Unhappy is he to whom the memories of childhood bring only fear and sadness. Wretched is he who looks back upon lone hours in vast and dismal chambers with brown hangings and maddening rows of antique books, or upon awed watched in twilight groves of grotesque, gigantic, and vine-encumbered trees, that silently wave twisted branches far aloft. Such a lot the gods have given to me-to me, the dazed, the disappointed; the barren, the broken. And yet I am strangely content and cling desperatelyto those sere memories, when my mind momentarily threatens to reach beyond to THE OTHER. H.P. Lovecraft (the outsider)