Now here is something which ties in nicely with the previous article on paranoia. Truth be told this fits in nicely with perspective and mental health, if one wishes to see it that way; I certainly do.
The King in Yellow:
Who and what is this King in Yellow—this stranger in the tattered robes? Is he death personified or is he the essence of insanity? What is he that he himself, and even his sign, should be feared?
After all—and truth be told—the King in Yellow is only from a book.
Enter into this world that Robert W. Chambers has created, a world where a cursed book holds the secrets of life, truths to terrible to behold. This is a book which has been banned. All who read it experience insanity. Some more to than others. Those who cross paths with the King in Yellow are touched in so many ways, ways good and bad. In this book are their stories.
I pray God will curse the writer, as the writer has cursed the world with this beautiful, stupendous creation, terrible in its simplicity, irresistible in its truth—a world which now trembles before the King in Yellow. When the French Government seized the translated copies which had just arrived in Paris, London, of course, became eager to read it. It is well known how the book spread like an infectious disease, from city to city, from continent to continent, barred out here, confiscated there, denounced by Press and pulpit, censured even by the most advanced literary anarchists. No definite principals had been violated in those wicked pages, no doctrine promulgated, no convictions outraged. It could not be judged by any known standard, yet, although it was acknowledged that the supreme note of art had been struck in The King in Yellow, all felt that human nature could not bear the strain, nor thrive on words in which the essence of purest poison lurked. The very banality and innocence of the first act only allowed the blow to fall afterward with more awful effect.
-The King in Yellow, by Robert W. Chambers
Hastur, sane or insane, knew what he saw then . . .
. . . Which leaves us to wonder if we’re not all living a fantasy, one which ill-fated Hastur has become disenchanted with. It begs the question: are we the fiddlers on the roof, or is he the feral cat out of the bag?