A Journey Through Lovecraft's Allusions

When I was 11, maybe 12, years old, I discovered H.P. Lovecraft. 

I learned of him through Metallica, who had written two songs based on his short stories: Call of Cthulhu and The Thing That Should Not Be. The first song was instrumental, but the second contained some pretty cryptic lyrics that made me want to read the literature that inspired it. It did not disappoint.

Anyone already familiar with Lovecraft's writings will know that the prose and historical and literary references are going to be right over the head of an eleven-year-old. But I was already fascinated by archaic language, mystery, and dark themes. So I kept reading and exponentially improved my vocabulary in the process.

One of the many literary devices Lovecraft used in his short stories was allusion. As a young reader, these references to obscure texts and ancient myths added to the mystique of his work. They hinted at a vast, unseen world of knowledge that lurked just beyond my understanding, much like the cosmic horrors that populate Lovecraft's stories.

Years passed, and my fascination with Lovecraft waned, replaced by other interests and authors. But recently, I found myself drawn back to his work. I re-read one of his most famous stories "The Rats in the Walls," a tale I remembered enjoying in my youth.

As I read, I came across a passage that struck me differently than it had all those years ago. 

The protagonist, an American renovating his ancestral English estate, discovers a Roman inscription: 

'L. PRAEC . . . VS . . . PONTIFI . . . ATYS. . . .' 

Lovecraft's character then notes:

"The reference to Atys made me shiver, for I had read Catullus and knew something of the hideous rites of the Eastern god, whose worship was so mixed with that of Cybele."

When I first read this as a child, it sent chills down my spine. The vague mention of "hideous rites" and unfamiliar names like Atys, Catullus, and Cybele conjured images of eldritch horrors and dark ceremonies. It was exactly the kind of tantalizing, half-glimpsed terror that Lovecraft excelled at creating.

But now, armed with years of education and a broader understanding of classical literature, I approached the passage differently. I recognized Catullus as a Roman poet and recalled learning about Cybele, the Anatolian mother goddess. Curious about the connection, I recalled a collection of Latin poetry and found Catullus's poem about Atys.

As I read, I realized that the "hideous rites" Lovecraft alluded to were far more human and tragically mundane than I had imagined as a child. The poem tells of Atys, a young devotee of Cybele who, in a fit of religious ecstasy, castrates himself. It's a tale of religious fervor taken to extremes, of the blurry line between devotion and madness.

I found myself reflecting on how my perception of Lovecraft's work had changed. As a child, his allusions had been gateways to imagined terrors, each unfamiliar name a potential monster lurking in the shadows. Now, with a better understanding of the references, I saw them as windows into the very real complexities of human nature and history.

The cults of Cybele and Atys, while shocking to modern sensibilities, were not unique in the ancient world. Similar practices of ecstatic worship and self-mutilation can be found in various cultures throughout history. What Lovecraft presented as alien and horrifying was, in fact, a part of our past.

This realization didn't diminish my appreciation for Lovecraft's work. If anything, it deepened it. I saw how he had woven real historical and literary references into his fiction, using them to bridge the gap between the familiar and the unknown. His genius lay not in inventing terrors from whole cloth, but in showing how the seeds of cosmic horror could be found in our own world.

As I finished the story, I found myself smiling at my younger self, thrilled and terrified by these cryptic references. While I may no longer shiver at the mention of Atys, I'm grateful for the journey that Lovecraft's works sent me on – a journey of discovery that led me from imagined horrors to a deeper appreciation of human history and literature.

In the end, isn't that what great literature does? It doesn't just entertain us in the moment; it plants seeds of curiosity that continue to grow and bear fruit long after we've turned the final page. Lovecraft's stories may be filled with indescribable horrors, but for me, they've also been portals to a lifetime of learning and discovery.