The Unnamable
By; Howard Phillips Lovecraft 1923 - - first published in The Vagrant not dated.
We were sitting on a dilapidated seventeenth - century tomb in the late afternoon of an autumn
day at the old burying ground in Arkham, and speculating about the unnamable. Looking toward
the giant willow in the cemetery, whose trunk had nearly engulfed an ancient, illegible slab, I had
made a fantastic remark about the spectral and unmentionable nourishment which the colossal
roots must be sucking from that hoary, charnel earth; when my friend chided me for such
nonsense and told me that since no interments had occurred there for over a century, nothing
could possibly exist to nourish the tree in other than an ordinary manner, Besides, he added, my
constant talk about "unnamable" and "unmentionable" things was a very puerile device, quite in
keeping with my lowly standing as an author. I was too fond of ending my stories with, sights or
sounds which paralyzed my heroes' faculties and left them without courage, words, or
associations to tell what they had experienced. We know things, he said, only through our five
senses or our intuitions; wherefore it is quite impossible to refer to any object or spectacle which
cannot be clearly depicted by the solid definitions of fact or the correct doctrines Of theology -
- preferably those of the Congregationalist, with whatever modifications tradition and Sir Arthur
Conan Doyle may supply.
With this fried, Joel Manton, I had often languidly disputed. He was principal of the East High
School, born and bred in Boston and sharing New England's self - satisfied deafness to the
delicate overtones of life, It was his view that only our normal, objective experiences possess
any esthetic significance, and that it is the province of tile artist not so much to rouse strong
emotion by action, ecstasy, and astonishment, as to maintain a placid interest and appreciation
by accurate, detailed transcripts of everyday affairs. Especially did he object to my
preoccupation with the mystical and the unexplained; for although believing in the supernatural
much more fully than I, he would not admit that it is sufficiently commonplace for literary
treatment That a mind can find its greatest pleasure in escapes from the daily treadmill, and in
original and dramatic recombinations of images usually thrown by habit and fatigue into the
hackneyed patterns of actual existence, was something virtually incredible to his clear, practical,
and logical intellect With him all things and feelings had fixed dimensions, properties, causes, and
effects; and although he vaguely knew that the mind sometimes holds visions and sensations of
far less geometrical, classifiable, and workable nature, he believed himself justified in drawing an
arbitrary line and ruling out of court all that cannot be experienced and understood by the
average citizen. Besides, he was almost sure that nothing can be really "unnamable." It didn't
sound sensible to him.
Though I well realized the futility of imaginative and metaphysical arguments against the
complacency of an orthodox sun-dweller, something in the scene of this afternoon colloquy
moved me to more than usual contentiousness. The crumbling slate slabs, the patriarchal trees,
and the centuries gambrel roofs of the witch-haunted old town that stretched around, all
combined to rouse my spirit in defense of my work; and I was soon carrying my thrusts into the
enemy's own country. It was not, indeed, difficult to begin a counter-attack, for I knew that Joel
Manton actually half clung to many old-wives' superstitions which sophisticated people had long
outgrown; beliefs in the appearance of dying persons at distant places, and in the impressions
left by old faces on the windows through which they had gazed all their lives. To credit these
whisperings of rural grandmothers, I now insisted, argued a faith in the existence of spectral
substances on the earth apart from and subsequent to their material counterparts. It argued a
capability of believing in phenomena beyond all normal notions; for if a dead man can transmit
his visible or tangible image half across the world, or down the stretch of the centuries, how can
it be absurd to suppose that deserted houses are full of queer sentient things, or that old
graveyards teem with the terrible, unbodied intelligence of generations? And since spirit, in order
to cause all the manifestations attributed to it, cannot be limited by any of the laws of matter;
why is it extravagant to imagine psychically living dead things in shapes - or absences of shapes
- which must for human spectators be utterly and appallingly "unnamable"? "Common sense" in
reflecting on these subjects, I assured my friend with some warmth, is merely a stupid absence
of imagination and mental flexibility.
Twilight had now approached, but neither of us felt any wish to cease speaking. Manton
seemed unimpressed by my arguments, and eager to refute them, having that confidence in his
own Opinions which had doubtless caused his success as a teacher; whilst I was too sure of my
ground to fear defeat. The dusk fell, and lights faintly gleamed in some of the distant windows,
but we did not move. Our seat on the tomb was very comfortable, and I knew that my prosaic
friend would not mind the cavernous rift in the ancient, root-disturbed brickwork close behind
us, or the utter blackness of the spot brought by the intervention of a tottering, deserted
seventeenth - century house between us and the nearest lighted road. There in the dark, upon
that riven tomb by the deserted house, we talked on about the "unnamable," and after my friend
had finished his scoffing I told him of the awful evidence behind the story at which he had
scoffed the most.
My tale had been called The Attic Window, and appeared in the January, 1922, issue of
Whispers. In a good many places, especially the South and the Pacific coast, they took the
magazines off the stands at the complaints of silly milk-sops; but New England didn't get the
thrill and merely shrugged its shoulders at my extravagance. The thing, it was averred, was
biologically impossible to start with; merely another of those crazy country mutterings which
Cotton Mather had been gullible enough to dump into his chaotic Magnalia Christi Americana,
and so poorly authenticated that even he had not ventured to name the locality where the horror
occurred. And as to the way I amplified the bare jotting of the old mystic - - that was quite
impossible, and characteristic of a flighty and notional scribbler! Mather had indeed told of the
thing as being born, but nobody but a cheap sensationalist would think of having it grow up,
look into people's windows at night, and be hidden in the attic of a house, in flesh and in spirit,
till someone saw it at the window centuries later and couldn't describe what it was that turned
his hair gray. All this was flagrant trashiness, and my friend Manton was not slow to insist on
that fact Then I told him what I had found in an old diary kept between 1706 and 1723,
unearthed among family papers not a mile from where we were sitting; that, and the certain
reality of the scars On my ancestor's chest and back which the diary described. I told him, too,
of the tears of others in that region' and how they were whispered down for generations; and
how no mythical madness came to the boy who in 1793 entered an abandoned house to
examine certain traces suspected to be there.
It had been an eldritch thing - - no wonder sensitive students shudder at the Puritan age In
Massachusetts. So little is known of what went on beneath the surface - - so little, yet such a
ghastly festering as it bubbles up putrescently in occasional ghoulish glimpses. The witchcraft
terror is a horrible ray of light on what was stewing in men's crushed brains, but even that is a
trifle. There was no beauty: no freedom - - we can see that from the architectural and household
remains, and the poisonous sermons of the cramped divines. And in side that rusted iron
straitjacket lurked gibbering hideousness, perversion, and diabolism. Here, truly, was the
apotheosis of the unnamable.
Cotton Mather, in that demoniac sixth book which no one should read after dark, minced no
words as he flung forth his anathema. Stern as a Jewish prophit, and laconically un-amazed as
none since his day could be, he told of the beast that had brought forth what was more than
beast but less than man - - the thing with the blemished eye - - and of the screaming drunken
wretch that hanged for having such an eye. This much he baldly told, yet without a hint of what
came after. Perhaps he did not know, or perhaps he knew and did not dare to tell. Other:
knew, but did not dare to tell - - there is no public hint of why they whispered about the lock on
the door to the attic stair: in the house of a childless, broken, embittered old man who had put
up a blank slate slab by an avoided grave, although one may trace enough evasive legends to
curdle the thinnest blood.
It is all in that ancestral diary I found; all the hushed innuendoes and furtive tales of things with a
blemished eye seen at windows in the night or in deserted meadows near the woods. Something
had caught my ancestor on a dark valley road, leaving him with marks of horns on his chest and
of apelike claws on his back; and when they looked for prints in the trampled dust they found
the mixed marks of split hooves and vaguely anthropoid paws. Once a post-rider said he saw
an old man chasing and calling to a frightful loping, nameless thing on Meadow Hill in the thinly
moonlit hours before dawn, and many believed him. Certainly, there was strange talk one night
in 1710 when the childless, broken old man was buried in the crypt behind his own house in
sight of the blank slate slab. They never unlocked that attic door, but left the whole house as it
was, dreaded and deserted. When noises came from it, they whispered and shivered; and
hoped that the lock on that attic door was strong. Then they stopped hoping when the horror
occurred at the parsonage, leaving not a soul alive or in one piece. With the years the legends
take on a spectral character - - I suppose the thing, if it was a living thing, must have died. The
memory had lingered hideously - -all the more hideous because it was so secret.
During this narration my friend Manton had become very silent, and I saw that my words had
impressed him. He did not laugh as I paused, but asked quite seriously about the boy who went
mad in 1793, and who had presumably been the hero of my fiction. I told him why the boy had
gone to that shunned, deserted house, and remarked that he ought to be interested, since he
believed that windows latent images of those who had sat at them. The boy had gone to look at
the windows of that horrible attic, because of tales of things seen behind them, and had come
back screaming maniacally.
Manton remained thoughtful as I said this, but gradually reverted to his analytical mood. He
granted for the sake of argument that some unnatural monster had really existed, but reminded
me that even the most morbid perversion of nature need not be unnamable or scientifically
indescribable. I admired his clearness and persistence, and added some further revelations I had
collected among the old people. Those later spectral legends, I made plain, related to monstrous
apparitions more frightful than anything organic could be; apparitions of gigantic bestial forms
sometimes visible and sometimes only tangible, which floated about on moonless nights and
haunted the old house, the crypt behind it, and the grave where a sapling had sprouted beside
an illegible slab. Whether or not such apparitions had ever gored or smothered people to death,
as told in uncorroborated traditions, they had produced a strong and consistent impression; and
were yet darkly feared by very aged natives, though largely forgotten by the last two generation
- - perhaps dying for lack of being thought about. Moreover, so far as esthetic theory was
involved, if the psychic emanations of human creatures be grotesque distortions, what coherent
representation could express or portray so gibbous and infamous a nebulosity as the specter of
a malign, chaotic perversion, itself a morbid blasphemy against nature? Molded by the dead
brain of a hybrid night-mare, would not such a vaporous terror constitute in all loathsome truth
the exquisitely, the shriekingly unnamable?
The hour must now have grown very late. A singularly noiseless bat brushed by me, and I
believe it touched Manton also, for although I could not see him I felt him raise his ann.
Presently he spoke.
"But is that house with the attic window still standing and deserted?"
"Yes," I answered, "I have seen it."
"And did you find anything there - - in the attic or anywhere else?"
"There were some bones up under the eaves. They may have been what that boy saw - - if he
was sensitive he wouldn't have needed anything in the window-glass to unhinge him. If they all
came from the same object it must have been an hysterical, delirious monstrosity. It would have
been blasphemous to leave such bones in the world, so I went back with a sack and took them
to the tomb behind the house. There was an opening where I could dump them in. Don't think I
was a fool - - you ought to have seen that skull. It had four-inch horns, but a face and jaw
something like yours and mine."
At last I could feel a real shiver run through Manton, who had moved very near. But his
curiosity was undeterred.
"And what about the window-panes?"
"They were all gone. One window had lost its entire frame, and in all the others there was not a
trace of glass in the little diamond apertures. They were that kind - - the old lattice windows that
went out of use before 1700. I don't believe they've had any glass for a hundred years or more
- - maybe the boy broke 'em if he got that far; the legend doesn't say."
Manton. was reflecting again.
"I'd like to see that house, Carter. Where is it? Glass or no glass, I must explore ft a little. And
the tomb where you put those bones, and the other grave without an inscription - - the whole
thing must be a bit terrible."
"You did see it - - until it got dark."
My friend was more wrought upon than I had suspected, for at this touch of harmless
theatricalism he started neurotically away from me and actually cried out with a sort of gulping
gasp which released a strain of previous repression. It was an odd cry, and all the more terrible
because it was answered. For as it was still echoing, I heard a creaking sound through the
pitchy blackness, and knew that a lattice window was opening in that accursed old house beside
us. And because all the other frames were long since fallen, I knew that it was the grisly
glassless frame of that demoniac attic window.
Then came a noxious rush of noisome, frigid air from that same dreaded direction, followed by a
piercing shriek just beside me on that shocking rifted tomb of man and monster. In another
instant I was knocked from my gruesome bench by the devilish threshing of some unseen entity
of titanic size but undetermined nature; knocked sprawling on the root-clutched mold of that
abhorrent graveyard, while from the tomb came such a stifled uproar of gasping and whirring
that my fancy peopled the rayless gloom with Miltonic legions of the misshapen damned. There
was a vortex of withering, ice-cold wind, and then the rattle of loose bricks and plaster; but I
had mercifully fainted before I could learn what it meant.
Manton, though smaller than I, is more resilient; for we opened our eyes at almost the same
instant, despite his greater injuries. Our couches were side by side, and we knew in a few
seconds that we were in St. Mary's Hospital. Attendants were grouped about in tense curiosity,
eager to aid our memory by telling us how we came there, and we soon heard of the farmer
who had found us at noon in a lonely field beyond Meadow Hill, a mile from the old burying
ground, on a spot where an ancient slaughterhouse is reputed to have stood. Manton had two
malignant wounds in the chest, and some less severe cuts or gougings in the back. I was not so
seriously hurt, but was covered with welts and contusions of the most bewildering character,
including the print of a split hoof. It was plain that Manton knew more than I, but he told nothing
to the puzzled and interested physicians till he had learned what our injuries were. Then he said
we were the victims of a vicious bull - - though the animal was a difficult thing to place and
account for.
After the doctors and nurses had left, I whispered an awe struck question:
"Good God, Manton, but what was it? Those scars - - was It like that?"
And I was too dazed to exult when he whispered back a thing I had half expected - -
"No - - it wasn't that way at all. It was everywhere - - a gelatin - - a slime yet it had Shapes, a
thousand shapes of horror beyond all memory. There were eyes - - and a blemish. It was the pit
- - the maelstrom - - the ultimate abomination. Carter, it was the unnamable!"


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