Morrison Marketing

Michael G. Morrison II

Review of Silence, by Edgar Allen Poe

Augusta, Georgia, USA

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

From Wikipedia-

     Not to be confused with Poe's short story, "Silence: A Fable," "Silence-A Sonnet" was first published on January 4, 1840, in the Philadelphia Saturday Courier. After some revision, it was republished in the Broadway Journal on July 26, 1845. The poem compares the sea and the shore to the body and the soul. There is a death of the body that is silence, the speaker says, that should not be mourned. He does, however, warn against the silent death of the soul.

Silence: by Edgar Allen Poe, 1829

     "LISTEN to me," said the Demon as he placed his hand upon my head. "The region of which I speak is a dreary region in Libya, by the borders of the river Zaire. And there is no quiet there, nor silence.

(The River Zaire is now called the Congo river and is nowhere near Libya. the modern European understanding was that Libya could be used for just about any description of Africa. The Equatorial Africa is very different from Tropical Africa. It is interesting to think of why Poe was so wrong, was he simply not as good in geography as writing? I think this is so and there is no deeper meaning behind this error)

(This is a powerful opening paragraph that talks with the usual narrator  The river Zaire is in Africa and has a certain feel to its name. It sounds quite exotic, tropical and isolated. The thought of the strength of mother nature comes to mind when thinking of Africa in this way. The entity starting this story being a demon sets the tone for the poem being a tale of dark detail) 

"The waters of the river have a saffron and sickly hue; and they flow not on-wards to the sea, but palpitate forever and forever beneath the red eye of the sun with a tumultuous and convulsive motion. For many miles on either side of the river's oozy bed is a pale desert of gigantic water-lilies. They sigh one unto the other in that solitude, and stretch towards the heaven their long and ghastly necks, and nod to and fro their everlasting heads. And there is an indistinct murmur which cometh out from among them like the rushing of subterranean water. And they sigh one unto the other.

(Water lilies)

(The description of a place that Poe had never seen leads me to believe that he wanted to visit this place or something like it. Although Poe never lived in a true rural setting, he never lived hundreds of miles away from a metropolis like many in his times. Poe did have a good mix of urban/suburban settings where nature was observable in her natural form. Poe was rumored to spend a lot of time on bridges due to the scene they afford on a valley. Poe leaves no doubt to the reader, what this setting appears to be in their mind)

"But there is a boundary to their realm--the boundary of the dark, horrible, lofty forest. There, like the waves about the Hebrides, the low Underwood is agitated continually. But there is no wind throughout the heaven. And the tall primeval trees rock eternally hither and thither with a crashing and mighty sound. And from their high summits, one by one, drop everlasting dew. And at the roots strange poisonous flowers lie writhing in perturbed slumber. And overhead, with a rustling and loud noise, the gray clouds rush westward forever, until they roll, a cataract, over the fiery wall of the horizon. But there is no wind throughout the heaven. And by the shores of the river Zaire there is neither quiet nor silence.

(The Hebrides are some islands on the Northwest coast of Scotland and are where my ancestors came from (Isle of Lewis, north end, around Knockaird) and it represents the edge of civilization. The rugged mountains and the cold atmosphere made it a realm of barbarians, feudal kings and an otherwise dreary superstructure of existence  The feeling of seclusion in this part of the earth is extreme)

(The thought of a man peering over the edge of a 100 foot drop with waves slamming most furiously against the rocks at the foot of the drop comes into mind. The falling of that man and entering into a cove hidden by the caves in the silent, cold, dark and wet setting invokes the most lonely of feelings and the most subordination to the great mother nature)

"It was night, and the rain fell; and falling, it was rain, but, having fallen  it was blood. And I stood in the morass among the tall and the rain fell upon my head --and the lilies sighed one unto the other in the solemnity of their desolation.

(I do not know the meaning behind this paragraph. I think the falling if the rain as blood is confusing to me. I would be interested to hear some suggestions or to ponder this on a later date when reading this short story)

"And, all at once, the moon arose through the thin ghastly mist, and was crimson in color. And mine eyes fell upon a huge gray rock which stood by the shore of the river, and was lighted by the light of the moon. And the rock was gray, and ghastly, and tall, --and the rock was gray. Upon its front were characters engraved in the stone; and I walked through the morass of water-lilies, until I came close unto the shore, that I might read the characters upon the stone. But I could not decipher them. And I was going back into the morass, when the moon shone with a fuller red, and I turned and looked again upon the rock, and upon the characters;--and the characters were DESOLATION.

(This picture provokes a good image of what this scene may have looked like)

(The light of the moon draws the characters eyes directly to the rock in a hypnotic manner that is usual of Poe's stories. The character is usually induced by acts of nature that seem to almost indicate a power above controlling all of this and laughing in a way at the man and his scurrying around of Mother natures territory. The rock represents knowledge for some reason in my mind. My associations with the rock are eschewed by advertising by the many financial firms that advertise their logo as a rock to indicate that it is solid and safe and eternal)

"And I looked upwards, and there stood a man upon the summit of the rock; and I hid myself among the water-lilies that I might discover the actions of the man. And the man was tall and stately in form, and was wrapped up from his shoulders to his feet in the toga of old Rome. And the outlines of his figure were indistinct--but his features were the features of a deity; for the mantle of the night, and of the mist, and of the moon, and of the dew, had left uncovered the features of his face. And his brow was lofty with thought, and his eye wild with care; and, in the few furrows upon his cheek I read the fables of sorrow, and weariness, and disgust with mankind, and a longing after solitude.

(This is another confusing paragraph that adds to the mystery and analogies of a Poe story. The Roman appearance of the man may simply be due to the fact that most literary figures of French, German, English and Italian studied or are influenced greatly by the Roman works, whether it be Roman itself or a copy of Greek work into Latin and embraced by Romanesque writers. The man that is being observed may be what the observer wants to be in a way. the main character may have envision himself as a Roman of that sort in his childhood fantasies)

(The Sadness of the Roman is not that strange or meaningful  Poe was very melancholy and morbid and a happy Roman would have been much more worthy of a second thought to a deeper meaning, but I doubt this does)

"And the man sat upon the rock, and leaned his head upon his hand, and looked out upon the desolation. He looked down into the low unquiet shrubbery, and up into the tall primeval trees, and up higher at the rustling heaven, and into the crimson moon. And I lay close within shelter of the lilies, and observed the actions of the man. And the man trembled in the solitude; --but the night waned, and he sat upon the rock.

(This may be like a cycle where the rock pulls people to seek it guidance from the ages. The Roman is sitting upon the rock like Buddha sat underneath the a tree until figuring out how why the world has extremes as it does. The contemplation and reflection from such a view is very ancient and reassuring, the vantage point allows maximum interpenetration of the surrounding and the distinction between the rock and the rest of the setting is apparent, there is something about this rock. The dirt, trees, air, water, lilies, clouds and all other physical existence is not as eternal, not as interesting as this rock)

"And the man turned his attention from the heaven, and looked out upon the dreary river Zaire, and upon the yellow ghastly waters, and upon the pale legions of the water-lilies. And the man listened to the sighs of the water-lilies, and to the murmur that came up from among them. And I lay close within my covert and observed the actions of the man. And the man trembled in the solitude; --but the night waned and he sat upon the rock.

(The reasons for sitting on the rock are still numerous, why does the man not leave? Is he even a man or a ghost or what? And is he sulking? Is it because his wife died? Is it because he is to die? did his lives work go to waste? Was he banished? Was he back-stabbed  What happened? The curiosity from both the main character and the reader is intense at this point. I feel I have to know why this man is here)

(The man trembling in solitude is an ode to how weak we are alone, but very strong together. The huddling together of soldiers in a cold bunker in a remote region in pre-electricity days  the bundling of a blanket with a childhood friend, the sharing of hot bath water with family members meets its opposite. The warming and loving feelings of companionship can be leveraged by the natural setting they are in)

"Then I went down into the recesses of the morass, and waded afar in among the wilderness of the lilies, and called unto the hippopotami which dwelt among the fens in the recesses of the morass. And the hippopotami heard my call, and came, with the behemoth, unto the foot of the rock, and roared loudly and fearfully beneath the moon. And I lay close within my covert and observed the actions of the man. And the man trembled in the solitude; --but the night waned and he sat upon the rock.

(A very confusing piece. I have no idea what this is to mean)

"Then I cursed the elements with the curse of tumult; and a frightful tempest gathered in the heaven where, before, there had been no wind. And the heaven became livid with the violence of the tempest --and the rain beat upon the head of the man --and the floods of the river came down --and the river was tormented into foam --and the water-lilies shrieked within their beds --and the forest crumbled before the wind --and the thunder rolled --and the lightning fell --and the rock rocked to its foundation. And I lay close within my covert and observed the actions of the man. And the man trembled in the solitude; --but the night waned and he sat upon the rock.

(Poe used the darkening of the sky in at least 2 stories, the setting invokes so much of the character that it is an easy way to get the story across)

     (The reason for this man being on the rock is now apparent to me. He is suffering the tumults of nature as a punishment for something. The Rock is his boundaries and the elements of nature are his time served. The judge is not human and the crime committed must have been weird enough to warrant this punishment from a natural source. This reminds me something of Job in the way the man handles it)

     "Then I grew angry and cursed, with the curse of silence, the river, and the lilies, and the wind, and the forest, and the heaven, and the thunder, and the sighs of the water-lilies. And they became accursed, and were still. And the moon ceased to totter up its pathway to heaven --and the thunder died away --and the lightning did not flash --and the clouds hung motionless --and the waters sunk to their level and remained --and the trees ceased to rock --and the water-lilies sighed no more --and the murmur was heard no longer from among them, nor any shadow of sound throughout the vast illimitable desert. And I looked upon the characters of the rock, and they were changed; --and the characters were SILENCE.

     (The main character is now almost assuredly the Roman on the rock in a way. The association with the man and the thought that this could be reality prevents the observer from idly watching the suffering of this man. The natural turning of the heart for the acts in the previous chapter ignited a burst of emotion in him, this transferred into being strong enough to affect mother nature, maybe she retreated out of suppressed fear at the outburst, at her own compassion being realized for one of the men or maybe because she feels the one observing the man on the rock has passed some test of compassion)

     "And mine eyes fell upon the countenance of the man, and his countenance was wan with terror. And, hurriedly, he raised his head from his hand, and stood forth upon the rock and listened. But there was no voice throughout the vast illimitable desert, and the characters upon the rock were SILENCE. And the man shuddered, and turned his face away, and fled afar off, in haste, so that I beheld him no more."

     (Very confusing, I again have nothing to say about this paragraph, it is intellectually invigorating) 

Now there are fine tales in the volumes of the Magi --in the iron-bound, melancholy volumes of the Magi. Therein, I say, are glorious histories of the Heaven, and of the Earth, and of the mighty sea --and of the Genii that over-ruled the sea, and the earth, and the lofty heaven. There was much lore too in the sayings which were said by the Sybils; and holy, holy things were heard of old by the dim leaves that trembled around Dodona --but, as Allah liveth, that fable which the Demon told me as he sat by my side in the shadow of the tomb, I hold to be the most wonderful of all! And as the Demon made an end of his story, he fell back within the cavity of the tomb and laughed. And I could not laugh with the Demon, and he cursed me because I could not laugh. And the lynx which dwelleth forever in the tomb, came out therefrom, and lay down at the feet of the Demon, and looked at him steadily in the face.

(The blending of so many cultures in this concluding paragraph shows the education that Poe had. He was familiar with French culture (Oval Portrait, Pit & Pendulum and Cask of Amontillado), English (He was an American in early 1800's in New England and Virginia), German (He wrote a couple stories with German names), Muslim culture (Al Aaraf was his longest poem, based on parts of the Koran) and he knew something of African cultures using symbolism of a demon (from Europe), Sphinx (From Egypt) Genii (Arabian & Persian) and the tomb, being from many different cultures, but maybe coinciding with the Egyptian sphinx in a way)

(The reason for all of this is also reveled in this last paragraph, the demon was doing this, he was in control the whole time. He did this for the sick pleasure of being a demon. The roughness and evil in the demon is more easily seen with the naive and compassionate man. The Demon cannot see the point of view of the man who is compassionate  I think he simply stopped because it was no longer entertaining. It is similar to a person now saying "Look man is it not cool that I can kill people, watch me"! Then he proceeds to do so and does not find the connection he was hoping for. The power and lack of care by the demon is a scary thought)

THE END

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Conclusion

     Overall this story makes me feel like man is the weakest inhabitant of earth, we are always checked by nature and her controllers, no matter who they be, goof or evil. 

     As far as its place in literature, I think it is Poe's attempt at scenery and writing of nature in a respectful form. I think this is one of Poe's best works, but I am heavily biased to the writing of scenery and wildness like this. 

Review of "The Oval Portrait", by Edgar Allen Poe

"The Oval portrait" review

Michael Morrison 

Morrison Marketing

Edgar Allen Poe reviews

Edgar Allan Poe's "The Oval Portrait"

     The chateau into which my valet had ventured to make forcible entrance, rather than permit me, in my desperately wounded condition, to pass a night in the open air, was one of those piles of commingled gloom and grandeur which have so long frowned among the Apennines, not less in fact than in the fancy of Mrs. Radcliffe. To all appearance it had been temporarily and very lately abandoned. We established ourselves in one of the smallest and least sumptuously furnished apartments. It lay in a remote turret of the building. Its decorations were rich, yet tattered and antique. Its walls were hung with tapestry and bedecked with manifold and multiform armorial trophies, together with an unusually great number of very spirited modern paintings in frames of rich golden arabesque. In these paintings, which depended from the walls not only in their main surfaces, but in very many nooks which the bizarre architecture of the chateau rendered necessary--in these paintings my incipient delirium, perhaps, had caused me to take deep interest; so that I bade Pedro to close the heavy shutters of the room--since it was already night--to light the tongues of a tall candelabrum which stood by the head of my bed--and to throw open far and wide the fringed curtains of black velvet which enveloped the bed itself. I wished all this done that I might resign myself, if not to sleep, at least alternately to the contemplation of these pictures, and the perusal of a small volume which had been found upon the pillow, and which purported to criticize and describe them.

     Long--long I read--and devoutly, devotedly I gazed. Rapidly and gloriously the hours flew by, and the deep midnight came. The position of the candelabrum displeased me, and outreaching my hand with difficulty, rather than disturb my slumbering valet, I placed it so as to throw its rays more fully upon the book.

     But the action produced an effect altogether unanticipated. The rays of the numerous candles (for there were many) now fell within a niche of the room which had hitherto been thrown into deep shade by one of the bed-posts. I thus saw in vivid light a picture all unnoticed before. It was the portrait of a young girl just ripening into womanhood. I glanced at the painting hurriedly, and then closed my eyes. Why I did this was not at first apparent even to my own perception. But while my lids remained thus shut, I ran over in mind my reason for so shutting them. It was an impulsive movement to gain time for thought--to make sure that my vision had not deceived me--to calm and subdue my fancy for a more sober and more certain gaze. In a very few moments I again looked fixedly at the painting.

     That I now saw aright I could not and would not doubt; for the first flashing of the candles upon that canvas had seemed to dissipate the dreamy stupor which was stealing over my senses, and to startle me at once into waking life.

     The portrait, I have already said, was that of a young girl. It was a mere head and shoulders, done in what is technically termed a vignette manner; much in the style of the favorite heads of Sully. The arms, the bosom and even the ends of the radiant hair, melted imperceptibly into the vague yet deep shadow which formed the background of the whole. The frame was oval, richly gilded and filagreed in Moresque. As a thing of art nothing could be more admirable than the painting itself. But it could have been neither the execution of the work, nor the immortal beauty of the countenance, which had so suddenly and so vehemently moved me. Least of all, could it have been that my fancy, shaken from its half slumber, had mistaken the head for that of a living person. I saw at once that the peculiarities of the design, of the vignetting, and of the frame, must have instantly dispelled such idea--must have prevented even its momentary entertainment. Thinking earnestly upon these points, I remained, for an hour perhaps, half sitting, half reclining, with my vision riveted upon the portrait. At length, satisfied with the true secret of its effect, I fell back within the bed. I had found the spell of the picture in an absolute life-likeliness of expression, which at first startling, finally confounded, subdued and appalled me. With deep and reverent awe I replaced the candelabrum in its former position. The cause of my deep agitation being thus shut from view, I sought eagerly the volume which discussed the paintings and their histories. Turning to the number which designated the oval portrait, I there read the vague and quaint words which follow:

     "She was a maiden of rarest beauty, and not more lovely than full of glee. And evil was the hour when she saw, and loved, and wedded the painter. He, passionate, studious, austere, and having already a bride in his Art; she a maiden of rarest beauty, and not more lovely than full of glee: all light and smiles, and frolicsome as the young fawn: loving and cherishing all things: hating only the Art which was her rival: dreading only the pallet and brushes and other untoward instruments which deprived her of the countenance of her lover. It was thus a terrible thing for this lady to hear the painter speak of his desire to portray even his young bride. But she was humble and obedient, and sat meekly for many weeks in the dark high turret-chamber where the light dripped upon the pale canvas only from overhead. But he, the painter, took glory in his work, which went on from hour to hour and from day to day. And he was a passionate, and wild and moody man, who became lost in reveries; so that he would not see that the light which fell so ghastly in that lone turret withered the health and the spirits of his bride, who pined visibly to all but him. Yet she smiled on and still on, uncomplainingly, because she saw that the painter, (who had high renown,) took a fervid and burning pleasure in his task, and wrought day and night to depict her who so loved him, yet who grew daily more dispirited and weak. And in sooth some who beheld the portrait spoke of its resemblance in low words, as of a mighty marvel, and a proof not less of the power of the painter than of his deep love for her whom he depicted so surpassingly well. But at length, as the labor drew nearer to its conclusion, there were admitted none into the turret; for the painter had grown wild with the ardor of his work, and turned his eyes from the canvas rarely, even to regard the countenance of his wife. And he would not see that the tints which he spread upon the canvas were drawn from the cheeks of her who sate beside him. And when many weeks had passed, and but little remained to do, save one brush upon the mouth and one tint upon the eye, the spirit of the lady again flickered up as the flame within the socket of the lamp. And then the brush was given, and then the tint was placed; and, for one moment, the painter stood entranced before the work which he had wrought; but in the next, while he yet gazed he grew tremulous and very pallid, and aghast and crying with a loud voice, 'This is indeed Life itself!' turned suddenly to regard his beloved:--She was dead!"
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

     Another story around the beauty of a dead woman. Poe puts her in a portrait in this one and goes about her in much the way he described in Berenice, he studied the woman as a abstract being, not a being herself. This way of separating himself from the same category of these woman and putting them on a pedestal was strong with Poe. He talked of his woman in his works as though they are a dream that lasts only so long and must go. He sulked and grieved in stories like this and inspiration to write a story worthy of "the woman in the Oval Portrait, no matter which of the woman in his life she was based on. She is looked at as "A Maiden of rarest beauty...". Poe really did not believe in more fish being out in the sea and it drove him, in part, to write stories like this.

     This is a simple and nice read if you only have about 10 minutes, it must have been very easy to write and edit. Poe was an expert at keeping enough in the story to speculate forever on the meanings, but simple enough for the idle reader to appreciate a good story. The last sentence also has a very creepy feeling to it that strikes me every time I read it.

     The creative artist and his beautiful wife is of course just a reflection of Poe's own situation. I think he may have imagined himself as a painter in a way, telling a story is something like revealing a scene, some therefore like a painting.

     The story itself is somewhat romantic and entrancing. The man arrives in a dreary mansion it is imagined in my head, and makes himself at home. Like many of Poe's story, I just feel this is in France. Poe knew some French and read a lot of French classics. He finds fascination with the ornaments and paintings of the past residents and finds himself being curious and even "nosy" by peering into its contents. Poe again delivers a grand short story worthy for any person who likes literature to read.

Morrison Marketing

Ulalume review

Edgar Allen Poe reviews

Augusta, Georgia, USA

(Original text from the American Review)

     Ulalume is a short, spoken poem full of the usual Poe mysteries. It is about a mystical woman named Ulalume, who may not exist at all. Edgar Allen released this poem in 1847, when his poetry was becoming more emotional and more raw to his heart. Poe was also heavily into drinking and Opiates and the springing of ideas with a lack of a central theme, "Floating" around the poem, is strong in this poem, of course, humbly in my opinion.

     Poe's wife, Virginia died in January of this year and that had an effect on Poe in the most severe way. The change of his style may have been a way to ease the pain through grief. Poe was very distraught in the last years of his life and the constant dreary state of life ate him away.

     The time that the poem takes place is October, arguably the darkest of months. The change of seasons and the increasing of the dark would set a theme that the climate controlled reader cannot relate to. The falling leaves are brown and decaying, they are "Withered".

("Lake of Auber" may be a reference to A french composer of gloomy music, Daniel Auber, one of Poes friends)

("Woodland of Weir" is a reference to a painting friend of Poe, Robert Walter Weir. This painting is called "An entrance to the woods" and was finished a year before Poe wrote Ulalume. On another hat, this artwork is very gloomy and indicates depression. The looking down of the man, the dry and grayish color of the paint and the confusion in the painting is quite exciting to the creative mind)

     I have read this poem and listened to several audio version. Jeff Buckley has a version that was released on "closed on account of rabies" a CD with Poe recording, done by relatively famous people. The Buckley version is very strong and evokes the right tone for the confusing and dreamy poem about a trip through the woods to visit a lost tomb. 

     Poe uses excellent foreshadowing in this poem and the passing of time in these short stories feel exactly in line with the time the reader is in, for example, if the story is read in 7 minutes, the story is moving at that fast also. the movement of the plot, and only the most important adjectives added make this a fast read.

     One interesting insight by one critic points to Ulalumes emphasis on the second "L". Other works like Annabell Lee, Eualelie and Lenore share this, but this may be just a coincidence. Overall, I would not be surprised if Poe did this subconsciously, he was very much one to write his mind and he did so in this poem. A perfect capture of the human mind and its struggle with the beautiful, young, dying/dead woman.