H. P. Lovecraft was a genius when it came to tales of the macabre, but a terrible dialogue writer. He seems to have known it, too, because in the millions of words of fiction he wrote, fewer than five thou-sand are dialogue. The following passage from “The Colour Out of Space,” in which a dying farmer describes the alien presence which has invaded his well, showcases Lovecraft’s dialogue problems. Folks, people just don’t talk like this, even on their deathbeds:
“Nothin’ ...nothin’...the colour...it burns ...cold an’ wet...but it burns... it lived in the well...I seen it...a kind o’ smoke...jest like the flowers last spring...the well shone at night...everything alive...sucked the life out of everything...in the stone...it must a’come in that stone...pizened the whole place...dun’t know what it wants...that round thing the men from the college dug out’n the stone... it was that same colour...jest the same, like the flowers an’ plants...seeds...I seen it the fust time this week...it beats down your mind an’ then gets ye...burns ye up...It come from some place whar things ain’t as they is here...one o’ them professors said so...”