'Very few will have been at this point of saturation, penetrated right to the marrow by the absolute void of every human aspiration. The universe is merely a chance arrangement of elementary particles[2]. A transitory image in the midst of chaos. Which will end with the inevitable: The human race will disappear. Other races will appear, and disappear in turn. The heavens are cold and empty, traversed by the faint light of half-dead stars. Which, also, will disappear. Everything disappears. And human actions are just as random and senseless as the movements of elementary particles. Good, evil, morality, fine sentiments? Pure “victorian fictions”. There is only egotism. Cold, undiluted and dazzling.

'Lovecraft is well aware of the depressing nature of these conclusions. As he wrote in 1918, “all rationalism tends to minimize the value and importance of life, and to diminish the total quantity of human happiness. As he wrote in 1918, "all rationalism tends to minimize the value and importance of life, and to diminish the total quantity of human happiness. In some cases the truth could cause suicide, or at least precipitate a near-suicidal depression." ' - Houellebecq. 

Thrice have the subterranean glooms of ultimate nihilism subhumed me. The only cure for such an ailment is time spent in silence, away even from oneself. If the existential void reflects no human light, let your own self give nothing, not least to the void. All soon fades out of sight, and there become no holes to tread in.
 
I have spent months in this state of extreme apathy, whereas Lovecraft remained in bleak torpor for more than a decade. That so beautifully sensitive a creature should feel so little is truly a fascination.