Oooh, look at Lovecraft's description of Vathek:

Vathek is a tale of the grandson of the Caliph Haroun, who, tormented by that ambition for super-terrestrial power, pleasure, and learning which animates the average Gothic villain or Byronic hero (essentially cognate types), is lured by an evil genius to seek the subterranean throne of the mighty and fabulous pre-Adamite sultans in the fiery halls of Eblis, the Mahometan Devil. The descriptions of Vathek's palaces and diversions, of his scheming sorceress-mother Carathis and her witch-tower with the fifty one-eyed negresses, of his pilgrimage to the haunted ruins of Istakhar (Persepolis) and of the impish bride Nouronihar whom he treacherously acquired on the way, of Istakhar's primordial towers and terraces in the burning moonlight of the waste, and of the terrible Cyclopean halls of Eblis, where, lured by glittering promises, each victim is compelled to wander in anguish forever, his right hand upon his blazingly ignited and eternally burning heart, are triumphs of weird colouring which raise the book to a permanent place in English letters. No less notable are the three Episodes of Vathek, intended for insertion in the tale as narratives of Vathek's fellow-victims in Eblis' infernal halls, which remained unpublished throughout the author's lifetime and were discovered as recently as 1909 by the scholar Lewis Melville whilst collecting material for his Life and Letters of William Beckford. Beckford, however, lacks the essential mysticism which marks the acutest form of the weird; so that his tales have a certain knowing latin hardness and clearness preclusive of sheer panic fright.

the cabbalistic ritual whereby the Wandering Jew helps him to fathom and banish his dead tormentor.

What an interesting use of the Wandering Jew motif. He might be held in contempt, but I get the impression that he is both powerful and beneficial (as one might be, who helps banish a dead tormentor).

Wow, you have to admire his bit on Poe for sheer Lovecraftian muchness:

Poet and critic by nature and supreme attainment, logician and philosopher by taste and mannerism, Poe was by no means immune from defects and affectations. His pretence to profound and obscure scholarship, his blundering ventures in stilted and laboured pseudo-humor, and his often vitriolic outbursts of critical prejudice must all be recognized and forgiven. Beyond and above them, and dwarfing them to insignificance, was a master's vision of the terror that stalks about and within us, and the worm that writhes and slavers in the hideously close abyss. Penetrating to every festering horror in the gaily painted mockery called existence, and in the solemn masquerade called human thought and feeling, that vision had power to project itself in blackly magical crystallisations and transmutations; till there bloomed in the sterile America of the thirties and forties such a moon-nourished garden of gorgeous poison fungi as not even the nether slopes of Saturn might boast.

"....the gaily painted mockery called existence" - yep, that's about right.

His pretence to profound and obscure scholarship, his blundering ventures in stilted and laboured pseudo-humor, and his often vitriolic outbursts of critical prejudice

Pot, meet kettle.

That's terrific writing.

Still, I've always felt like I was missing something in my gnawing suspicion that the hidden depths of the human heart were more banal and pathetic rather than horror-wrought and ghastly.

Pot, meet kettle.

Heh. Yeah!

Still, I've always felt like I was missing something in my gnawing suspicion that the hidden depths of the human heart were more banal and pathetic rather than horror-wrought and ghastly.

Your hidden depths may be banal, but I sure you mine are ghastly.

Your hidden depths may be banal, but I sure you mine are ghastly.

It's a hidden depths smackdown!

Granted, there are people who can contemplate with smiling contentment the most horrific catastrophes being visited on others--possibly even most people--but I think the ghastliness is in the eye of the beholder. You can look at the beast in your heart with either disgust and horror or with sympathy and acknowledgement.

Here's the whole work, which is fascinating reading: Supernatural Horror in Literature

Ghastly is just a terrific word that doesn't get enough airplay. Except it probably should be reserved for those who can truely appreciate its fine-edged splendour.

(Pardon me, I seem to have been infected this evening with a particularly verbose ailment. I should go write fic.)