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Edgar Allan Poe


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Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1849), American poet, critic, short story writer, and author of such macabre works as “The Fall of the House of Usher” (1840);

I looked upon the scene before me - upon the mere house, and the simple landscape features of the domain - upon the bleak walls - upon the vacant eye-like windows - upon a few rank sedges - and upon a few white trunks of decayed trees - with an utter depression of soul which I can compare to no earthly sensation more properly than to the after-dream of the reveller upon opium - the bitter lapse into everyday life - the hideous dropping off of the veil. There was an iciness, a sinking, a sickening of the heart - an unredeemed dreariness of thought which no goading of the imagination could torture into aught of the sublime. What was it - I paused to think - what was it that so unnerved me in the contemplation of the House of Usher?

Contributing greatly to the genres of horror and science fiction, Poe is now considered the father of the modern detective story and highly lauded as a poet. Walt Whitman, in his essay titled “Edgar Poe’s Significance” wrote;

Poe’s verses illustrate an intense faculty for technical and abstract beauty, with the rhyming art to excess, an incorrigible propensity toward nocturnal themes, a demoniac undertone behind every page. … There is an indescribable magnetism about the poet’s life and reminiscences, as well as the poems.

Poe’s psychologically thrilling tales examining the depths of the human psyche earned him much fame during his lifetime and after his death. His own life was marred by tragedy at an early age (his parents died before he was three years old) and in his oft-quoted works we can see his darkly passionate sensibilities—a tormented and sometimes neurotic obsession with death and violence and overall appreciation for the beautiful yet tragic mysteries of life. They who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night.—“Elonora”. Poe’s literary criticisms of poetry and the art of short story writing include “The Poetic Principal” and “The Philosophy of Composition”. There have been numerous collections of his works published and many of them have been inspiration for popular television and film adaptations including “The Tell-Tale Heart”, “The Black Cat”, and “The Raven”. He has been the subject of numerous biographers and has significantly influenced many other authors even into the 21st Century.

Edgar Poe was born on 19 January 1809 in Boston, Massachusetts, the son of actors Elizabeth Arnold Hopkins (1787-1811) and David Poe (1784-1810). He had a brother named William Henry (1807-1831) and sister Rosalie (1811-1874). After the death of his parents Edgar was taken in by Frances (d.1829) and John Allan (d.1834), a wealthy merchant in Richmond, Virginia.

Young Edgar traveled with the Allans to England in 1815 and attended school in Chelsea. In 1820 he was back in Richmond where he attended the University of Virginia and studied Latin and poetry and also loved to swim and act. While in school he became estranged from his foster father after accumulating gambling debts. Unable to pay them or support himself, Poe left school and enlisted in the United States Army where he served for two years. He had been writing poetry for some time and in 1827 “Dreams”—Oh! that my young life were a lasting dream! first appeared in the Baltimore North American, the same year his first book Tamerlane and Other Poems was published, at his own expense.

When Poe’s foster mother died in 1829 her deathbed wish was honoured by Edgar and stepfather John reconciling, though it was brief. Poe enlisted in the West Point Military Academy but was dismissed a year later. In 1829 his second book Al Aaraaf, Tamerlane and Minor Poems was published. The same year Poems (1831) was published Poe moved to Baltimore to live with his aunt Maria Clemm, mother of Virginia Eliza Clemm (1822-1847) who would become his wife at the age of thirteen. His brother Henry was also living in the Clemm household but he died of tuberculosis soon after Edgar moved in. In 1833, the Baltimore Saturday Visiter published some of his poems and he won a contest in it for his story “MS found in a Bottle”. In 1835 he became editor and contributor of the Southern Literary Messenger. Though not without his detractors and troubles with employers, it was the start of his career as respected critic and essayist. Other publications which he contributed to were Burton’s Gentleman’s Magazine (1839–1840), Graham’s Magazine (1841–1842), Evening Mirror, and Godey’s Lady’s Book.

After Virginia and Edgar married in Richmond in 1836 they moved to New York City. Poe’s only completed novel The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym was published in 1838. The story starts as an adventure for a young Nantucket stowaway on a whaling ship but soon turns into a chilling tale of mutiny, murder, and cannibalism.

It is with extreme reluctance that I dwell upon the appalling scene which ensued; a scene which, with its minutest details, no after events have been able to efface in the slightest degree from my memory, and whose stern recollection will embitter every future moment of my existence.—Ch. 12

Poe’s contributions to magazines were published as a collection in Tales of the Grotesque and Arabesque (1840) which included “The Duc de L'Omelette”, “Bon-Bon” and “King Pest”. What some consider to be the first detective story, “The Murders in the Rue Morgue” was published in 1841;

Now, brought to this conclusion in so unequivocal a manner as we are, it is not our part, as reasoners, to reject it on account of apparent impossibilities. It is only left for us to prove that these apparent ‘impossibilities’ are, in reality, not such.

Poe’s collection of poetry The Raven and Other Poems (1845) which gained him attention at home and abroad includes the wildly successful “The Raven” and “Eulalie” and “To Helen”;

Lo, in yon brilliant window-niche
How statue-like I see thee stand,
The agate lamp within thy hand,
Ah! Psyche, from the regions which
Are Holy Land!

Poe continued to write poetry, critical essays and short stories including “Ulalume”, “Eureka” and “The Cask of Amontillado” (1846);

It must be understood, that neither by word nor deed had I given Fortunato cause to doubt my good will. I continued, as was my wont, to smile in his face, and he did not perceive that my smile now was at the thought of his immolation.

Now living in their last place of residence, a cottage in the Fordham section of the Bronx in New York City, Virginia died in 1847. Poe turned to alcohol more frequently and was purportedly displaying increasingly erratic behavior. A year later he became engaged to his teenage sweetheart from Richmond, Elmira Royster. In 1849 he embarked on a tour of poetry readings and lecturing, hoping to raise funds so he could start his magazine The Stylus.

There are conflicting accounts surrounding the last days of Edgar Allan Poe and the cause of his death. Some say he died from alcoholism, some claim he was murdered, and various diseases have also been attributed. Most say he was found unconscious in the street and admitted to the Washington College Hospital in Baltimore, Maryland. He died soon after, on 7 October 1849, and was buried unceremoniously in an unmarked grave in the Old Westminster Burying Ground of Baltimore. On this original site now stands a stone with a carving of a raven and the inscription;

Quoth the Raven, Nevermore

Original Burial Place of
Edgar Allan Poe
From
October 9, 1849
Until
November 17, 1875

Mrs. Marian Clemm, His Mother-In-Law
Lies Upon His Right And Virginia Poe
His Wife, Upon His Left. Under The
Monument Erected To Him In This
Cemetery

In a dedication ceremony in 1875, Poe’s remains were reinterred with his aunt Maria Clemm’s in the Poe Memorial Grave which stands in the cemetery’s corner at Fayette and Greene Streets. A bas-relief bust of Poe adorns the marble and granite monument which is simply inscribed with the birth and death dates of Poe (although his birthdate is wrong), Maria, and Virginia who, in 1885, was reinterred with her husband and mother. Letters from Henry Wadsworth Longfellow and Lord Alfred Tennyson were read, and Walt Whitman attended. The mysterious Poe Toaster visits Poe’s grave on his birthdays and leaves a partially filled bottle of cognac and three roses.

All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.—A Dream within a Dream

Biography written by C.D. Merriman for Jalic Inc. Copyright Jalic Inc. 2006. All Rights Reserved.

The above biography is copyrighted. Do not republish it without permission.

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Recent Forum Posts on Edgar Allan Poe

William Wilson

time: analeptical (?), narration time shorter than narrated time (events stretch over several years) mode: narrative, internal foculisation voice: first person narrator, homodiegetic, narrator is unreliable synopsis: The narrator, who refers to himself as William Wilson- although this is not his real name-, wants to reveal to the reader how he came to be the reckless criminal he now is. In doing so, he starts with his time at a boarding school in England. The very day that he first arrived at the school, another boy also named William Wilson also enrolled at this same school. Gradually William Wilson 1 reveals that the other William Wilson was of the same age, the same height, that he imitated his gait, his manners, that in fact he was similar to him in every aspect but one: William Wilson 2's voice was muffled. The narrator tells how this other William Wilson became increasingly annoying to him, as he always intervened to thwart his schemes. One day he wants to perform „one of those illnatured pieces of practical wit“ that he always did, this time at the expense of William Wilson 2. But when he arrives at the other boy's room, he is confunded and terrorized by what he sees there. He recognizes the other William Wilson and yet he cannot believe that it is him. He flees in panic from the room and from the boarding school. After leaving the boarding school, he never talks to the other Wilson again and yet the other boy will remain an important part in his life for some more years. The next couple of years, when he's a student at Eaton, when he's a student at Oxford and when he's travelling through Europe, no matter where he goes, the other William Wilson always finds him and brings him into embarassing situations (for instance, he tells everyone that the narrator was cheating when playing cards). In Rome, finally, the narrator kills the other William Wilson in a fit of anger. interpretation: William Wilson seems to suffer from a personality disorder. The other William Wilson is actually not another person, but an aspect of his own personality with which the narrator doesn't manage to come to terms. More precisely, the other William Wilson is his conscience, his super ego. During his time at boarding school, he still talks with the other William Wilson, he still consults his conscience and thus does not do all the wicked acts that his ego wants him to do, he manages to suppress his evil desires. After his time at boarding school, he no longer consults the other Wilson, but his super ego nevertheless sometimes turns up to prevent him from realizing his worst deeds. After he has killed the other Wilson, however, he becomes the reckless criminal he now is. It is telling that he virtually sees the other Wilson only when he is drunk, when the room is dark and when he is, in fact looking- without realizing it- into a mirror. What he sees there, however, he does not realize as himself, which shows that he doesn't know himself. The last time he was capable of doing so was when he wanted to surprise the other Wilson in his sleep at the boarding school. Here he seems to realize himself, but he is terrified by what he sees and so he flees from the boarding school and wherever he goes, he does not flee from another person, but from himself and, of course, he cannot escape the other Wilson, because he ironically takes his pursuer with him wherever he goes. worth noting: the confinement of the boarding school (he actually refers to it as a kind of prison) forshadows his future career as a criminal and probaly also his ultimate fate: spending the rest of his life in jail; William Wilson is supposed to be the short story with the most autobiographical elements that Poe has ever written: William Wilson's birthday is also Poe's birthday, Poe also visited a boarding school in England for a couple of years and Poe did also gamble when he attended university- he was far less successful than Wiliam Wilson, though.

Posted By Cicero at Tue 21 Apr 2009, 8:58 AM in Poe, Edgar Allan || 0 Replies

The Oval Portrait

- time: chronological, narration time shorter than narrated time (events stretch out over several hours) - mode: narrative, internal focalisation - voice: first person narrator, homodiegetic; It is debatable whether the narrator is reliable or unreliable. On the one hand it is said in the text that the narrator was in a "desperately wounded condition" and in an "incipient delirium" which would be clues for considering the narrator unreliable, but on the other hand, there is strong evidence that Poe did not want this particular narrator to be unreliable. Poe changed the original version of the story (published under the title Life in Death) where the narrator was under the influence of opium and simply cut out this claim. - synopsis: The narrator, who is in a "desperately wounded condition", and his valet break into an abandoned castle to spend there the night. Though abandoned, the castle is still lavishly furnished and full of exquisit paintings that capture the narrators attention. He is sitting on his bed with the candelabrum in his hands and suddenly the light falls into a niche of the room where he discovers another painting he has not yet laid his eyes upon. He is at once startled by the "absolute life- likeliness" of this picture. It is a "mere head and shoulders" and shows a beautiful young girl in an oval frame. For some time he cannot avert his gaze from the picture and when he finally manages to to do so, he looks up the picture in an old volume claiming to describe the pictures of this room and their history. There the narrator finds the story of a young artist who wanted to make a painting of his young wife, but became so obsessed with it that he didn't realize his wife falling ill in the process. Eventually, when the picture was finished, he cried out "This is indeed Life itself" but, ironically, his wife was dead. - attempt of an analysis: The Oval Portrait seems to have an interesting autobiographical background. The narrator claims that the portrait was made "much in the style of the favorite heads of Sully". Thomas Sully was an American painter who had made a portrait of Frances Allan, Poe's foster mother. This painting looked very similar to the picture depicted in the story, so one could interprete the young woman there as Frances Allan. The artist who cared so little for his wife's health could than be her husband John Allan whom Poe made partially responsible for the early demise of his foster mother. Another interpretation of the story could be that it is about art so great that it surpasses the realness of the original and surviving its distruction. This interpretation, however, in my opinion is to positive and therefore falls short of the tragedy involved in the tale. A third possibility that comes to mind is that the tale is about obsession, detructive obsession. A man who cannot cope with the shortcomings and (slight) mistakes of reality and who therefore is obsessed with creating something (here a work of art) which is in accordance with his own ideals, but thereby destroys what really matters, the wife who loved him. Last but not least, I have read- but not understood- that the story is about the "vampiristic" aspect of art sucking the life out of the object it depicts. Does anyone have an idea what this is supposed to mean?

Posted By Cicero at Mon 20 Apr 2009, 10:52 AM in Poe, Edgar Allan || 2 Replies

My attempt to analyse Man of the Crowd

This is a very tough one. I haven't read a coherent interpretation of this short story anywhere and so it's more a collection of ideas that I've read somewhere or that I came up with myself than a genuine analysis let alone a coherent interpretation. - time: chronological, narration time shorter than narrated time (the narrated time stretches out over a couple of hours, whereas the story is narrated only on a few pages) - mode: narrative, internal focalisation - voice: first person narrator, homodiegetic; the narrator is probably unreliable (he mentions that he has just recovered from a serious illness and that he is in a peculiar mental state) - synopsis: The narrator who has just recovered from an unspecified illness, is sitting in a London hotel, reading the newspaper and observing "the promiscuous company in the room." Gradually his interest shifts to the people on the street. As it is getting dark outside, he starts to describe different groups of people walking on the street and keeping them appart by certain characteristics. He starts with respectable persons, "noblemen, merchants, attorneys, tradesmen stockjobbers" and then turns to the less respectable men (and women) frequenting the street. The later it gets, the "darker and deeper themes for speculation" become. After he has considered the least respectable people, his attention his captured by an old man walking by. This old man gives rise to associations with the fiend for the narrator. In fact, he is so fascinated by this old man that he feels inclined to follow him through the dark streets of London. He does so for a while, following him through a populated square, a busy bazar and one of the more disrespectable quarters of London until they again reach the street of the Hotel where the narrator resides. All the way through, the old man seems to be disoriented, wondering about aimlessly and not knowing where to go next. The narrator finally concludes his narrative with the statement that "his old man is the type and the genius of deep crime. He refuses to be alone. He is the man of the crowd. - symbols: dagger and diamond - attempt of an analysis (or rather bits and pieces): As I have stated above, there is, as far as I know, no coherent interpretation of this short story, maybe apart from the explanation of one critic who believes the tale to be one of Poe's hoaxes. This critic asserts that the narrator in his peculiar state of mind is simply following some random old man not realizing that he is nothing but an old drunkard. One might add, when following this line of interpretation, that the reader is following Poe through the story in a similar way, namely not realizing that Poe is pulling the reader's leg. Personally, however, although I know that Poe often did perpetrate such hoaxes, I don't think that it is one of them. Maybe one can gain some understanding of the tale when considering some of the themes and motives of the short story. First, there is the theme of illness mentioned in the story and one might wonder if it was a physical or a mental illness from which the narrator is recovering. Then, there is the motif of reading: At the beginning of the story, the narrator is reading the newspaper, but then proceeds to reading people; first the people frequenting the streets (without considering them as individuals, though, but rather as types) and then he tries to read the old man whom he, however, fails to read. Another theme obviously is that of the city. The thronged streets with all different kinds of people, though none of them displaying any signs of individuality. This picture that Poe paints of the city seems to be very similar to how expressionists more than fifty years later depicted the city- as an anonymous, crime ridden moloch. In fact I have read that many expressionistic artists were influenced by Poe's work in general and, more specifically, by "Man of the Crowd". As I have just indicated, crime (and poverty) is another theme in Poe's tale. The old man wears a dagger and a diamond, the dagger obviously is a symbol for crime and the narrator also expicitely refers to crime in connection with this man (he refers to him as "the genius of deep crime"). Poverty is indicated by the filthy and ragged clothes that the old man wears, but also by his going into this quarter of London "where every thing wore the worst impress of the most deplorable poverty". From the fact that the old man personifies both, crime and poverty, one could infer that Poe wanted to indicate a connection between the former and the latter. Another train of thought would again focus on the narrators peculiar state of mind and his unreliability. There are critics that have claimed that the old man actually is a doppelgaenger of the mentally deranged narrator. A clue for such a reading would be the narrator's assertion that he was "with my brows to the glass" when he spied the old man. Earlier in the text it is said that the panes of the window were smoky. They might thus work like a mirror and the narrator is seeing is own face when looking out of the window. He would then consider the dark side of his own soul and the pursuit of the old man might only be a metaphorical journey through the narrator's own mind. The places that he and the old man visit would than reflect the narrator's own fears and concerns. I think that's all I can think of for now. I know it's not really systematic and no coherent interpretation, but maybe it gives some food for thought for other people who are also reading this story and wondering what it is about. I might post something about some of Poe's other short stories in the next couple of days. (Man, this was the longest forum post that I've ever written anywhere :D) Cicero

Posted By Cicero at Sun 19 Apr 2009, 7:31 PM in Poe, Edgar Allan || 0 Replies

Poe and Gothic Literature

Hi everybody (: I need a help.I am going to write an essay for my final project about the gothic literature and poe.But I do not know where to start and how to inform.any written subject or works can help me. Thanks for reading :)

Posted By dr3amcatch3r at Sun 15 Mar 2009, 7:51 AM in Poe, Edgar Allan || 1 Reply

Alone, by Edgar Allan Poe

From childhood's hour I have not been As others were---I have not seen As others saw---I could not bring My passions from a common spring. From the same source I have not taken My sorrow; I could not awaken My heart to joy at the same tone; And all I lov'd, I loved alone. Then---in my childhood---in the dawn Of a most stormy life---was drawn From ev'ry depth of good and ill The mystery which binds me still: From the torrent, or the fountain, From the red cliff of the mountain, From the sun that 'round me roll'd In its autumn tint of gold--- From the lightning in the sky As it pass'd me flying by--- From the thunder and the storm, And the cloud that took the form (When the rest of Heaven was blue) Of a demon in my view. I love the poem. I've chosen it for my school project. The project requires me to do an analysis, and I could really use some help, if none of you mind! Thanks! To those who help.

Posted By goanalogbaby at Tue 6 Jan 2009, 5:19 PM in Poe, Edgar Allan || 1 Reply

Attention to all Poe lovers!! Poe's 200th Birthday is approaching!!

Here's the situation: There is a new movie already made, a movie based on Poe's life, rather than his work. There are 3 other Hollywood hits being made in the process, but they're based on his short stories. So this film, produced by Brent Fidler, remains the only movie about Poe's fascinating life. As a gift to Poe's fans, the movie will stream for free for one day, on Poe's 200th birthday - Jan 19th, 2009. The producer is an independent one, he spent his own money to make the movie. This is a true masterpiece made directly for the fans! The movie has not and will not play in theaters. It will only be available to view for free on Jan 19th, on DVD afterwards, and possibly on some TV stations way down the road. I'm trying to reach out to Poe's fans to raise the awareness of this movie which you can all watch for free!!!!! I know many of you are very puzzled about Poe's life, it has a lot of mysteries to this day, but the movie has been researched like no other, and will answer a lot of your questions!!! This is a great tool if you're studying Poe's art. This is a must see for any Poe lover, or anyone who appreciates a great horror/mystery film. This is no joke, you can view the trailer on youtube in my signature!!!

Posted By Poe-TheLastDays at Fri 19 Dec 2008, 3:16 PM in Poe, Edgar Allan || 1 Reply

I know this is probaly typical but i need some help.

I just started going back to school after a 20 year break. I'm currently taking an intro to literature class and have to do a group project on Edgar Allan Poe. Nobody in my group seems to want to work on it and I am at a lose as to what to do. I'm looking for some suggestions on how to do this. It has to be about 20-30 minutes long and can't be a biography. I would appreciate any suggestions anybody has.

Posted By tdahlke at Wed 26 Nov 2008, 4:00 PM in Poe, Edgar Allan || 5 Replies

When i stood by the sea ( a tribute to poe and annabel lee )

Twas once upon a time I stood Nearby the sounding sea . By the man who loved the maiden ; Beautiful , Annabel Lee . As he spoke then , my sorrow welled . And likewise did the sea . It seemed that even Neptune sighed , And welled ; wept both wind and lee . And that was well , for each of us Now yearned and wept as three . For all the maidens men have loved In such kingdoms by the sea . And so that evening as I stood ; Just Neptune , Poe , and me . I spied a spirit maiden wrapped In a gown blown loose and free . The specter heard our mournful wail Like sirens by the sea . And drifted by and wondered at Such sad , sorrowed souls as we . He looked and then Poe saw her eyes . As Neptune did and me . The same he saw so long ago In a kingdom by the sea . He stretched his arms , and she stretched hers ; As Neptune's arms gripped me . And as we cried , she took him up . Both then , as if one , you see . Then Neptune's trident pointed out The way for Poe and she . And those three drifted up and off This cliff , by the sounding sea . The last I saw , as I stood still And felt the wind blow free ; The maiden that Poe dearly loved From that kingdom by the sea . She turned her head and cast her eyes And smiled a smile at me . Twas then I knew , she'd take me too ; This soul , called Annabel Lee . GREENWOLFE 1962

Posted By GREENWOLFE1962 at Mon 24 Nov 2008, 3:49 PM in Poe, Edgar Allan || 0 Replies

ligeia:the invisible woe

In this thread I would like to focus on some points concerning the character of Ligeia from many angles and through many devices. From the very beginning the narrator introduces the quote GLanvill And the will therein lieth, which dieth not. Who knoweth the mysteries of the will, with its vigor? For God is but a great will pervading all things by nature of its intentness. Man doth not yield himself to the angels, nor unto death utterly, save only through the weakness of his feeble will. Joseph Glanvill in the middle of the section that concerns Ligiea he spoke about the relation of these words to her character Length of years, and subsequent reflection, have enabled me to trace, indeed, some remote connection between this passage in the English moralist and a portion of the character of Ligeia. An intensity in thought, action, or speech, was possibly, in her, a result, or at least an index, of that gigantic volition which, during our long intercourse, failed to give other and more immediate evidence of its existence. Of all the women whom I have ever known, she, the outwardly calm, the ever-placid Ligeia, was the most violently a prey to the tumultuous vultures of stern passion. And of such passion I could form no estimate, save by the miraculous expansion of those eyes which at once so delighted and appalled me --by the almost magical melody, modulation, distinctness and placidity of her very low voice --and by the fierce energy (rendered doubly effective by contrast with her manner of utterance) of the wild words which she habitually uttered. Ligeia uttered twice the same words addressing God directly and in the fetters of death. from the very beginning my impression on the whole story is that of a man who tries to transcend death , life itself by the power of his own will, imagination and phantasy( as all writers). The introduction is a prophecy that comes true in the fold of the story as it develops . The phantasmagoric effect is dominant in the whole story not only when he becomes slave to Opium; in the second section it is portrayed as a result but in the first section it is a means in which he transcends , time , space , and the material world . I have never felt that he really loves Ligiea for what she is but for her "effect "on him .Ligiea's beauty is always depicted as a bridge between his world ( the world of imagination and fantasy ) and the material world ; for that reason maybe he lost his equilibrium after her deat . I mean to say that, subsequently to the period when Ligeia's beauty passed into my spirit, there dwelling as in a shrine, I derived, from many existences in the material world, a sentiment such as I felt always aroused within me by her large and luminous orbs. It was the radiance of an opium-dream --an airy and spirit-lifting vision more wildly divine than the phantasies which hovered vision about the slumbering souls of the daughters of Delos. . The long descriptive passages are popmed with elements that contribute to the creation of a figure that exists only through his perception and his own feelings. The first layer of his description is taken as a description of an obsessed lover but it is strange " at least to me " that this description is full of " auditory and visual images only " ; we've never found tactile ( the only example is where she puts her marble hand on him )and olfactive one. The presence of this cluster of imagery usually gives us a sense of concretness , phisycality that belongs to the material world and everday life. Moreover what still really after the passage of time is " the smell " : we can never forget the smell !! I focus here on the smell because it has to do with sexuality (their relationship) . DARK MUSE said sth about this point : she said that women at that time did not enjoy sex , yes but men did ;and we ask ourselves how it comes that this passionate man didn't mention anything about it . The whole stuff above is to say that Ligeia is a " means " to the romantic , capricious man . In my first reading I considered Liegia as a fictional invention whom the writers make then they worship and become its slave.!;) And this is the case of our narrator ; he popmed her character with everyting he likes ,he wishes to have ,(immortality, etheral world... everything he read and he knew, , : he moulded her in the shape he likes as God ,so he becomes the equal of God in his ability of creation through his own will and imagination (the Glanvill quote) but unfortunately he discovered later on that the complete surrender of his creation is just an apparent demenor and she is wild , rebellious, and strives for life (material life ) and when she stives for life ,where he has no power, he saw that she must die But still he is obssessed by his creation ; he couldn't bring himself to the condition of the material world through his marriage.The god is completely enslaved to his most beloved creation : ligeia.I went to far???:idea::idea::idea:

Posted By caddy_caddy at Sun 12 Oct 2008, 10:02 AM in Poe, Edgar Allan || 6 Replies

The Cask of Amontillado. By Edgar Allan Poe

THE thousand injuries of Fortunato I had borne as I best could, but when he ventured upon insult, I vowed revenge. You, who so well know the nature of my soul, will not suppose, however, that I gave utterance to a threat. AT LENGTH I would be avenged; this was a point definitively settled -- but the very definitiveness with which it was resolved precluded the idea of risk. I must not only punish, but punish with impunity. A wrong is unredressed when retribution overtakes its redresser. It is equally unredressed when the avenger fails to make himself felt as such to him who has done the wrong. It must be understood that neither by word nor deed had I given Fortunato cause to doubt my good will. I continued as was my wont, to smile in his face, and he did not perceive that my smile NOW was at the thought of his immolation. He had a weak point -- this Fortunato -- although in other regards he was a man to be respected and even feared. He prided himself on his connoisseurship in wine. Few Italians have the true virtuoso spirit. For the most part their enthusiasm is adopted to suit the time and opportunity to practise imposture upon the British and Austrian MILLIONAIRES. In painting and gemmary, Fortunato, like his countrymen , was a quack, but in the matter of old wines he was sincere. In this respect I did not differ from him materially; I was skilful in the Italian vintages myself, and bought largely whenever I could. It was about dusk, one evening during the supreme madness of the carnival season, that I encountered my friend. He accosted me with excessive warmth, for he had been drinking much. The man wore motley. He had on a tight-fitting parti-striped dress and his head was surmounted by the conical cap and bells. I was so pleased to see him, that I thought I should never have done wringing his hand. I said to him -- "My dear Fortunato, you are luckily met. How remarkably well you are looking to-day! But I have received a pipe of what passes for Amontillado, and I have my doubts." "How?" said he, "Amontillado? A pipe? Impossible ? And in the middle of the carnival?" "I have my doubts," I replied; "and I was silly enough to pay the full Amontillado price without consulting you in the matter. You were not to be found, and I was fearful of losing a bargain." "Amontillado!" "I have my doubts." "Amontillado!" "And I must satisfy them." "Amontillado!" "As you are engaged, I am on my way to Luchesi. If any one has a critical turn, it is he. He will tell me" -- "Luchesi cannot tell Amontillado from Sherry." "And yet some fools will have it that his taste is a match for your own." "Come let us go." "Whither?" "To your vaults." "My friend, no; I will not impose upon your good nature. I perceive you have an engagement Luchesi" -- "I have no engagement; come." "My friend, no. It is not the engagement, but the severe cold with which I perceive you are afflicted . The vaults are insufferably damp. They are encrusted with nitre." "Let us go, nevertheless. The cold is merely nothing. Amontillado! You have been imposed upon; and as for Luchesi, he cannot distinguish Sherry from Amontillado." Thus speaking, Fortunato possessed himself of my arm. Putting on a mask of black silk and drawing a roquelaire closely about my person, I suffered him to hurry me to my palazzo. There were no attendants at home; they had absconded to make merry in honour of the time. I had told them that I should not return until the morning and had given them explicit orders not to stir from the house. These orders were sufficient, I well knew, to insure their immediate disappearance , one and all, as soon as my back was turned. I took from their sconces two flambeaux, and giving one to Fortunato bowed him through several suites of rooms to the archway that led into the vaults. I passed down a long and winding staircase, requesting him to be cautious as he followed. We came at length to the foot of the descent, and stood together on the damp ground of the catacombs of the Montresors. The gait of my friend was unsteady, and the bells upon his cap jingled as he strode. "The pipe," said he. "It is farther on," said I; "but observe the white webwork which gleams from these cavern walls." He turned towards me and looked into my eyes with two filmy orbs that distilled the rheum of intoxication . "Nitre?" he asked, at length "Nitre," I replied. "How long have you had that cough!" "Ugh! ugh! ugh! -- ugh! ugh! ugh! -- ugh! ugh! ugh! -- ugh! ugh! ugh! -- ugh! ugh! ugh! My poor friend found it impossible to reply for many minutes. "It is nothing," he said, at last. "Come," I said, with decision, we will go back; your health is precious. You are rich, respected, admired, beloved; you are happy as once I was. You are a man to be missed. For me it is no matter. We will go back; you will be ill and I cannot be responsible. Besides, there is Luchesi" -- "Enough," he said; "the cough is a mere nothing; it will not kill me. I shall not die of a cough." "True -- true," I replied; "and, indeed, I had no intention of alarming you unnecessarily -- but you should use all proper caution. A draught of this Medoc will defend us from the damps." Here I knocked off the neck of a bottle which I drew from a long row of its fellows that lay upon the mould. "Drink," I said, presenting him the wine. He raised it to his lips with a leer. He paused and nodded to me familiarly, while his bells jingled. "I drink," he said, "to the buried that repose around us." "And I to your long life." He again took my arm and we proceeded. "These vaults," he said, are extensive." "The Montresors," I replied, "were a great numerous family." "I forget your arms." "A huge human foot d'or, in a field azure; the foot crushes a serpent rampant whose fangs are imbedded in the heel." "And the motto?" "Nemo me impune lacessit." "Good!" he said. The wine sparkled in his eyes and the bells jingled. My own fancy grew warm with the Medoc. We had passed through walls of piled bones, with casks and puncheons intermingling, into the inmost recesses of the catacombs. I paused again, and this time I made bold to seize Fortunato by an arm above the elbow. "The nitre!" I said: see it increases. It hangs like moss upon the vaults. We are below the river's bed. The drops of moisture trickle among the bones. Come, we will go back ere it is too late. Your cough" -- "It is nothing" he said; "let us go on. But first, another draught of the Medoc." I broke and reached him a flagon of De Grave. He emptied it at a breath. His eyes flashed with a fierce light. He laughed and threw the bottle upwards with a gesticulation I did not understand. I looked at him in surprise. He repeated the movement -- a grotesque one. "You do not comprehend?" he said. "Not I," I replied. "Then you are not of the brotherhood." "How?" "You are not of the masons." "Yes, yes," I said "yes! yes." "You? Impossible! A mason?" "A mason," I replied. "A sign," he said. "It is this," I answered, producing a trowel from beneath the folds of my roquelaire. "You jest," he exclaimed, recoiling a few paces. "But let us proceed to the Amontillado." "Be it so," I said, replacing the tool beneath the cloak, and again offering him my arm. He leaned upon it heavily. We continued our route in search of the Amontillado. We passed through a range of low arches, descended, passed on, and descending again, arrived at a deep crypt, in which the foulness of the air caused our flambeaux rather to glow than flame. At the most remote end of the crypt there appeared another less spacious. Its walls had been lined with human remains piled to the vault overhead , in the fashion of the great catacombs of Paris. Three sides of this interior crypt were still ornamented in this manner. From the fourth the bones had been thrown down, and lay promiscuously upon the earth, forming at one point a mound of some size. Within the wall thus exposed by the displacing of the bones, we perceived a still interior recess, in depth about four feet, in width three, in height six or seven. It seemed to have been constructed for no especial use in itself, but formed merely the interval between two of the colossal supports of the roof of the catacombs, and was backed by one of their circumscribing walls of solid granite. It was in vain that Fortunato, uplifting his dull torch, endeavoured to pry into the depths of the recess. Its termination the feeble light did not enable us to see. "Proceed," I said; "herein is the Amontillado. As for Luchesi" -- "He is an ignoramus," interrupted my friend, as he stepped unsteadily forward, while I followed immediately at his heels. In an instant he had reached the extremity of the niche, and finding his progress arrested by the rock, stood stupidly bewildered . A moment more and I had fettered him to the granite. In its surface were two iron staples, distant from each other about two feet, horizontally. From one of these depended a short chain. from the other a padlock. Throwing the links about his waist, it was but the work of a few seconds to secure it. He was too much astounded to resist . Withdrawing the key I stepped back from the recess. "Pass your hand," I said, "over the wall; you cannot help feeling the nitre. Indeed it is VERY damp. Once more let me IMPLORE you to return. No? Then I must positively leave you. But I must first render you all the little attentions in my power." "The Amontillado!" ejaculated my friend, not yet recovered from his astonishment. "True," I replied; "the Amontillado." As I said these words I busied myself among the pile of bones of which I have before spoken. Throwing them aside, I soon uncovered a quantity of building stone and mortar. With these materials and with the aid of my trowel, I began vigorously to wall up the entrance of the niche. I had scarcely laid the first tier of my masonry when I discovered that the intoxication of Fortunato had in a great measure worn off. The earliest indication I had of this was a low moaning cry from the depth of the recess. It was NOT the cry of a drunken man. There was then a long and obstinate silence. I laid the second tier, and the third, and the fourth; and then I heard the furious vibrations of the chain. The noise lasted for several minutes, during which, that I might hearken to it with the more satisfaction, I ceased my labours and sat down upon the bones. When at last the clanking subsided , I resumed the trowel, and finished without interruption the fifth, the sixth, and the seventh tier. The wall was now nearly upon a level with my breast. I again paused, and holding the flambeaux over the mason-work, threw a few feeble rays upon the figure within. A succession of loud and shrill screams, bursting suddenly from the throat of the chained form, seemed to thrust me violently back. For a brief moment I hesitated -- I trembled. Unsheathing my rapier, I began to grope with it about the recess; but the thought of an instant reassured me. I placed my hand upon the solid fabric of the catacombs , and felt satisfied. I reapproached the wall. I replied to the yells of him who clamoured. I reechoed -- I aided -- I surpassed them in volume and in strength. I did this, and the clamourer grew still. It was now midnight, and my task was drawing to a close. I had completed the eighth, the ninth, and the tenth tier. I had finished a portion of the last and the eleventh; there remained but a single stone to be fitted and plastered in. I struggled with its weight; I placed it partially in its destined position. But now there came from out the niche a low laugh that erected the hairs upon my head. It was succeeded by a sad voice, which I had difficulty in recognising as that of the noble Fortunato. The voice said -- "Ha! ha! ha! -- he! he! -- a very good joke indeed -- an excellent jest. We will have many a rich laugh about it at the palazzo -- he! he! he! -- over our wine -- he! he! he!" "The Amontillado!" I said. "He! he! he! -- he! he! he! -- yes, the Amontillado . But is it not getting late? Will not they be awaiting us at the palazzo, the Lady Fortunato and the rest? Let us be gone." "Yes," I said "let us be gone." "FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, MONTRESOR!" "Yes," I said, "for the love of God!" But to these words I hearkened in vain for a reply. I grew impatient. I called aloud -- "Fortunato!" No answer. I called again -- "Fortunato!" No answer still. I thrust a torch through the remaining aperture and let it fall within. There came forth in return only a jingling of the bells. My heart grew sick -- on account of the dampness of the catacombs. I hastened to make an end of my labour. I forced the last stone into its position; I plastered it up. Against the new masonry I reerected the old rampart of bones. For the half of a century no mortal has disturbed them. In pace requiescat!

Posted By jigz at Fri 3 Oct 2008, 4:52 AM in Poe, Edgar Allan || 3 Replies

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