A Quote by H. P. Lovecraft

I felt myself on the edge of the world; peering over the rim into a fathomless chaos of eternal night. — © H. P. Lovecraft
I felt myself on the edge of the world; peering over the rim into a fathomless chaos of eternal night.
My photographs are a picture of the chaos in the world, and of my relationship to that chaos. My prints show the world’s constant upsetting of man’s equilibrium, and his eternal battle to reestablish it.
I would rather that we all should go to eternal chaos, to black and starless night, than that just one soul should suffer eternal agony.
Ten years ago, I went to visit my dad in Australia. I walked to the edge of a cliff and looked over and tripped. I righted myself but my head was over the edge. No one saw it.
The longest day must have its close — the gloomiest night will wear on to a morning. An eternal, inexorable lapse of moments is ever hurrying the day of the evil to an eternal night, and the night of the just to an eternal day.
I think you should ride the line between fatigue and chaos. The chaos keeps the energy level and spontaneity maximized, while fatigue is just over the edge, and you should try to avoid it.
Edge goes out every night, and not just on pay per views; every night, Edge goes out there with the intention of stealing the show. I know that he felt like his title run had not been given the respect from the company that it deserved, and he was really hell-bent on proving that he belonged as a main event guy.
From 2002 to the end of his presidency, George W. Bush routinely was accused by the Left of 'creating chaos:' chaos in Iraq, chaos in Afghanistan, chaos in the Muslim world, chaos among our allies.
All of a sudden it felt like people were peering over my shoulder, wondering what I would write next. I was blocked for four years.
Does it seem all but incredible to you that intelligence should travel for two thousand miles, along those slender copper lines, far down in the all but fathomless Atlantic; never before penetrated … save when some foundering vessel has plunged with her hapless company to the eternal silence and darkness of the abyss? Does it seem … but a miracle … that the thoughts of living men … should burn over the cold, green bones of men and women, whose hearts, once as warm as ours, burst as the eternal gulfs closed and roared over them centuries ago?
Let’s talk, you and I. Let’s talk about fear. The house is empty as I write this; a cold February rain is falling outside. It’s night. Sometimes when the wind blows the way it’s blowing now, we lose the power. But for now it’s on, and so let’s talk very honestly about fear. Let’s talk very rationally about moving to the rim of madnessand... and perhaps over the edge.
That's where Time magazine lives ... way out there on the puzzled, masturbating edge, peering through the keyhole and selling what they see to the big wide world of chamber of commerce voyeurs who support the public prints.
I wrote a lot of 'Driving on the Rim' by giving myself the gift of being just as eccentric as I felt like.
I sung of Chaos and Eternal Night, Taught by the heav'nly Muse to venture down The dark descent, and up to reascend.
Everything depends on this: a fathomless sinking into a fathomless nothingness.
"The Dream of a Common Language" by Adrienne Rich. I carried it the entire hike. On my first night, when I felt like I was in too deep, I read the first poem out loud to myself over and over.
Their [artists'] essential effort is to catapult themselves wholly, without holding back one bit, into a course of action without having any idea where they will end up. They are like riders who gallop into the night, eagerly leaning on their horse's neck, peering into a blinding rain. And they have to do it over and over again.
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