I’m reading a bunch of Lovecraft, and that guy was just neurotically scared of everything. He died in his forties of basically anxiety. He was scared of immigrants, true, and had a hell of a way of naming cats. But he was also scared of people who lived in England, people who lived in New England, people who lived in New York, the south, the west, and the southwest, to say nothing of Asia, South America, Oceana, and over yonder.
He wrote a story about a hyper-intelligent color. The alien was a color. I forget if it killed people.
I have a hard time attributing his efforts to anything more generalized than nutbaggery. Had he killed people or something, that would have been different. But he didn’t. He sat in his little flat and wrote weird stories.