Book review: Old Bugs by H. P. Lovecraft

There are some literary works that we approach with curiosity rather than expectation, intrigued not so much by what they promise but by what they reveal about their author. Old Bugs by H. P. Lovecraft is one such piece—a brief, obscure, and strikingly different story in the vast body of Lovecraft’s writing. It is not a masterpiece in the traditional sense, nor is it emblematic of the cosmic horror for which he is widely known, but reading it gave me a glimpse into an unexpected side of the author: playful, moralistic, and, above all, self-referential in a way that borders on parody.

Written in 1919 and not published until after Lovecraft's death, Old Bugs occupies a unique place in his bibliography. The story is a satirical sketch rather than a horror tale and is often classified as either humorous fiction or a moral parable. Targeted toward an audience familiar with Lovecraft’s circle of friends or early amateur journalism (as it was originally a piece intended for a friend), the tale reads more like an inside joke layered with exaggerated cautionary elements than a polished work of fiction meant for a broader readership. It is brief, perhaps no more than a few thousand words, and yet it contains within its short span a curious blend of moralism, social commentary, and burlesque tragedy.

The story is set in a seedy part of Chicago, specifically a dive bar known as Sheehan’s, where the dregs of society gather in squalor. It is in this dismal environment that we meet the titular character, Old Bugs—an aged, broken man whose life has clearly seen better days. He is described as a pathetic figure, reclusive and shuffling, surrounded by criminals, addicts, and drunkards, but retaining a mysterious aura that sets him apart from the usual clientele. Into this environment comes a young man named Alfred Trever, whose background is one of promise and privilege. Trever, however, stands on the precipice of ruin, seeking to immerse himself in vice and rebellion in defiance of his upbringing. The narrative centers on the tragic collision between Old Bugs and Trever, with Old Bugs attempting—desperately and dramatically—to prevent the young man from succumbing to the same fate he once did.

On the surface, the plot is almost melodramatic in its simplicity: a cautionary tale of a life destroyed by alcohol, debauchery, and the rejection of responsibility. But Lovecraft, true to form, imbues the tale with more than just a straightforward moral. The character of Old Bugs is revealed to be something far more significant than what he initially appears, and his identity (which I will not spoil) turns the story into a form of self-parody or perhaps a tongue-in-cheek eulogy for an alternative version of the author himself. That shift—from seeming realism to metafictional irony—was, for me, one of the most fascinating aspects of the story.

In terms of language and style, Old Bugs diverges notably from the dense, archaic, and baroque prose that characterizes Lovecraft’s horror fiction. The narration is direct, almost journalistic in tone at the beginning, before gradually adopting a more poetic and sorrowful timbre as Old Bugs’s backstory is revealed. The descriptions of the dive bar and its occupants are vivid but not overly grotesque, painted with a knowing hand that blends exaggeration with authenticity. What Lovecraft does well here—despite the story’s brevity—is evoke a world that feels spiritually decayed, a kind of living purgatory where people come not just to drink but to disappear.

The imagery is both literal and symbolic. Sheehan’s bar becomes a microcosm of societal collapse, a place where ambition dies and identity dissolves. Old Bugs himself is described with a curious reverence, a fallen figure whose physical frailty belies a kind of tragic nobility. When he speaks out against alcohol and warns Trever of the dangers of indulgence, his voice is not just that of a moralist but of someone who has lived through the destruction he now fears for others. There is emotion in these moments—grief, regret, and a kind of desperate hope that perhaps someone else might escape the path he has walked.

Thematically, the story addresses ideas of decline, redemption, and the illusions of rebellion. It’s an oddly conservative tale in some respects, preaching the dangers of youthful defiance and the false glamour of vice. But what gives it depth is the revelation that Old Bugs was once, himself, a figure of great potential—scholarly, accomplished, artistically inclined—and that his fall was not sudden but slow, the result of disillusionment and weakness. This adds a human dimension to the otherwise cautionary tone and subtly shifts the narrative away from judgment and toward lamentation.

That said, the story is not without its flaws. As a standalone work, it lacks the complexity and craftsmanship of Lovecraft’s major stories. The pacing is brisk, and the emotional arcs, while powerful, feel somewhat compressed. Readers unfamiliar with Lovecraft’s life or literary persona may miss some of the tongue-in-cheek allusions, particularly in the final twist. It also borders on preachiness at times, something that might feel jarring coming from a writer better known for cosmic indifference than moral instruction.

Yet for all that, Old Bugs left a strong impression on me. It’s not just a window into another side of Lovecraft—it’s also a strangely earnest, almost painful reflection on failure, loss, and the fragile line between genius and ruin. There is something deeply sad about Old Bugs’s decline, especially given that his former self appears to have been modeled, at least partly, on the ideals Lovecraft himself held: intellectual rigor, artistic ambition, and moral restraint. That the story ends as it does—with a final, tragic twist—only deepens its melancholy, turning what could have been a mere satirical sketch into something with real emotional weight.

What struck me most was the contrast between Lovecraft’s usual themes of cosmic horror and the deeply human tragedy at the heart of this piece. There are no ancient gods or interdimensional horrors here—just the ruin of one man’s life, and his futile attempt to stop another from following in his footsteps. In that sense, the story reminded me that Lovecraft, for all his philosophical abstractions and towering mythologies, understood personal suffering and internal conflict as intimately as any realist.

So, Old Bugs is a minor but revealing entry in Lovecraft’s body of work—an odd fusion of morality play, character study, and authorial self-parody. I would recommend it not to those seeking cosmic terror or mythic dread, but to readers interested in the broader dimensions of Lovecraft’s voice. It’s a brief but strangely haunting meditation on regret, self-destruction, and the possibility of redemption—even if that redemption never comes. A curious and quietly affecting story that shows Lovecraft could explore inner darkness as skillfully as he explored the stars.

This book review was written using the following references 👇

• Full text Old Bugs by H. P. Lovecraft at LitArchive
• Audiobook Old Bugs by H. P. Lovecraft at AudioReads