Οξύ H.P.Lovecraft #6

“The last part of the journey was intense and stimulating to the imagination. Great and mysterious bare peaks were constantly being blotted out in the west, as the low northern midday sun, or the still lower southern midnight sun, skimming the horizon, bathed with its dull red rays the white snow, the bluish ice, the waterways and the black pieces that jutted out on the granite slopes. The lonely peaks were occasionally beaten by the wild gusts of the terrible Antarctic wind, whose rhythm sometimes vaguely resembled a frenzied and piercing wail of notes extending over a wide range, a range which for some unconscious reason seemed to me unsettling and frightfully dark. Something about the setting reminded me of Nicholas Roerich's strange and terrifying paintings of Asia, and the even stranger and more disturbing descriptions of Leng's vicious mythic landscape from the mad Arab Abdul Alhazred's terrible Necronomicon. Later, I bitterly regretted just opening that horrible book in the university library.”