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H.P Lovecraft.
Howard Phillips Lovecraft. Heaven knows how a talent for writing which was of no mean proportion. Only what he did with this talent was a shame and a caution and an Eldrich horror. If he'd only gotten the hell out of his Auntie's attic and obtained a job with the Federal Writer's Project of the W.P.A., he could have turned out guidebooks that would have been classics and joys to read forever.
Only he stayed up there muffled up to the tip of his long, gaunt New England chin against the cold which lay more in his heart than in his thermometer. Living on nineteen cents worth of beans a day, rewriting (for pennies) the crappy manuscripts of writers whose complete illiteracy would have been a boon to all mankind.
Ah, but life is a boon and producing ghastly, grisly, ghoulish, and horrifying works of his own as well of maneating things which foraged in graveyards, of human beastie crosses which beastlier and beastlier as they grew older, of gibbering shoggoths and elder beings which smelled real bad, and were always trying to break through thresholds and take over.
Rugose, squamous, amorphous nasties abetted by thin, gaunt, New England eccentrics who dwelt in attics and who eventually were never seen or heard from again. Serve them damn well right, I say.
In short, boys and girls, Howard was a Twitch, and that's all there is to it!
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