[...] shunning a world which exhausted and disgusted me, and having no goal but a phial of cyanide when my money should give out. I had formerly meant to follow this latter course, and was fully prepared to seek oblivion whenever cash should fair or sheer ennui grow too much for me; when suddenly, nearly three years ago, our benevolent angel S. H. G. stepped into my circle of consciousness and began to combat that idea with the opposite one of effort, and the enjoyment of life through the rewards which effort will bring. [...]

Such were my reflections—reflections all the more marked when Magnolia, N. Y., etc. showed me how marvellously I actually did rally in response to companionship of the right kind; companionship which I saw no way of securing permanently as the incentive to an active life, and which therefore only seemed to emphasise the difficulty of breaking away from the tentacles of ingrained inertia and oblivion-seeking.

But meanwhile—egotistical as it sounds to relate it—it began to be apparent that I was not alone in finding psychological solitude more or less of a handicap. A detailed intellectual and aesthetic acquaintance since 1921, and a three-months visit in 1922 wherein congeniality was tested and found perfect in an infinity of ways, furnished abundant proof not only that S.H.G. is the most inspiring and encouraging influence which could possibly be brought to bear on me, but that she herself bed begun to find me more congenial than anyone else, and had come to depend to a great extent on my correspondence and conversation for mental contentment and artistic and philosophical enjoyment. Being, like me, highly individualised; she found average minds only a source of grating and discomfort, and average people only a bore to escape from—so that in our letters and discussions we were assuming more and more the position of two detached and dissenting secessionists from the bourgeois milieu; a source of encouragement to each other, but fatigued to depression by the stolid grey surface of commonplaceness on all sides and relieved only by such isolated points of light as Sonny Belknap, Mortonius, Loveman, Alfredus, Kleiner, and the like.

S.H.G. was not tardy, I believe, in mentioning to you and A.E.P.G sundry phases of her side of this mutual indispensability; but as a follower of the unsentimental tradition, reluctant to be spoofed about a matter which was truly more rationally psychological than sentimental, I was naturally more conservative in giving estimates of my side—although of course I freely extolled the revivifying effects of my Magnolia and Parkside visits, and of S.H.G.’s various visits to the Providence or Eastern New-England area. [...]

At this point—or earlier—or a minute later—you will no doubt ask why I did not mention this entire matter before. S.H.G. herself was anxious to do so, and if possible to have both you and A.E.P.G. present at the event about to be described. But here again appeared Old Theobald’s hatred of sentimental spoofing, and of that agonisingly indecisive “talking over” which radical steps always prompt among mortals [...] Old Theobald is a householder at last, and (hold in readiness the smelling-salts) a bona-fide partner with that most inspiring, congenial, tasteful, intelligent, solicitous, and devoted of mortal and co-workers, S.H.G., in the venerable and truly classical institution of Holy Matrimony.

[...] there met be S.H.G. We at once proceeded to 259, where Miss Tucker of The Reading Lamp was a guest, and the whole and future were zestfully discussed with an intensely interested and sympathetic auditor. [...] Meanwhile she has every expectation of getting me a job in some publishing house—a job which my newly-acquired helpmate wills ee that I reach each morning punctually and in good order. The chicken dinner was superb—as all S. H. dinners are—and I was not too fatigued by the week’s efforts to appreciate it. [...] S.H. and I went to a Dago joint in thirty-somethingth street and absorbed a fine spaghetti dinner. After that—and here note the dawn of decisive events—we beat it by subway to the Brooklyn borough hall, where we took out a marriage license with the cool nonchalance and easy savoir faire of old campaigners [...] Then for the ring! S.H. having discovered that plain gold bands are old stuff, we gave the once-over to some rather more contemporary baubles of kindred import. Through business connections S.H. obtained some reduced quotations at a small shop, and (although she first selected a white gold trifle of inexpensive aspect) I induced her to blow in eighty-five fish for something worth one hundred fifty—platinum with twenty-four diamond chips—whose expense I shall defray (as befits an arrogant and masterful spouse) from my next Hennebergian influx. [...] We now prepared for the historic spectacle of the execution; wishing to face Fate sprucely and jauntily, and die game! S.H. patronised a manicure in order that the eighty-five-berry-worth-one-hundred-fifty finger-hoop might be lived up to, and I condescended to get both a haircut and a shoe-shine. Then, having reconvened, we hopped a taxi [...] St. Paul’s chapel, Broadway and Vesey Sts, built in 1755 [...] In the Church St. parsonage we hunted up the resident curate, Father George Benson Cox, who upon inspecting the license was more than willing to perform the soldering process. Having brought no retinue of our own, we availed ourselves of the ecclesiastic force for purposes of witnessing [...] The full service was read; and in the aesthetically histrionic spirit of one to whom elder custom, however intellectually empty, is sacred, I went through the various motions with a stately assurance which had the stamp of antiquarian appreciation if not of pious sanctity. S. H., needless to say, did the same—and with additional grace. Then fees, thanks, congratulations, inspections of Colonial pictures in Father Cox’s study, and farewells! Two are one. Another bears the name of Lovecraft. A new household is founded! We had intended to depart for Philadelphia at once, but the fatigue of the preceding heavy programme prompted us to defer this melilunar pilgrimage till the morrow. On that day we notified some of S.H.’s non-amateur friends of the change, and received their ecstatic congratulations; good Mrs. Moran, down-the-hall neighbour and mother of the stamp-collecting and erstwhile cat-owning boy, being especially delighted. The name “Greene” on the door directory and mail box was suitable transmuted to “Lovecraft” and the nouveau regime in general given a visible and appropriate recognition. Incidentally—mail, express, and freight destined for this domicile need no longer be “in care of” anybody! Anything addressed to “H. P. Lovecraft” or (miraculous and unpredictable appellation) “Mrs. H. P. Lovecraft” will henceforward reach its recipient without additional formalities.

Tuesday afternoon we did get started for Philadelphia [...] Signing the register “Mr. and Mrs.” was easy despite total inexperience! Being obliged to get some typing done instantly, we finished the evening at the only public stenographer’s office in town which was then open—that at the Hotel Vendig, where for a dollar we obtained the use of a Royal machine for three hours. S. H. dictated whilst I typed—a marvellous way of speeding up copying, and one which I shall constantly use in future, since my partner expresses a willingness amounting to eagerness so far as her share of the toil is concerned. She has the absolutely unique gift of being able to read the careless scrawl of my rough manuscripts—no matter how cryptically and involvedly interlined! [...] late at night we returned to N.Y., putting in the remaining days writing; since on Monday S.H.’s vacation will be over, whilst I myself (incredible as it may sound) may have to be ready for business engagements of one sort or another. [...] My general health is ideal. S.H.’s cooking, as you know already from me and from A.E.P.G., is the last word in perfection as regards both palate and digestion. She even makes edible bran muffins. She is also a fresh-air specialist, and as great an insister on carefulness and remedies as you are with the camphor discoids—already she had deluged me with a nose and mouth wash, and has made me heal with vaseline the cracked lip which was open all winter—to say nothing of the place where I skinned my shin slipping downstairs that time last week. [...] And—mirabile dictu—she is at least trying to make me stick to the Walter Camp exercises known was “The Daily Dozen”! [...] As for this same reception—S.H. is absolutely set on the attendance of both you and A.E.P.G., even if you children have to make a special trip. She’d be glad to assist on the expense of this extra journey if you would let her—and I don’t see why you shouldn’t. Since it’s her own particular and individual wish…..heartily seconded, of course, by the Old Gentleman. I always told you she was stuck on your children independently.

• H. P. Lovecraft to his aunt Lillian D. Clark, 9 March 1924

The marriage of Howard Phillips Lovecraft and Sonia Haft Greene has been much-discussed in biographies. For one thing, it was basically an elopment. Howard and Sonia had met in 1921 at an amateur journalism convention in Boston, shortly after the death of his mother, and began a lively correspondence. Howard and his friend Samuel Loveman visited Sonia in New York in 1922, where she attempted to disprove some of his prejudices regarding Jewish people, and they would visit whenever Sonia's business travels took her nearby, such as a trip to Magnolia, Massachusetts that resulted in The Horror at Martin's Beach (1923).

Hoping to have the time to write something new later, but for now here's an old Tuesday Trivia piece of mine about the wedding scene from Fiddler on the Roof!