Who First Used Abyss Mean In Existentialist Writings?

There’s something about the word 'abyss' that always makes me pause when I’m reading a dusty gothic novel under a dim lamp. For me, the abyss in gothic literature is less a literal pit and more a mix of terrifying possibilities: an emotional void, an existential gulf, or the uncanny space where the self unravels. It’s where characters stare into something that refuses to be understood, and the reflection that comes back is fractured. Think of the way the narrator in 'The Fall of the House of Usher' feels the house and the mind folding into one another — the abyss is that meeting point between architecture and psyche, a yawning collapse of boundaries. I like to picture it as both vertical and horizontal: vertical when it’s a descent into madness or an oppressive weight pulling someone down, horizontal when it’s the social or moral chasm between people — secrets, inherited curses, or forbidden desires that nobody dares cross. Gothic writers use cliffs, cellars, endless oceans, and empty corridors to stage that sensation. Sometimes it’s cosmic, like the cold indifference in parts of 'Frankenstein', and sometimes intimate, like the slow erosion of identity in 'Wuthering Heights'. The abyss often comes hand-in-hand with the sublime — fear mixed with a strange, almost perverse awe. When I reread these scenes, I imagine the author whispering to the reader: “Look into this; what do you see?” The fun (and the chill) is that the abyss tells you more about your own limits than about the story’s monsters. If you’re new to gothic, try reading a key passage aloud at night — it somehow makes the gulfs feel more real, and I find that noirish thrill oddly comforting rather than purely scary.

I've always loved how a single word can carry a whole mood, and 'abyss' is one of those heavy ones. When I read poets using it—whether in a battered paperback on the tram or scribbled in the margin of a poetry zine—I feel how the word drags everything toward absence. Historically it isn't a new emotional suitcase: 'abyss' comes from ancient words meaning bottomless or unfathomable, and that literal sense of endless depth maps so well onto feelings of emptiness, hopelessness, or being overwhelmed. Modern poets lean into that mapping because our cultural vocabulary for internal collapse is shaped by images of falling, voids, and depths that never return a light. On a more personal note, I once sat on a seaside cliff reading 'The Waste Land' with rain on my coat and the sea roaring below, and the word abyss pulsed differently than it did in stale literary notes. It was less about physical depth and more about the lack of moral or emotional ground—no footholds, no up. Contemporary poetry often treats the self as fractured, climate and politics as indifferent, daily life as numb, so 'abyss' becomes shorthand for an interior geography where support has eroded. There's also a religious and mythic shadow: biblical and classical texts use abyss to mean chaotic, devouring spaces, so modern despair borrows that ancestral terror. But it's not always strictly negative; sometimes poets use the abyss to flirt with the sublime, or as a threshold before change. For me, the most powerful uses keep that ambivalence—terrifying, sure, but also strangely honest, a place where words try to find a rope. If you like this, try reading late-Romantic and modernist poems back-to-back and notice how the word flexes between dread and wonder in different hands.

Sometimes I think of the abyss as not just a place but a permission slip for chaos. When I worldbuild, the abyss becomes chaotic the moment it breaks the rules your setting relies on: gravity, causality, morality, even narrative expectations. If the abyss is a bottomless cavern filled with ordinary monsters, it’s scary but orderly; if it’s a locus where time loops, memories vanish, and natural laws contradict each other, then it’s chaotic. I love using that contrast in my maps—above, a rigid city-state with guild laws; below, an abyss where promises unravel and maps become useless. Thematically, the abyss usually stands for either external chaos (demons pouring out, nature undone) or internal chaos (moral collapse, madness). In 'Dungeons & Dragons' lore the plane called 'The Abyss' is literally a realm of chaotic demons, and that’s a handy template: make the abyss embody unpredictability and antagonism to structure. On the other hand, in games like 'Dark Souls' the abyss feels chaotic because it corrupts souls and rewrites identity—rules of being are bent, not merely violated. Practically, decide how characters interact with it. Is the abyss consumptive, erasing language and memory? Is it generative, spawning impossible biomes and new life that rejects order? I use environmental cues—a whispering wind that rearranges sentences on a letter, flora that grows toward wrong directions—to signal that chaos is at work. When players or readers can't rely on previous logic, the abyss has done its job, and the world feels truly untethered to stability.

Whenever I dive into a series that uses an 'abyss', I end up thinking about how flexible that single word can be. In some stories it's a literal chasm you can fall into — in others it's a psychological void, a cosmic threat, or even a system mechanic. Take 'Made in Abyss' as the obvious case: the Abyss is both a geography and a set of rules (layers, curses, artifacts). The manga and the anime share the same core concept, but the manga lets you linger on tiny, creepy linework and author's textual notes, while the anime adds sound, motion, and color that can make the descent feel more immediate or horrific. That changes how I experience what 'abyss' actually means in practice. Beyond that, translations and context matter. Japanese words like 深淵 (shin'en) or 奈落 (naraku) can be rendered differently in English — 'abyss', 'chasm', 'void' — and each choice nudges interpretation. In a dark fantasy like 'Berserk' the abyss is often symbolic: corruption, fate, the unknowable. In a sci-fi or mechanic-focused work it might be a literal hazard you have to navigate. So while the core idea of depth or unknowability tends to carry across manga and anime, the emphasis shifts with medium, music, pacing, and translation. I usually check both versions if I'm curious: read a few chapters and watch the same arc animated to see how tone and detail shift. Sometimes the word 'abyss' stays identical in meaning, but more often it stretches to fit the emotions and mechanics of whichever medium is telling the scene — and I love that elasticity; it keeps re-watching and re-reading interesting.

Abyss imagery in anime hits me like a secret doorway — sometimes terrifying, sometimes oddly comforting. I’ve seen creators use the abyss to mark a turning point where a character can’t go back to who they once were. In 'Neon Genesis Evangelion' it’s less a physical chasm and more a psychic one: the abyss represents the unbearable confrontation with the self, and when characters cross it they don’t come out neat and fixed, they come out altered, often painfully aware. That kind of change isn’t a tidy arc; it’s messy, like waking up after a dream that rewrites your memory. Then there are shows that treat the abyss literally and socially, like 'Made in Abyss'. The deeper layers are full of ecological weirdness, moral fog, and loss — and the further you descend, the more the world forces you to adapt or perish. For me, that literal descent becomes a metaphor for learning terrible truths and growing despite them. It’s a recurring symbolic pattern: the abyss tests, purges, reveals hidden strengths or traumas. When a protagonist survives, the change often looks like a new set of priorities or a scarred wisdom. I also love how the abyss can flip into a corrupting pull. In 'Berserk' moments, darker forces seduce characters toward a ruinous transformation that’s almost irreversible. So whether it’s a path to insight, a rite of passage, or a slow moral decay, the abyss in anime is a tool to dramatize change — the part of the plot that forces identity into a new shape. When I rewatch scenes that hinge on that imagery, I catch more subtle cues about what kind of change the director wants us to feel, and it keeps the stories haunting in a good way.

My curiosity about language gets weirdly sentimental when I think of the word 'abyss' — it feels like a single-syllable key that opens a dozen mythic doors. Linguistically the modern English 'abyss' traces back through Latin to Greek ἄβυσσος (ábussos), literally a word for something bottomless or without a measurable depth. But the idea predates Greek words: in the Ancient Near East you can find close cousins in Akkadian «apsû» (the primeval freshwater abyss) and the chaotic salt-sea goddess Tiamat in the 'Enuma Elish'. Those twin images — a dark deep and a monstrous sea — are basically the building blocks for the abyss-as-origin tale in a bunch of cultures. I like how stories reuse and remix each other's imagery. In the Hebrew creation story the word תְּהוֹם ('tehom') shows up as the primeval deep, a watery nothing that God orders into shape. In Greek thought, the abyss blends with 'Chaos' — not just emptiness but a yawning, creative void. Norse myth gives us 'Ginnungagap', the yawning gap between fire and ice that births the first beings. Hindu cosmology talks about cyclical dissolutions like 'Pralaya', where the world returns to undifferentiated waters. All of these are less about an actual trench and more about a metaphysical place where order collapses back into chaos. As myths traveled, the abyss took on moral and eschatological shades, too: in later Judeo-Christian texts (think 'Revelation') the deep becomes a prison for monsters and demons, while medieval poets and painters used abyss imagery to describe Hell — see the sustained descent in 'Inferno'. For me, the abyss is this wonderfully flexible symbol: geological, psychological, spiritual, and narrative — a catch-all for the unknown that cultures have always wanted to name, wrestle with, and sometimes throw their monsters into.

I still get a little chill when I think about the abyss showing up in a dream — it's one of those images that lands heavy and asks you to notice. To me, the abyss usually stands for something vast and unknown in your inner life: a depth of feeling you haven't explored, a fear that something essential might be lost, or an invitation to a big change. If you're peering into an abyss and feeling curious, that often means you're on the edge of discovery: a creative well, a deeper truth, or a previously hidden part of yourself waiting to be named. If you're falling into it, the dream is more likely reflecting anxiety, a sense of losing control, or overwhelm — not a prophecy, but a signal that something in waking life feels unstable. How you felt in the dream matters more than the scenery. Anger, coldness, numbness, awe — they all color the meaning. I tend to ask people (and myself) what recent life events match the feeling: endings, big decisions, grief, or a new project that feels risky. Practical things that help are journaling about the scene, sketching the abyss even roughly, and asking questions like, "What does the bottom look like?" or "Who is with me?" If the image is traumatic or recurs and disrupts sleep, talking it out with someone safe can turn the abyss from enemy to guide. In a way, that dark gap can be the doorway to a bolder, clearer life — if you’re willing to step closer and bring light with curiosity rather than just fear.

I'm sitting on my sofa with a mug that went lukewarm hours ago, thinking about how often 'the abyss' shows up in stories as something more than doom. In a lot of dark-themed novels and media, the abyss starts as a symbol of despair, emptiness, or the unknown — a yawning place where everything you thought you knew collapses. But authors love flipping perspectives. When a character faces that void and survives, the abyss becomes the raw material for hope. It’s like watching a garden grow in ruins; the abyss clears the stage and forces new growth, however fragile. I find this especially powerful in works where the abyss is a crucible rather than just a threat. Take 'Made in Abyss' or 'Berserk' for tonal cousins: the abyss (literal or metaphorical) strips characters down to essentials, revealing courage and choice. Sometimes hope in the abyss is quiet — a shared look, a remembered tune — not fireworks. Other times it’s radical: a protagonist chooses to rebuild, to forge meaning from wreckage. That shift feels authentic because hope born there isn’t naive; it’s earned. On a rainy evening I read endings that weren't neat, and it stuck with me: the abyss as both ending and potential beginning. If a story treats the void as an opportunity for transformation, then yes — the abyss can mean hope. Not a glowing, guaranteed salvation, but the possibility of change, of new values, of solidarity. That kind of hope keeps me turning pages long after the lights go out.