« Nor is it to be
thought, that man is either the oldest or the last of earth's masters, or that
the common bulk of life and substance walks alone. The Old Ones were, the Old
Ones are, and the Old Ones shall be. Not in the spaces we know, but between
them, They walk serene and primal, undimensioned and to us unseen. Yog-Sothoth
knows the gate. Yog-Sothoth is the gate. Yog-Sothoth is the key and guardian of
the gate. Past, present, future, all are one in Yog-Sothoth. He knows where the
Old Ones broke through of old, and where They shall break through again. He
knows where They have trod earth's fields, and where They still tread them, and
why no one can behold Them as They tread. By Their smell can men sometimes know
Them near, but of Their semblance can no man know, saving only in the features
of those They have begotten on mankind; and of those are there many sorts,
differing in likeness from man's truest eidolon to that shape without sight or
substance which is Them. They walk unseen and foul in lonely places where the Words
have spoken and the Rites howled through at their Seasons. The wind gibbers
with Their voices, and the earth mutters with Their consciousness. They bend
the forest and crush the city, yet may not forest or city behold the hand that
smites. Kadath in the cold waste hath known Them, and what man knows Kadath?
The ice desert of the South and the sunken isles of Ocean hold stones whereon
Their seal is engraven, but who hath seen the deep frozen city or the sealed
tower long garlanded with seaweed and barnacles? Great Cthulhu is Their cousin,
yet can he spy Them only dimly. Iä! Shub-Niggurath! As a foulness shall ye know
Them. Their hand is at your throats, yet ye see Them not; and Their habitation
is even one with your guarded threshold. Yog-Sothoth is the key to the gate,
whereby the spheres meet. Man rules now where They ruled once; They shall soon
rule where man rules now. After summer is winter, and after winter summer. They
wait patient and potent, for here shall They rule again. »
C’est moi qui suis incarné.
Mais qui d’autre ? — et peu importe…
Je n’irai pas dans la grande
cité du mardi
Et je n’écrirai pas l’œuvre
de ma vie — car —
Si je recopie les
titres :
(maintenant)
— Un rêve à refaire...
— L’Espace se mélange avec la
terre
— Le Ciel alphabétique
— Cette nuit sent la mort
— Un combat terrible, mais
avec un petit inconvénient
— Tous ces matériaux forment
une vraie colonne
— C’est Dieu qui pète !
— Quel beau changement ! quelle drôle de vie !
— La Nuit des petits
— Trouvailles de notre esprit
…
J’avais aimé un
réactionnaire. Aimé ? vous voulez dire subi, désiré ? Les clartés de
la blancheur à adorer se reflétaient dans la vitrine de l’écran. Oui, adoré,
occupé l’espace…
Labels: bourg
