when fill’d
With moon-drugs in th’ eclipse distill’d.
Leaning to look if foot might pass
Down thro’ that chasm, I saw, beneath,
As far as vision could explore,
The jetty sides as smooth as glass,
Looking as if just varnish’d o’er
With that dark pitch the Sea of Death
Throws out upon its slimy shore.”
Time had quite ceased to exist when my feet again felt a level floor, and I found myself in a place slightly higher than the rooms in the two smaller temples now so incalculably far above my head. I could not quite stand, but could kneel upright, and in the dark I shuffled and crept hither and thither at random. I soon knew that I was in a narrow passage whose walls were lined with cases of wood having glass fronts. As in that Palaeozoic and abysmal place I felt of such things as polished wood and glass I shuddered at the possible implications. The cases were apparently ranged along each side of the passage at regular intervals, and were oblong and horizontal, hideously like coffins in shape and size. When I tried to move two or three for further examination, I found they were firmly fastened.
I saw that the passage was a long one, so floundered ahead rapidly in a creeping run that would have seemed horrible had any eye watched me in the blackness; crossing from side to side occasionally to feel of my surroundings and be sure the walls and rows of cases still stretched on. Man is so used to thinking visually that I almost forgot the darkness and pictured the endless corridor of wood and glass in its low-studded monotony as though I saw it. And then in a moment of indescribable emotion I did see it.
Just when my fancy merged into real sight I cannot tell; but there came a gradual glow ahead, and all at once I knew that I saw the dim outlines of the corridor and the cases, revealed by some unknown subterranean phosphorescence. For a little while all was exactly as I had imagined it, since the glow was very faint; but as I mechanically kept on stumbling ahead into the stronger light I realised that my fancy had been but feeble. This hall was no relic of crudity like the temples in the city above, but a monument of the most magnificent and exotic art. Rich, vivid, and daringly fantastic designs and pictures formed a continuous scheme of mural painting whose lines and colours were beyond description. The cases were of a strange golden wood, with fronts of exquisite glass, and contained the mummified forms of creatures outreaching in grotesqueness the most chaotic dreams of man.
To convey any idea of these monstrosities is impossible. They were of the reptile kind, with body lines suggesting sometimes the crocodile, sometimes the seal, but more often nothing of which either the naturalist or the palaeontologist ever heard. In size they approximated a small man, and their fore legs bore delicate and evidently flexible feet curiously like human hands and fingers. But strangest of all were their heads, which presented a contour violating all known biological principles. To nothing can such things be well compared—in one flash I thought of comparisons as varied as the cat, the bulldog, the mythic Satyr, and the human being. Not Jove himself had so colossal and protuberant a forehead, yet the horns and the noselessness and the alligator-like jaw placed the things outside all established categories. I debated for a time on the reality of the mummies, half suspecting they were artificial idols; but soon decided they were indeed some palaeogean species which had lived when the nameless city was alive. To crown their grotesqueness, most of them were gorgeously enrobed in the costliest of fabrics, and lavishly laden with ornaments of gold, jewels, and unknown shining metals.
The importance of these crawling creatures must have been vast, for they held first place among the wild designs on the frescoed walls and ceiling. With matchless skill had the artist drawn them in a world of their own, wherein they had cities and gardens fashioned to suit their dimensions; and I could not but think that their pictured history was allegorical, perhaps shewing the progress of the race that worshipped them. These creatures, I said to myself, were to the men of the nameless city what the she-wolf was to Rome, or some totem-beast is to a tribe of Indians.
Holding this view, I thought I could trace roughly a wonderful epic of the nameless city; the tale of a mighty sea-coast metropolis that ruled the world before Africa rose out of the waves, and of its struggles as the sea shrank away, and the desert crept into the fertile valley that held it. I saw its wars and triumphs, its troubles and defeats, and afterward its terrible fight against the desert when thousands of its people—here represented in allegory by the grotesque reptiles—were driven to chisel their way down through the rocks in some marvellous manner to another world whereof their prophets had told them. It was all vividly weird and realistic, and its connexion with the awesome descent I had made was unmistakable. I even recognised the passages.
As I crept along the corridor toward the brighter light I saw later stages of the painted epic—the leave-taking of the race that had dwelt in the nameless city and the valley around for ten million years; the race whose souls shrank from quitting scenes their bodies had known so long, where they had settled as nomads in the earth’s youth, hewing in the virgin rock those primal shrines at which they never ceased to worship. Now that the light was better I studied the pictures more closely, and, remembering that the strange reptiles must represent the unknown men, pondered upon the customs of the nameless city. Many things were peculiar and inexplicable. The civilisation, which included a written alphabet, had seemingly risen to a higher order than those immeasurably later civilisations of Egypt and Chaldaea, yet there were curious omissions. I could, for example, find no pictures to represent deaths or funeral customs, save such as were related to wars, violence, and plagues; and I wondered at the reticence shewn concerning natural death. It was as though an ideal of earthly immortality had been fostered as a cheering illusion.
Still nearer the end of the passage were painted scenes of the utmost picturesqueness and extravagance; contrasted views of the nameless city in its desertion and growing ruin, and of the strange new realm or paradise to which the race had hewed its way through the stone. In these views the city and the desert valley were shewn always by moonlight, a golden nimbus hovering over the fallen walls and half revealing the splendid perfection of former times, shewn spectrally and elusively by the artist. The paradisal scenes were almost too extravagant to be believed; portraying a hidden world of eternal day filled with glorious cities and ethereal hills and valleys. At the very last I thought I saw signs of an artistic anti-climax. The paintings were less skilful, and much more bizarre than even the wildest of the earlier scenes. They seemed to record a slow decadence of the ancient stock, coupled with a growing ferocity toward the outside world from which it was driven by the desert. The forms of the people—always represented by the sacred reptiles—appeared to be gradually wasting away, though their spirit as shewn hovering about the ruins by moonlight gained in proportion. Emaciated priests, displayed as reptiles in ornate robes, cursed the upper air and all who breathed it; and one terrible final scene shewed a primitive-looking man, perhaps a pioneer of ancient Irem, the City of Pillars, torn to pieces by members of the elder race. I remembered how the Arabs fear the nameless city, and was glad that beyond this place the grey walls and ceiling were bare.
As I viewed the pageant of mural history I had approached very closely the end of the low-ceiled hall, and was aware of a great gate through which came all of the illuminating phosphorescence. Creeping up to it, I cried aloud in transcendent amazement at what lay beyond; for instead of other and brighter chambers there was only an illimitable void of uniform radiance, such as one might fancy when gazing down from the peak of Mount Everest upon a sea of sunlit mist. Behind me was a passage so cramped that I could not stand upright in it; before me was an infinity of subterranean effulgence.
Reaching down from the passage into the abyss was the head of a steep flight of steps—small numerous steps like those of the black passages I had traversed—but after a few feet the glowing vapours concealed everything. Swung back open against the left-hand wall of the passage was a massive door of brass, incredibly thick and decorated with fantastic bas-reliefs, which could if closed shut the whole inner world of light away from the vaults and passages of rock. I looked at the steps, and for the nonce dared not try them. I touched the open brass door, and could not move it. Then I sank prone to the stone floor, my mind aflame with prodigious reflections which not even a death-like exhaustion could banish.
As I lay still with closed eyes, free to ponder, many things I had lightly noted in the frescoes came back to me with new and terrible significance—scenes representing the nameless city in its heyday, the vegetation of the valley around it, and the distant lands with which its merchants traded. The allegory of the crawling creatures puzzled me by its universal prominence, and I wondered that it should be so closely followed in a pictured history of such importance. In the frescoes the nameless city had been shewn in proportions fitted to the reptiles. I wondered what its real proportions and magnificence had been, and reflected a moment on certain oddities I had noticed in the ruins. I thought curiously of the lowness of the primal temples and of the underground corridor, which were doubtless hewn thus out of deference to the reptile deities there honoured; though it perforce reduced the worshippers to crawling. Perhaps the very rites had involved a crawling in imitation of the creatures. No religious theory, however, could easily explain why the level passage in that awesome descent should be as low as the temples—or lower, since one could not even kneel in it. As I thought of the crawling creatures, whose hideous mummified forms were so close to me, I felt a new throb of fear. Mental associations are curious, and I shrank from the idea that except for the poor primitive man torn to pieces in the last painting, mine was the only human form amidst the many relics and symbols of primordial life.
But as always in my strange and roving existence, wonder soon drove out fear; for the luminous abyss and what it might contain presented a problem worthy of the greatest explorer. That a weird world of mystery lay far down that flight of peculiarly small steps I could not doubt, and I hoped to find there those human memorials which the painted corridor had failed to give. The frescoes had pictured unbelievable cities, hills, and valleys in this lower realm, and my fancy dwelt on the rich and colossal ruins that awaited me.
My fears, indeed, concerned the past rather than the future. Not even the physical horror of my position in that cramped corridor of dead reptiles and antediluvian frescoes, miles below the world I knew and faced by another world of eerie light and mist, could match the lethal dread I felt at the abysmal antiquity of the scene and its soul. An ancientness so vast that measurement is feeble seemed to leer down from the primal stones and rock-hewn temples in the nameless city, while the very latest of the astounding maps in the frescoes shewed oceans and continents that man has forgotten, with only here and there some vaguely familiar outline. Of what could have happened in the geological aeons since the paintings ceased and the death-hating race resentfully succumbed to decay, no man might say. Life had once teemed in these caverns and in the luminous realm beyond; now I was alone with vivid relics, and I trembled to think of the countless ages through which these relics had kept a silent and deserted vigil.
Suddenly there came another burst of that acute fear which had intermittently seized me ever since I first saw the terrible valley and the nameless city under a cold moon, and despite my exhaustion I found myself starting frantically to a sitting posture and gazing back along the black corridor toward the tunnels that rose to the outer world. My sensations were much like those which had made me shun the nameless city at night, and were as inexplicable as they were poignant. In another moment, however, I received a still greater shock in the form of a definite sound—the first which had broken the utter silence of these tomb-like depths. It was a deep, low moaning, as of a distant throng of condemned spirits, and came from the direction in which I was staring. Its volume rapidly grew, till soon it reverberated frightfully through the low passage, and at the same time I became conscious of an increasing draught of cold air, likewise flowing from the tunnels and the city above. The touch of this air seemed to restore my balance, for I instantly recalled the sudden gusts which had risen around the mouth of the abyss each sunset and sunrise, one of which had indeed served to reveal the hidden tunnels to me. I looked at my watch and saw that sunrise was near, so braced myself to resist the gale which was sweeping down to its cavern home as it had swept forth at evening. My fear again waned low, since a natural phenomenon tends to dispel broodings over the unknown.
More and more madly poured the shrieking, moaning night-wind into that gulf of the inner earth. I dropped prone again and clutched vainly at the floor for fear of being swept bodily through the open gate into the phosphorescent abyss. Such fury I had not expected, and as I grew aware of an actual slipping of my form toward the abyss I was beset by a thousand new terrors of apprehension and imagination. The malignancy of the blast awakened incredible fancies; once more I compared myself shudderingly to the only other human image in that frightful corridor, the man who was torn to pieces by the nameless race, for in the fiendish clawing of the swirling currents there seemed to abide a vindictive rage all the stronger because it was largely impotent. I think I screamed frantically near the last—I was almost mad—but if I did so my cries were lost in the hell-born babel of the howling wind-wraiths. I tried to crawl against the murderous invisible torrent, but I could not even hold my own as I was pushed slowly and inexorably toward the unknown world. Finally reason must have wholly snapped, for I fell to babbling over and over that unexplainable couplet of the mad Arab Alhazred, who dreamed of the nameless city:
“That is not dead which can eternal lie,
And with strange aeons even death may die.”
Only the grim brooding desert gods know what really took place—what indescribable struggles and scrambles in the dark I endured or what Abaddon guided me back to life, where I must always remember and shiver in the night-wind till oblivion—or worse—claims me. Monstrous, unnatural, colossal, was the thing—too far beyond all the ideas of man to be believed except in the silent damnable small hours when one cannot sleep.
I have said that the fury of the rushing blast was infernal—cacodaemoniacal—and that its voices were hideous with the pent-up viciousness of desolate eternities. Presently those voices, while still chaotic before me, seemed to my beating brain to take articulate form behind me; and down there in the grave of unnumbered aeon-dead antiquities, leagues below the dawn-lit world of men, I heard the ghastly cursing and snarling of strange-tongued fiends. Turning, I saw outlined against the luminous aether of the abyss what could not be seen against the dusk of the corridor—a nightmare horde of rushing devils; hate-distorted, grotesquely panoplied, half-transparent; devils of a race no man might mistake—the crawling reptiles of the nameless city.
And as the wind died away I was plunged into the ghoul-peopled blackness of earth’s bowels; for behind the last of the creatures the great brazen door clanged shut with a deafening peal of metallic music whose reverberations swelled out to the distant world to hail the rising sun as Memnon hails it from the banks of the Nile.
Friday, December 23, 2011
Howard Philips Lovecraft
1979-80 var den författare jag var mest fascinerad av Howard Philips Lovecraft. Året innan var det Jenny Berthelius, som jag skrivit en hel del om på bloggen.
Redan 1973 hade jag läst Lovecraftnovellen "Pickmans modell", i en tidskrift som jag inte minns namnet på. I januari 1976 läste jag "Skräckens labyrinter" och blev, motvilligt, fascinerad. Hösten samma år läste jag "Gengångaren", det dåvarande namnet på den svenska översättningen av "The Case of Charles Dexter Ward".
Men det var någon gång vid årsskiftet 1978-79 som jag fick tag i Lin Carters bok "Lovecraft: a look behind the Cthulhu mythos" och blev verkligt fascinerad. Våren 1979 skrev jag en lång uppsats om Lovecraft på Jakobsbergs folkhögskola. Jag har tyvärr inte kvar den, och den var lätt bisarr. Den var freudiansk så det räckte och min grundtes var att Lovecraft i sina berättelser omedvetet bearbetade sin egen oidipalkonflikt! Men min svensklärare måste ha blivit imponerad - senare fick jag reda på att uppsatsen var det främsta skälet att jag fick 4 i omdöme det året (4 var det högsta omdöme man kunde få på en folkhögskola).
Jag köpte allt av Lovecraft jag kom över, och var fascinerad över både språket och innehållet. Språket hos Lovecraft är ju fyllt med förstärkande adjektiv av en typ som alla skrivarkurser i världen starkt avråder blivande författare från att använda. Jag tyckte att det var mycket suggestivt.
Innehållet då? Ja, det var nästan alltid grundat på idén att det strax under den "normala" verkligheten låg en helt annan verklighet - en monstruös och "onämnbar" (ett av Lovecrafts favoritord!) sådan. Temat fascinerade mig, möjligen motsvarade det ganska bra min egen innersta uppfattning av världen.
Min fascination för Lovecraft ledde mig också till att i januari 1980 skriva Lovecraftpastischen "Den lurande skräcken", som publicerades i elevtidningen "Jakobinen" hösten samma år.
Långt senare, i januari 1984, skrev jag på nytt om Lovecraft - i en liten stenciltidning som hette "DOA" (ska uttydas "Dead on Arrival"). Då hade jag bytt ut Freud mot Alice Miller som analysredskap - och jag argumenterade för att Lovecrafts produktion avspeglade hans traumatiska barndom. Ett framsteg jämfört med att spekulera i hans oidipuskomplex, tycker jag nog, men idag vill jag nog helst avstå från att rakt av applicera psykologiska förklaringar på Lovecrafts författarskap.
Lovecraft har ju inspirerat olika grupper och sekter - exempelvis den polska mörkermagiska gruppen "Lodge Magan", som säger sig ha tagit ordet "Magan" från Lovecrafts fiktiva magiska bok "Necronomicon". Nu finns ju inte "Necronomicon" i sinnevärlden , så jag förstår inte riktigt hur de kan ha hämtat det därifrån - men det är ju möjligt att Lovecraft nämner det på något ställe som jag inte minns.
I Svenska Dagbladet pågick nyligen en debatt om Lovecraft var rasist. Ja, det var han, i ungefär samma mening som madame Blavatsky var det, och han delade privat hennes obehagligt nedlåtande syn på exempelvis australiska urinvånare. Men hans romaner och noveller var inte rasistiska i någon rimlig mening - och det vore förstås helt absurt att tänka sig att Nationaldemokraterna skulle sälja dem på sina eventuella bokbord.
Ja, jag kommer att återkomma till HP Lovecraft. Den bild han målar upp av en alternativ verklighet strax under ytan, och av de väsen som en gång försvann men som lurar i mörkret och bara väntar på att få ta tillbaka sin gamla position fascinerar. Man kommer ibland att tänka på exempelvis jättarna i Utgård, i fornnordisk mytologi.
Som sagt, jag återkommer till ämnet.
Redan 1973 hade jag läst Lovecraftnovellen "Pickmans modell", i en tidskrift som jag inte minns namnet på. I januari 1976 läste jag "Skräckens labyrinter" och blev, motvilligt, fascinerad. Hösten samma år läste jag "Gengångaren", det dåvarande namnet på den svenska översättningen av "The Case of Charles Dexter Ward".
Men det var någon gång vid årsskiftet 1978-79 som jag fick tag i Lin Carters bok "Lovecraft: a look behind the Cthulhu mythos" och blev verkligt fascinerad. Våren 1979 skrev jag en lång uppsats om Lovecraft på Jakobsbergs folkhögskola. Jag har tyvärr inte kvar den, och den var lätt bisarr. Den var freudiansk så det räckte och min grundtes var att Lovecraft i sina berättelser omedvetet bearbetade sin egen oidipalkonflikt! Men min svensklärare måste ha blivit imponerad - senare fick jag reda på att uppsatsen var det främsta skälet att jag fick 4 i omdöme det året (4 var det högsta omdöme man kunde få på en folkhögskola).
Jag köpte allt av Lovecraft jag kom över, och var fascinerad över både språket och innehållet. Språket hos Lovecraft är ju fyllt med förstärkande adjektiv av en typ som alla skrivarkurser i världen starkt avråder blivande författare från att använda. Jag tyckte att det var mycket suggestivt.
Innehållet då? Ja, det var nästan alltid grundat på idén att det strax under den "normala" verkligheten låg en helt annan verklighet - en monstruös och "onämnbar" (ett av Lovecrafts favoritord!) sådan. Temat fascinerade mig, möjligen motsvarade det ganska bra min egen innersta uppfattning av världen.
Min fascination för Lovecraft ledde mig också till att i januari 1980 skriva Lovecraftpastischen "Den lurande skräcken", som publicerades i elevtidningen "Jakobinen" hösten samma år.
Långt senare, i januari 1984, skrev jag på nytt om Lovecraft - i en liten stenciltidning som hette "DOA" (ska uttydas "Dead on Arrival"). Då hade jag bytt ut Freud mot Alice Miller som analysredskap - och jag argumenterade för att Lovecrafts produktion avspeglade hans traumatiska barndom. Ett framsteg jämfört med att spekulera i hans oidipuskomplex, tycker jag nog, men idag vill jag nog helst avstå från att rakt av applicera psykologiska förklaringar på Lovecrafts författarskap.
Lovecraft har ju inspirerat olika grupper och sekter - exempelvis den polska mörkermagiska gruppen "Lodge Magan", som säger sig ha tagit ordet "Magan" från Lovecrafts fiktiva magiska bok "Necronomicon". Nu finns ju inte "Necronomicon" i sinnevärlden , så jag förstår inte riktigt hur de kan ha hämtat det därifrån - men det är ju möjligt att Lovecraft nämner det på något ställe som jag inte minns.
I Svenska Dagbladet pågick nyligen en debatt om Lovecraft var rasist. Ja, det var han, i ungefär samma mening som madame Blavatsky var det, och han delade privat hennes obehagligt nedlåtande syn på exempelvis australiska urinvånare. Men hans romaner och noveller var inte rasistiska i någon rimlig mening - och det vore förstås helt absurt att tänka sig att Nationaldemokraterna skulle sälja dem på sina eventuella bokbord.
Ja, jag kommer att återkomma till HP Lovecraft. Den bild han målar upp av en alternativ verklighet strax under ytan, och av de väsen som en gång försvann men som lurar i mörkret och bara väntar på att få ta tillbaka sin gamla position fascinerar. Man kommer ibland att tänka på exempelvis jättarna i Utgård, i fornnordisk mytologi.
Som sagt, jag återkommer till ämnet.
Monday, December 19, 2011
Den lurande skräcken
Det här är en skräcknovell, eller snarare något av en parodi på en sådan, som jag skrev i ett första utkast den 27 januari 1980, och som senare publicerades i Jakobsbergs folkhögskolas elevtidning "Jakobinen" i september 1980.
t här är en skräcknovell, eller snarare något av en parodi på en sådan, som jag skrev i ett första utkast den 27 januari 1980, och som senare publicerades i Jakobsbergs folkhögskolas elevtidning "Jakobinen" i september 1980.
Handlingen utspelar sig alltså på skolan, och har som sin bakgrund på att jag på eftermiddagen den 19 augusti 1978 faktiskt gick och tog en titt på den skola som jag senare började på måndagen den 21 samma månad. Men nej, jag hade inte sällskap, och, nej, jag såg inga spöken eller monster.
I berättelsen nämns "Avgrunden" och "Valhall". Det var två hus på skolan som kallades så, och under grundkursen hade vi vårt "primärgruppsrum" i just Avgrunden.
Jag försökte väl parodiera Howard Philips Lovecraft i berättelsen, och kanske tre av meningarna i den är (fult nog) nästan ordagrant tagna från Lovecraft.
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Det var åska i luften den natt då jag gick till den ödsligt liggande folkhögskolan i Jakobsberg. Jag var inte ensam, för dårskapen hade ännu inte blandats med den kärlek till det groteska och fasansfulla som gjort mitt liv till ett älskande efter sällsamma fasor i litteraturen och livet. Jag hade i mitt sällskap två pålitliga kamrater som jag bett komma med mig - komma med mig för att beskåda den skola jag ämnade leva i tre år av mitt liv.
Det var natten till den 20 augusti 1978.
Jag hade aldrig tidigare sett skolan - endast hört den beskrivas i viskande, skrämda antydningar av f.d. elever. Jag hade flera mörka nätter förhört några, men det mest konkreta jag fick var vanligtvis "Det är något med konturerna som oroar mig" eller "Det finns vissa proportioner jag inte tycker om".
Och jag fick höra sällsamma historier om en elev som slutade efter två månader. Han tog allt han hade och stack. Trots påstötningar vägrade han att komma tillbaka och hämta de kläder han, konstigt nog, lämnat kvar i källaren.
Det var alltså till denna skola jag natten till den 20:de smög mig fram. Blixtarna lyste över de primitiva byggnaderna och regnet piskades fram i en stark men avtagande vind som kom från någon punkt i skolan. (Senare insåg jag att den punkten måste varit belägen i Avgrunden, ett faktum jag lyckligtvis inte var medveten om då.)
Vi smög långsamt och försiktigt - dels för att inte i onödan oroa rektor, vaktmästare och husmor som vi visste bodde där - dels för… Ja det andra. Just som vi kom upp mojnade stormen och snart sprack molnen upp. Istället kastade månen nu ett egendomligt sken över den tomma gården.
Allt var stilla, men det var inte den rogivande stillheten på en sommaräng. Nej, stillheten var oroande. Inte ett ljus syntes från de ålderstigna byggnaderna, inte ett ljud hördes.
Sedan fick någonting oss att titta på ett av de gamla husen. Vad det var visste vi inte, kanske var det ett halvt omärkligt ljud, kanske var det något annat. Vi tittade på det gamla huset utan att veta att det var Avgrunden. (Gud, vilka morbida händelser som kan ha förskaffat det detta namn!)
Vi såg ingenting, eller kanske såg vi redan såg en antydan, en svag aning om någonting. Vi stirrade som förhäxade; sen tyckte vi oss ana någonting -en rörelse, ett svagt (knappt märkbart) ljussken och ett svagt ljud som vi tyckte oss höra. Vi var snart säkra på att vi hörde det och ju mer säkra vi blev desto mer stelnade våra kroppar av fasa. Vi insåg att det ljud vi hört var det som beskrivits i den förbjudna "Necronomicon" - ljud, berättades det, som aldrig borde få höras och aldrig hörts av normala människor: det gåtfulla, pipande "Tekeli-li! Tekeli-li!" Trots vår fasa drev vår upphetsning oss att smyga närmare till dess vi kom till en dörr som leder till ett litet rum - senare fick vi reda på att det var ett klassrum. Om jag hade vetat att det skulle bli mitt primärgruppsrum hela första året…
Just då var ingenting mer främmande än långa primärgruppstimmar och häftiga persongräl…
Jag vet inte vad som först varnade oss - om det var den säregna lukten, först knappt märkbar, sedan mer och mer tydlig, eller om det var den långsamma rörelsen hos dörren. Men vi gömde oss bakom en tät ridå av växtlighet genom vilken vi kunde se dörren utan att bli sedda.
Jag kan inte ens antyda vad vi såg för det var en förening av allt det som är orent, skrämmande, ovälkommet, onaturligt och motbjudande. Det var den monstruösa skuggan av förruttnelse och förödelse: Den förmultnande, droppande spökbilden av en motbjudande uppenbarelse, det ohyggliga avslöjandet av det som den barmhärtiga jorden alltid borde dölja.
Vi såg snart att det fanns flera gestalter, åtminstone fem. Gud ska veta att de inte tillhör denna värld, ändå såg vi till vår fasa att de var obehagligt substantiella, på ett sätt som fyllde oss med än större skräck.
Jag vet inte hur vi tog oss därifrån denna natt, och jag vet inte om dom andra har några minnen av det. Vi talade aldrig om det, annat än som dunkla antydningar om det där.
Att jag berättar detta efter två år beror dels på att jag känner att jag inte kan bära det längre, dels på att jag vill varna er. Varför tror ni att jag envisades att flytta massmediaprojektet nedför kullen, till Valhall? Varför tror ni att jag vid hela första året vid lektionerna i Avgrunden tittade oroat ut genom fönstret, liksom om jag väntade att få se något?
Och - har aldrig någon frågat Ingemar varför huset egentligen heter Avgrunden? Jag har, och den skrämda blicken och de liksom förvridna händerna var svar nog.
Eller har ingen talat med Ingegerd? Hon kan berätta saker som vare sig Finn eller Ingemar, Inga eller Sonja skulle våga andas om.
Men ni tror mig inte? Jag kan berätta att det börjar hända något. De senaste nätterna har jag vaknat av ett egendomligt, men blott alltför välbekant ljud. När jag hör det drar jag ner rullgardinen och låser dörren. Det kommer underifrån och verkar befinna sig under hela kullen. Jag försöker somna men ljudet följer mig in i mina obarmhärtiga mardrömmar: Tekeli-li! Tekeli-li!
t här är en skräcknovell, eller snarare något av en parodi på en sådan, som jag skrev i ett första utkast den 27 januari 1980, och som senare publicerades i Jakobsbergs folkhögskolas elevtidning "Jakobinen" i september 1980.
Handlingen utspelar sig alltså på skolan, och har som sin bakgrund på att jag på eftermiddagen den 19 augusti 1978 faktiskt gick och tog en titt på den skola som jag senare började på måndagen den 21 samma månad. Men nej, jag hade inte sällskap, och, nej, jag såg inga spöken eller monster.
I berättelsen nämns "Avgrunden" och "Valhall". Det var två hus på skolan som kallades så, och under grundkursen hade vi vårt "primärgruppsrum" i just Avgrunden.
Jag försökte väl parodiera Howard Philips Lovecraft i berättelsen, och kanske tre av meningarna i den är (fult nog) nästan ordagrant tagna från Lovecraft.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Det var åska i luften den natt då jag gick till den ödsligt liggande folkhögskolan i Jakobsberg. Jag var inte ensam, för dårskapen hade ännu inte blandats med den kärlek till det groteska och fasansfulla som gjort mitt liv till ett älskande efter sällsamma fasor i litteraturen och livet. Jag hade i mitt sällskap två pålitliga kamrater som jag bett komma med mig - komma med mig för att beskåda den skola jag ämnade leva i tre år av mitt liv.
Det var natten till den 20 augusti 1978.
Jag hade aldrig tidigare sett skolan - endast hört den beskrivas i viskande, skrämda antydningar av f.d. elever. Jag hade flera mörka nätter förhört några, men det mest konkreta jag fick var vanligtvis "Det är något med konturerna som oroar mig" eller "Det finns vissa proportioner jag inte tycker om".
Och jag fick höra sällsamma historier om en elev som slutade efter två månader. Han tog allt han hade och stack. Trots påstötningar vägrade han att komma tillbaka och hämta de kläder han, konstigt nog, lämnat kvar i källaren.
Det var alltså till denna skola jag natten till den 20:de smög mig fram. Blixtarna lyste över de primitiva byggnaderna och regnet piskades fram i en stark men avtagande vind som kom från någon punkt i skolan. (Senare insåg jag att den punkten måste varit belägen i Avgrunden, ett faktum jag lyckligtvis inte var medveten om då.)
Vi smög långsamt och försiktigt - dels för att inte i onödan oroa rektor, vaktmästare och husmor som vi visste bodde där - dels för… Ja det andra. Just som vi kom upp mojnade stormen och snart sprack molnen upp. Istället kastade månen nu ett egendomligt sken över den tomma gården.
Allt var stilla, men det var inte den rogivande stillheten på en sommaräng. Nej, stillheten var oroande. Inte ett ljus syntes från de ålderstigna byggnaderna, inte ett ljud hördes.
Sedan fick någonting oss att titta på ett av de gamla husen. Vad det var visste vi inte, kanske var det ett halvt omärkligt ljud, kanske var det något annat. Vi tittade på det gamla huset utan att veta att det var Avgrunden. (Gud, vilka morbida händelser som kan ha förskaffat det detta namn!)
Vi såg ingenting, eller kanske såg vi redan såg en antydan, en svag aning om någonting. Vi stirrade som förhäxade; sen tyckte vi oss ana någonting -en rörelse, ett svagt (knappt märkbart) ljussken och ett svagt ljud som vi tyckte oss höra. Vi var snart säkra på att vi hörde det och ju mer säkra vi blev desto mer stelnade våra kroppar av fasa. Vi insåg att det ljud vi hört var det som beskrivits i den förbjudna "Necronomicon" - ljud, berättades det, som aldrig borde få höras och aldrig hörts av normala människor: det gåtfulla, pipande "Tekeli-li! Tekeli-li!" Trots vår fasa drev vår upphetsning oss att smyga närmare till dess vi kom till en dörr som leder till ett litet rum - senare fick vi reda på att det var ett klassrum. Om jag hade vetat att det skulle bli mitt primärgruppsrum hela första året…
Just då var ingenting mer främmande än långa primärgruppstimmar och häftiga persongräl…
Jag vet inte vad som först varnade oss - om det var den säregna lukten, först knappt märkbar, sedan mer och mer tydlig, eller om det var den långsamma rörelsen hos dörren. Men vi gömde oss bakom en tät ridå av växtlighet genom vilken vi kunde se dörren utan att bli sedda.
Jag kan inte ens antyda vad vi såg för det var en förening av allt det som är orent, skrämmande, ovälkommet, onaturligt och motbjudande. Det var den monstruösa skuggan av förruttnelse och förödelse: Den förmultnande, droppande spökbilden av en motbjudande uppenbarelse, det ohyggliga avslöjandet av det som den barmhärtiga jorden alltid borde dölja.
Vi såg snart att det fanns flera gestalter, åtminstone fem. Gud ska veta att de inte tillhör denna värld, ändå såg vi till vår fasa att de var obehagligt substantiella, på ett sätt som fyllde oss med än större skräck.
Jag vet inte hur vi tog oss därifrån denna natt, och jag vet inte om dom andra har några minnen av det. Vi talade aldrig om det, annat än som dunkla antydningar om det där.
Att jag berättar detta efter två år beror dels på att jag känner att jag inte kan bära det längre, dels på att jag vill varna er. Varför tror ni att jag envisades att flytta massmediaprojektet nedför kullen, till Valhall? Varför tror ni att jag vid hela första året vid lektionerna i Avgrunden tittade oroat ut genom fönstret, liksom om jag väntade att få se något?
Och - har aldrig någon frågat Ingemar varför huset egentligen heter Avgrunden? Jag har, och den skrämda blicken och de liksom förvridna händerna var svar nog.
Eller har ingen talat med Ingegerd? Hon kan berätta saker som vare sig Finn eller Ingemar, Inga eller Sonja skulle våga andas om.
Men ni tror mig inte? Jag kan berätta att det börjar hända något. De senaste nätterna har jag vaknat av ett egendomligt, men blott alltför välbekant ljud. När jag hör det drar jag ner rullgardinen och låser dörren. Det kommer underifrån och verkar befinna sig under hela kullen. Jag försöker somna men ljudet följer mig in i mina obarmhärtiga mardrömmar: Tekeli-li! Tekeli-li!
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