The Call of the Void

The grim philosophy of Cosmicism may explain the state of the world. Do we really want it to?

by Sean Ruffman // Illustration by Toe Keen

Let us reflect, for a moment, on the horror of our world.

Every year, millions of people starve. Hundreds of species go extinct. Our planet is the victim of deforestation, pollution, and widespread war that continues for years on end with no end in sight. One hundred million creatures are killed each day in vast “factory” farms. Fascist death squads across the globe prevent natural resources from serving the common good. 

Black smoke billows into the air, thick with death and organic decay. Entire cities are engulfed beneath its terrible shadow. Masses of people march in protest against their supposed leaders—leaders who oversee the fatal and systematic extraction of human energy and planetary resources. They look on this suffering and do nothing—or, worse, dispatch their brutal armed forces to crush the mass of humanity. All in the name of their abstract god.

This is cosmic horror, yes, but not a cosmic horror that flies from the page of some early 20th-century scribe. The unspeakable god is not Azathoth, Yog-Sothoth, or Cthulhu. This is our world, and the “gods” our leaders serve are the brutal systems that drive our society—money, capital, and empire.

In an era as unaccountably cruel as the present, is it any wonder that cosmic horror has returned to the public consciousness—or that comparisons between cosmic horror and our own modern condition have become so common and so appealing?

On a cosmic scale, our meaninglessness is all but infinite.  

But cosmic horror is more than just fiction and aesthetic—underpinning the genre is a dark and nihilistic philosophy known as Cosmicism. Pioneered (as so much of cosmic horror) by H.P. Lovecraft, Cosmicism is a worldview that focuses on the abject insignificance of humanity and the inherent horror of our attempts to understand the unimaginably large, seemingly uncaring universe around us. It is a worldview that grows from a stark, demoralizing observation: that on a cosmic scale, our meaninglessness is all but infinite. It is this meaninglessness—and our ignorance of the deep vastness of outer space—that leaves room for the horrible imaginings of the cosmic horror genre. 

Within this nihilistic philosophy and cosmic framing, authors like Lovecraft, Robert E. Howard, and countless others have conjured a vast pantheon of ancient extraterrestrial entities whose existence is antithetical to humanism and life on earth. Compared to these godlike entities, human life and suffering mean absolutely nothing. It’s a potent literary symbolism for the brutal meaninglessness of an infinite and indifferent universe. It’s no coincidence that Lovecraftian stories frequently end with the heroes unable to conceptualize the unimaginable and inhuman cosmic horrors they confront, ultimately descending into a deep and incurable madness at the mind-shattering scale of their dilemma. 

Viewed in these terms, the comparison between the modern world and cosmic horror feels almost too straightforward. 

Take a look at any given world leader: are you looking at a person who ran for office because of genuine compassion for human life? Or an empty vessel, led by darker forces—be they economic or purely ideological—with their own inhuman needs? (And for that matter, who hasn’t felt their capacity for understanding stretched to the breaking point when faced with the cold, hard truth about the mechanics of our world’s governments and global supply chains? A quick look at the exploitation inherent in global capitalism shows us that the world we live in is just as inhuman as the cosmic designs of Cthulhu or Yog-Sothoth, and probably causes much more suffering and in much more immediate terms.)

Cast in this light, it’s hard to say that our planet’s political leaders are anything but the zealous true believers of Cosmicism; their wanton destruction of the natural world is just as eager as that of the fictional Cult of Cthulhu. Underpinned by a total disregard for human life and an absolute focus on the inhuman forces that earn their devotion, our political realm is one where human life is often as ignored and unseen a concern as it might be in the face of an emerging Elder God come to claim the world for its own.

To those in power who have internalized such unearthly logic, what valid humanitarian reason could there be to end the brutal exploitation inherent in global capitalism? How can progress be made, when the powerful and their gods refuse to accept even a small decrease in profits, whatever the reason? 

Are you looking at a person who ran for office because of genuine compassion for human life? Or an empty vessel, led by darker forces?  

It’s tempting to accept this premise for ourselves—that the framing of our world is one of pure, cosmic horror and nihilism. But where does this leave us? 

The heroes of Lovecraftian cosmic horror are left reeling and incoherent because they literally cannot imagine the cosmic deities who plague their world. This, surely, isn’t our fate—we can’t be the madmen! Our struggle isn’t in imagining the scale or horror of our foe. We may struggle to find a path to a better world—a humanist world, a world without capitalism— but it’s not due to a mind-shattering inability to comprehend the enemy. We can see the shadow cast over this world just fine. 

Rather, our challenge lies in finding the solution and imagining the way forward—in overcoming the fact that it’s easier for us to imagine a world with Cthulhu than a world without exploitation. Unlike our cosmic horror counterparts, we can imagine our enemy—and unlike the unknowable Cthulhu, we know our opposition all too well. 

But this, too, is part of cosmic horror’s allure: it adds a spectacular grandeur and dark wonder to the horrifying, irrational, and banal horror of life on earth under modern capitalism. Trading everyday miseries like starvation and poverty for strange beings and vast gods from beyond the known universe is a way to cope. But we must not lose sight of the difference: unlike our Lovecraftian counterparts, we can fully imagine the horrific god that lurks behind the curtain and rules our world. This ability to recognize and engage with our own horrors is evidence enough that our mission is not futile—and that a way forward can be found.

We aren’t the victims of the cosmic horror we’ve all been born into. We won’t give into nihilism—and Cosmicism—when faced with the challenge of ridding our world of the apathetic and uncaring monsters of capital.

To think otherwise is to admit defeat—to accept that we cannot peer beyond the mountains of madness and see a better world over the horizon. To admit that we cannot vanquish our abstract gods and overcome the contradictions of organizing under capitalism—to collapse under the weight of our own despair, and admit that our gods cannot be killed, and that this is all there will ever be.

And that is a fate too terrible to imagine.