No wind, no moving air, a rather dull gray sky – you can hear a dog barking from very far away. Hardly anybody walking in the streets. It's very warm – for here – about 75° F.
It's the kind of atmosphere they use in horror, tragedy, nihilistic psychological novels, etc., when something dreadful is about to happen. However, it doesn't feel threatening in any way – just strangely, quietly, still.
***
Incidentally, reading a bit of Lovecraft – and yes, I think I've had enough now; I'm reminded that I really don't like having the ideas or images of horror fiction in my head – made me think: genre fictions all have different sets of limitations and patterns, of course, and they all try to generate flexibility and variation despite those limitations; but the real problem with horror fiction, much more than the others, is that it always has to have the same ultimate tone, that of, well, horror. However you delay it or prepare it or come away from it, something horrific has to happen – even if only in the language or the imagination.
Now that, for me, is an exceptionally important limitation: not only because I don't particularly like the horrific, myself – but because, in an annoying way, you always have some sense of how things are going to go. You may not know the exact structure or timing or means, but you do always know that the horror story can't end up being witty and cheerful, or a tiny bit sad, or comforting – you know, unavoidably, it will be... well, horrific.
Which, for me, especially justifies not reading the stuff....
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