The Outsider

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Description

A reading of HP Lovecraft The Outsider.

Vocal Characteristics

Language

English

Voice Age

Middle Aged (35-54)

Accents

North American (General) North American (US General American - GenAM)

Transcript

Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
H. P. Lovecraft's the outsider. Mhm. Unhappy. Is he to whom the memories of childhood bring? Only fear and sadness? Wretched. Is he who looks back upon loan, hours and vast and dismal chambers, with brown hangings and maddening rows of antique books, or upon odd watches in twilight groves of grotesque, gigantic and vine encumber trees that silently wave twisted branches far aloft. Such a lot the gods gave to me to me the dazed, the disappointed, The Baron, the Broken. And yet I am strangely content and cling desperately to those sehr memories when my mind momentarily threatens to reach beyond to the other. I know not where I was born, save that the castle was infinitely old and infinitely horrible, full of dark passages and having high ceilings where the I could find only cobwebs and shadows. The stones in the crumbling corridors seemed always hideously damp, and there wasn't a curse to smell everywhere as of the piled up corpses of dead generations. It was never light, so that I used to sometimes light candles and gaze steadily at them for relief. Nor was there any sun outdoors, since the terrible trees grew high above the top, most accessible tower. There was one black tower which reached above the trees into the unknown outer sky, but that was partly ruined, and could not be ascended, saved by a well nigh impossible climb of the sheer wall, stone by stone. I must have lived years in this place, but I cannot measure the time. Beings must have cared for my needs. Yet I cannot recall any person except myself or anything ally but the noiseless rats and bats and spiders. I think that whoever nursed me must have been shockingly aged since my first conception of a living person was that of something mockingly like myself, yet distorted, shriveled and decaying like the castle. To me there was nothing grotesque in the bones and the skeletons that strewed some of the stone crypts deep down among the foundations. I fantastically associated those things with everyday events and I thought that more natural than the colored pictures of living beings which I found in many of the multi books from such books. I learned all that I know. No teacher urged or guided me, and I do not recall hearing any human voice in all those years, not even my own. For although I had read of speech, I had never thought to try to speak aloud. My aspect was a matter equally and thought of, for there were no mirrors in the castle and I merely regarded myself by instinct as akin to those youthful figures I saw, drawn and painted in the books. I felt conscious of youth because I remembered so little outside across the putrid moat and under the dark mute trees. I would often lie and dream for hours about what I read in those books, and I would longingly picture myself amidst *** crowds in the sunny world beyond the endless forests. Once I tried to escape from the forest, but as a went farther from the castle from the shade group drew denser, and the air more filled with brooding fear, so that I ran frantically back, lest I lose my way in a labyrinth of knighted silence.