If You Meet Cthulhu, Kill Him

Miserable grump that I am, I've been opposed to the domestification of the creations of H.P. Lovecraft for a long time. I loathe plush Cthulhu toys and the other vapid wares of the Geek Industrial Complex, almost all of which undermine the very things for which they purport to have affection. But the truth is, if we're being honest, the process that led to the proliferation of such liveliest awfulness began long, long ago, with August Derleth and the invention of "the Cthulhu Mythos" itself. 

Within the actual writings of Lovecraft, there is no such thing as the Cthulhu Mythos. Whatever one thinks of HPL's skill as a writer – I personally hold him in high regard – he never mistook the content of his stories of cosmic horror for their subject. Doing just that, as nerds are prone to do, is the first step on a path that ends with Pokéthulhu and even more abominable products of diseased fancies. David E. Schultz, as quoted in S.T. Joshi's magisterial The Rise and Fall of the Cthulhu Mythos, notes that

… the pseudomythological elements to which Lovecraft referred were only part of the fictional background of his stories. They were never the subject of his stories, but rather part of the background against which the main action occurred. That is to say, Lovecraft did not write about Cthulhu, Yog-Sothoth, the Necronomicon, or any of the other places or creatures or books found in his stories. The subject of his stories were typically the small place that man occupies in an uncaring cosmos, and his fictional creatures were only part of the means by which he sought to demonstrate that.

Joshi himself elaborates.

I myself have come to believe that the pseudomythological elements are plot devices designed to convey the various philosophical, aesthetic, cultural, and even political themes that Lovecraft was seeking to convey in his tales. In this sense it might not be quite accurate to say that Lovecraft never wrote "about" Cthulhu and the rest; "The Call of Cthulhu" really is largely "about" Cthulhu, at least on the surface level: we are given much information (possibly unreliable) about the nature and origin of this entity, and toward the end we see a glimpse of him through the eyes of the hapless Norwegian who encountered him. It might be better to say that "The Call of Cthulhu" is not only about Cthulhu; Cthulhu serves as a symbol for the vast, unknowable cosmos in which all human history and aspirations are as nothing. (emphasis mine)

Somewhere along the line, Lovecraft fans lost the plot, assuming they ever understood it in the first place. Instead of exploring Lovecraft's ideas – which, I think, are the reason why his stories are, if anything, even more relevant today than they were almost a century ago – his admirers have decided instead to catalog and obsess over his creations. In this respect, I am sorry to say that my beloved Call of Cthulhu roleplaying game has undoubtedly played an insidious part, with its relentless codification of Lovecraftian monsters, spells, and artifacts, not to mention its essentially Derlethian ethos and style. Call of Cthulhu deserves much praise for its having introduced untold numbers of people to H.P. Lovecraft and his writings, but that introduction was, from the beginning, adulterated and misleading – little wonder then that we now live in a world of pervasive Cthulhu merchandising.

I get it: Lovecraft's vision is bleak. If 2020 has taught us anything, it's that many people, when confronted with even mildly unpleasant realities, would rather look away than confront them head-on. Lovecraft's stories advance a very unpleasant thesis and I can't blame anyone for not wanting to grapple with the possibility that it is correct. But stripped of their philosophical themes, HPL's stories are just pulp yarns with a highfalutin vocabulary, little different than those of, say, Seabury Quinn (though certainly more imaginative). By focusing on the content of Lovecraft's works rather than their subject matter, the door is opened to all sorts of hackwork – or, worse, plushies.

It's probably inevitable that any creative endeavor, if it acquires a large enough audience, eventually becomes an Ouroboros-like parody of itself rather than something vital and dynamic. Over the course of my life, I've seen this happen innumerable times and, while I've been known to rail against this state of affairs on occasion, I have, for the most part, accepted it is simply evidence of the decay that eventually touches all sublunary things. Somehow, though, I had foolishly believed that Lovecraft might be immune to this inexorable process. At the very least, I had hoped that he might simply be cast aside and forgotten rather than subjected to that worst of all fates: commodification. But as, HPL taught us, with strange aeons, not even death is safe and these are strange aeons indeed.