Review of "The Masque of the Red Death" by Edgar Allan Poe

Morrison Marketing

Augusta, Georgia, USA

Review of Edgar Allen Poe

Review of "The Masque of the Red Death"

     The Masque of the Red Death is a short story, by Edgar Allen Poe and wrote in 1842. In the Story the Prince Prospero (Prosperity) is trying to isolate and encapsulate himself and his friends and associates in a castle like setting. The scene seems to be from the 1300-1500 time period from my reading and feeling. This time period was the last days of many kings as nation states formed and consolidated the power and rendered many princes like Prince Prospero extinct. Only the largest would be called King and the plague was at its zenith. The breakout of the plague in 1348 was the beginning of many outbreaks that would devastate the populace of whole towns and cities. Poe may have got this influence from his extensive reading of French, Italian and English (His native tongue, of course) and he must have stumbled upon the Gothic and somber tone of the authors of this period. Life was short, brutal and full of death, religion was supreme and class distinction was a matter of life or death. This provides a great view into a time period that matches Poe's horror, he crafts this scenario perfectly and I consider this to be his bedtime story for kids who like scary stories. 

     This story is strangely hypnotic, despite who reads it, it always produces a lower heartbeat to me, it is exciting and full of adventure. The setting itself is highly romanticized in our culture (The Middle Ages knights and Kings) and the description of the scenery shows Poe had a liking for the Gothic architecture, which he described in an earlier story, "The Fall of the House of Usher".

     Poe was throughout his life poor, and only received $12 for writing this story, quite sad. It turned out to be one of the defining examples of American short stories and the Gothic revival in the 19th century.

The Masque of the Red Death 

Edgar Allan Poe (From- Guttenberg)

The "Red Death" had long devastated the country. No pestilence had ever been so fatal, or so hideous. Blood was its Avatar and its seal—the redness and the horror of blood. There were sharp pains, and sudden dizziness, and then profuse bleeding at the pores, with dissolution. The scarlet stains upon the body and especially upon the face of the victim, were the pest ban which shut him out from the aid and from the sympathy of his fellow-men. And the whole seizure, progress and termination of the disease, were the incidents of half an hour.

(Poe comes out to describe a somber setting. The Plague is full force, people are dying left and right and the symptoms are absolutely dreadful. The people were frightened to death of this and there medical knowledge was very superstition surrounding the plague. This was an unseen killed and therefore even more frightful. To be marked with the Plague or "The Red Death" is a death sentence)

But the Prince Prospero was happy and dauntless and sagacious. When his dominions were half depopulated, he summoned to his presence a thousand hale and light-hearted friends from among the knights and dames of his court, and with these retired to the deep seclusion of one of his castellated abbeys. This was an extensive and magnificent structure, the creation of the prince's own eccentric yet august taste. A strong and lofty wall girdled it in. This wall had gates of iron. The courtiers, having entered, brought furnaces and massy hammers and welded the bolts. They resolved to leave means neither of ingress nor egress to the sudden impulses of despair or of frenzy from within. The abbey was amply provisioned. With such precautions the courtiers might bid defiance to contagion. The external world could take care of itself. In the meantime it was folly to grieve, or to think. The prince had provided all the appliances of pleasure. There were buffoons, there were improvisatori, there were ballet-dancers, there were musicians, there was Beauty, there was wine. All these and security were within. Without was the "Red Death".

(This marks the extreme "Us" and "Them" feeling. The rich do not seem ti care as the poor die. They mock it and seclude themselves in places like this. It strikes a chord with anybody reading that they could be this careless, if they can not change it, they seem to revel in it and their dichotomy of situations. Poe is a genius and making each paragraph jammed full of information. This story is quite that, a story)

It was towards the close of the fifth or sixth month of his seclusion, and while the pestilence raged most furiously abroad, that the Prince Prospero entertained his thousand friends at a masked ball of the most unusual magnificence.

It was a voluptuous scene, that masquerade. But first let me tell of the rooms in which it was held. These were seven—an imperial suite. In many palaces, however, such suites form a long and straight vista, while the folding doors slide back nearly to the walls on either hand, so that the view of the whole extent is scarcely impeded. Here the case was very different, as might have been expected from the duke's love of the bizarre. The apartments were so irregularly disposed that the vision embraced but little more than one at a time. There was a sharp turn at every twenty or thirty yards, and at each turn a novel effect. To the right and left, in the middle of each wall, a tall and narrow Gothic window looked out upon a closed corridor which pursued the winding's of the suite. These windows were of stained glass whose color varied in accordance with the prevailing hue of the decorations of the chamber into which it opened. That at the eastern extremity was hung, for example in blue—and vividly blue were its windows. The second chamber was purple in its ornaments and tapestries, and here the panes were purple. The third was green throughout, and so were the casements. The fourth was furnished and lighted with orange—the fifth with white—the sixth with violet. The seventh apartment was closely shrouded in black velvet tapestries that hung all over the ceiling and down the walls, falling in heavy folds upon a carpet of the same material and hue. But in this chamber only, the color of the windows failed to correspond with the decorations. The panes here were scarlet—a deep blood color. Now in no one of the seven apartments was there any lamp or candelabrum, amid the profusion of golden ornaments that lay scattered to and fro or depended from the roof. There was no light of any kind emanating from lamp or candle within the suite of chambers. But in the corridors that followed the suite, there stood, opposite to each window, a heavy tripod, bearing a brazier of fire, that projected its rays through the tinted glass and so glaringly illumined the room. And thus were produced a multitude of gaudy and fantastic appearances. But in the western or black chamber the effect of the fire-light that streamed upon the dark hangings through the blood-tinted panes, was ghastly in the extreme, and produced so wild a look upon the countenances of those who entered, that there were few of the company bold enough to set foot within its precincts at all.

(A creepy setting, this sets up a beautiful image of a setting in anybody's mind reading this description  It makes me think of a long hallway, tall ceilings with carvings, painting, rugs and other signs of luxury in this hall. Each room filled with goodies and conversation starters in the appropriate color)

It was in this apartment, also, that there stood against the western wall, a gigantic clock of ebony. Its pendulum swung to and fro with a dull, heavy, monotonous clang; and when the minute-hand made the circuit of the face, and the hour was to be stricken, there came from the brazen lungs of the clock a sound which was clear and loud and deep and exceedingly musical, but of so peculiar a note and emphasis that, at each lapse of an hour, the musicians of the orchestra were constrained to pause, momentarily, in their performance, to harken to the sound; and thus the waltzers perforce ceased their evolutions; and there was a brief disconcert of the whole gay company; and, while the chimes of the clock yet rang, it was observed that the giddiest grew pale, and the more aged and sedate passed their hands over their brows as if in confused revery or meditation. But when the echoes had fully ceased, a light laughter at once pervaded the assembly; the musicians looked at each other and smiled as if at their own nervousness and folly, and made whispering vows, each to the other, that the next chiming of the clock should produce in them no similar emotion; and then, after the lapse of sixty minutes, (which embrace three thousand and six hundred seconds of the Time that flies,) there came yet another chiming of the clock, and then were the same disconcert and tremulousness and meditation as before.

(The characters in Poe's stories know they are about to be in something horrible. The setting up of a closed off castle with a creepy ebony clock is not seeming to be good for our rich nobles in this castle. It struck my curiosity deeply at this point in the story to think what this clock means. A grandfather clock like this one is so symbolic for so many different things. Poe was indeed very aware of symbolism and its importance in stories. A simple, but commonly overlooked, tool of writers)

But, in spite of these things, it was a gay and magnificent revel. The tastes of the duke were peculiar. He had a fine eye for colours and effects. He disregarded the decora of mere fashion. His plans were bold and fiery, and his conceptions glowed with barbaric lustre. There are some who would have thought him mad. His followers felt that he was not. It was necessary to hear and see and touch him to be sure that he was not.

He had directed, in great part, the movable embellishments of the seven chambers, upon occasion of this great fête; and it was his own guiding taste which had given character to the masqueraders. Be sure they were grotesque. There were much glare and glitter and piquancy and phantasm—much of what has been since seen in "Hernani". There were arabesque figures with unsuited limbs and appointments. There were delirious fancies such as the madman fashions. There were much of the beautiful, much of the wanton, much of the bizarre, something of the terrible, and not a little of that which might have excited disgust. To and fro in the seven chambers there stalked, in fact, a multitude of dreams. And these—the dreams—writhed in and about taking hue from the rooms, and causing the wild music of the orchestra to seem as the echo of their steps. And, anon, there strikes the ebony clock which stands in the hall of the velvet. And then, for a moment, all is still, and all is silent save the voice of the clock. The dreams are stiff-frozen as they stand. But the echoes of the chime die away—they have endured but an instant—and a light, half-subdued laughter floats after them as they depart. And now again the music swells, and the dreams live, and writhe to and fro more merrily than ever, taking hue from the many tinted windows through which stream the rays from the tripods. But to the chamber which lies most westwardly of the seven, there are now none of the maskers who venture; for the night is waning away; and there flows a ruddier light through the blood-coloured panes; and the blackness of the sable drapery appalls; and to him whose foot falls upon the sable carpet, there comes from the near clock of ebony a muffled peal more solemnly emphatic than any which reaches their ears who indulged in the more remote gaiety of the other apartments.

(The party is raging and the indulgences of the world are being consumed. The scene is happy and full of life, full of creativity and prosperity that can exist without the Red Death. The movers and shakers of the land are finally able to let their hair down in a secure setting, with all of themselves present and separated form the supposed wretchedness of the Plague infested countryside)

But these other apartments were densely crowded, and in them beat feverishly the heart of life. And the revel went whirlingly on, until at length there commenced the sounding of midnight upon the clock. And then the music ceased, as I have told; and the evolution of the waltzers were quieted; and there was an uneasy cessation of all things as before. But now there were twelve strokes to be sounded by the bell of the clock; and thus it happened, perhaps, that more of thought crept, with more of time, into the meditations of the thoughtful among those who reveled. And thus too, it happened, perhaps, that before the last echoes of the last chime had utterly sunk into silence, there were many individuals in the crowd who had found leisure to become aware of the presence of a masked figure which had arrested the attention of no single individual before. And the rumor of this new presence having spread itself whisperingly around, there arose at length from the whole company a buzz, or murmur, expressive of disapprobation and surprise—then, finally, of terror, of horror, and of disgust.

(The movement from a happy scene and of a good old time drinking with your friends is over. The people seem to have partied and mocked Death enough. The Red Death appears, symbolically, as a figure of revenge for trying to escape itself)

In an assembly of phantasms such as I have painted, it may well be supposed that no ordinary appearance could have excited such sensation. In truth the masquerade licence of the night was nearly unlimited; but the figure in question had out-Heroded Herod, and gone beyond the bounds of even the prince's indefinite decorum. There are chords in the hearts of the most reckless which cannot be touched without emotion. Even with the utterly lost, to whom life and death are equally jests, there are matters of which no jest can be made. The whole company, indeed, seemed now deeply to feel that in the costume and bearing of the stranger neither wit nor propriety existed. The figure was tall and gaunt, and shrouded from head to foot in the habiliments of the grave. The mask which concealed the visage was made so nearly to resemble the countenance of a stiffened corpse that the closest scrutiny must have had difficulty in detecting the cheat. And yet all this might have been endured, if not approved, by the mad revellers around. But the mummer had gone so far as to assume the type of the Red Death. His vesture was dabbled in blood—and his broad brow, with all the features of the face, was besprinkled with the scarlet horror.

(The disagreeableness of terror of the figure is best handled by Poe, for anyone looking to see how to scare a reader, look at this story, and this part of it in particular. Poe picks apart the fear that I could imagine going through myself looking at such a figure. The people are scared and, as in most Poe stories, they almost seem to know that somebody is about to die)

When the eyes of the Prince Prospero fell upon this spectral image (which, with a slow and solemn movement, as if more fully to sustain its role, stalked to and fro among the waltzers) he was seen to be convulsed, in the first moment with a strong shudder either of terror or distaste; but, in the next, his brow reddened with rage.

"Who dares,"—he demanded hoarsely of the courtiers who stood near him—"who dares insult us with this blasphemous mockery? Seize him and unmask him—that we may know whom we have to hang, at sunrise, from the battlements!"

It was in the eastern or blue chamber in which stood the Prince Prospero as he uttered these words. They rang throughout the seven rooms loudly and clearly, for the prince was a bold and robust man, and the music had become hushed at the waving of his hand.

(Action! The Masculine and leader, Prince Prospero, is now brought unto a more human level)

It was in the blue room where stood the prince, with a group of pale courtiers by his side. At first, as he spoke, there was a slight rushing movement of this group in the direction of the intruder, who at the moment was also near at hand, and now, with deliberate and stately step, made closer approach to the speaker. But from a certain nameless awe with which the mad assumptions of the mummer had inspired the whole party, there were found none who put forth hand to seize him; so that, unimpeded, he passed within a yard of the prince's person; and, while the vast assembly, as if with one impulse, shrank from the centres of the rooms to the walls, he made his way uninterruptedly, but with the same solemn and measured step which had distinguished him from the first, through the blue chamber to the purple—through the purple to the green—through the green to the orange—through this again to the white—and even thence to the violet, ere a decided movement had been made to arrest him. It was then, however, that the Prince Prospero, maddening with rage and the shame of his own momentary cowardice, rushed hurriedly through the six chambers, while none followed him on account of a deadly terror that had seized upon all. He bore aloft a drawn dagger, and had approached, in rapid impetuosity, to within three or four feet of the retreating figure, when the latter, having attained the extremity of the velvet apartment, turned suddenly and confronted his pursuer. There was a sharp cry—and the dagger dropped gleaming upon the sable carpet, upon which, instantly afterwards, fell prostrate in death the Prince Prospero. Then, summoning the wild courage of despair, a throng of the revellers at once threw themselves into the black apartment, and, seizing the mummer, whose tall figure stood erect and motionless within the shadow of the ebony clock, gasped in unutterable horror at finding the grave cerements and corpse-like mask, which they handled with so violent a rudeness, untenanted by any tangible form.

(The Red Death may represent Death itself and its inability to be escaped. The people took all the precautions that they could and were in company of the most powerful man in the countryside, but the Red death still got to them, it brought them back down into the realm that we all live in. Death is the only thing we will all have in common in time)

And now was acknowledged the presence of the Red Death. He had come like a thief in the night. And one by one dropped the revellers in the blood-bedewed halls of their revel, and died each in the despairing posture of his fall. And the life of the ebony clock went out with that of the last of the gay. And the flames of the tripods expired. And Darkness and Decay and the Red Death held illimitable dominion over all.

(Poe keeps it simple and dense. A good 10 minute read for entertainment, horror and a reminder of Poe's Genius)

(An artists rendering of the Red Death itself)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y94oGkTZ5Hc  (Part 1 of Dramatic reading of this story)
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=otQsq7YM10I (Part 2)

Morrison Marketing

Michael G. Morrison II

Review of Silence, by Edgar Allen Poe

Augusta, Georgia, USA

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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

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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!"
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     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. 

Review of Berenice quotes

Michael Morrison

Morrison Marketing 

Augusta, Georgia 

"Review of Berenice Quotes"

(This man is obviously very disturbed)

Notes to keep in mind while reading Berenice

     Monomania (from Greek monos, one, and mania, mania) was a form of partial insanity conceived as single pathological preoccupation in an otherwise sound mind. Partial insanity, variations of which enjoyed a long pre-history in jurisprudence, was in contrast to the traditional notion of total insanity, exemplified in the diagnosis of mania, as a global condition effecting all aspects of understanding and which reflected the position that the mind or soul was an indivisible entity

     An idée fixe is a preoccupation of mind held so firmly as to resist any attempt to modify it, a fixation

(Something that I imagine Berenice would look like)

     "MISERY is manifold. The wretchedness of earth is multiform. Overreaching the wide horizon as the rainbow, its hues are as various as the hues of that arch - as distinct too, yet as intimately blended."

     This is the opening line to Berenice and has to be the one of the most dense and meaningful sentences for referring to depression and mental illness. Very few times can someone describe mental processes like Poe, he was writing this with first hand inspiration. Poe was very much involved constantly in melancholy, a favorite word of him and used frequently in his writing. 

     These passages are precisely what a lot of the North East establishment was fretting about. This is disturbing  it is like mental suffering porn, to read lines such as the ones above is to true and in fast as possible induce a feeling of gloom over the person. I do not know how Poe wrote his stories, such as outlining them, rough-drafting or the many other processes involved in writing and unique to each literary figure. 

     "Misery is manifold..."

I think this means that misery is very present and spreads to every thing in the world. This would have been true in Poe's life, he could hardly sport much consistent time in a good mood and setting. Poe would never achieve a comfortable life for more than a year or 2. He may have been mentally troubled to the point of subconsciously failing to place himself in misery and self pity, I am not a psychoanalyst, but I feel to have a view directly into this mans head through his literature. 

     "Herein was I born. But it is mere idleness to say that I had not lived before - that the soul has no previous existence. You deny it? - let us not argue the matter." 

     This is a spine chilling line to me, the slickness and anticipation into what the narrator actually truly believes so confidently is scary. Does he indulge in further superstitions? He rode off a debate about this as though it was 100% assured in his mind. 

     "And the victim -where is she? I knew her not - or knew her no longer as Berenice." 

     This is such a sad confirmation in the story of a point of no return, the lady has been there to long, she must die, there cannot be happiness in Poe's stories. To watch a loved one wear away to the point of not recognizing them is sad in itself and anyone who is going through that while reading this story should feel a stark realization of what Poe was experiencing. 

     "Among the numerous train of maladies super-induced by that fatal and primary one which effected a revolution of so horrible a kind in the moral and physical being of my cousin..."

     This is an example of Poe's writing style and again one of critic from the contemporary writers of the time to him. The use of adjectives, metaphors and similes that Poe was excellent at is probably his most copied trait in writing.

     "To muse for long unwearied hours, with my attention riveted to some frivolous device on the margin, or in the typography of a book; to become absorbed, for the better part of a summer's day, in a quaint shadow falling aslant upon the tapestry or upon the floor; to lose myself, for an entire night, in watching the steady flame of a lamp, or the embers of a fire; to dream away whole days over the perfume of a flower."

     This suffering is one of Poe's directly. Poe must have needed to write this out, I imagine that he spent many days in a similar room to a library and thought heavily on his dying woman and past suffering. The attempt to escape the depression and unease is the most sympathetic feeling we have to Poe, he is sincerely trying to keep his mind in the right place, but is always losing that fight. The art of writing is said to have some therapeutic affects. Stephen King says so many times throughout his intros, in "On Writing" and in  

     "True to its own character, my disorder reveled in the less important but more startling changes wrought in the physical frame of Berenice - in the singular and most appalling distortion of her personal identity."

     Poe talked of woman as some sort of object, and not as a person. Although in Poe's situation his marriage to his younger cousin is freaky enough to out-shadow this small aspect. This trait is shared by sexual criminals. They are like windows for eyes that only one side can see. They think as one view and as one set of circumstances  bypassing a possible victims and thus making the action of a crime easier to justify in his/her own mind. 

     "During the brightest days of her unparalleled beauty, most surely I had never loved her. In the strange anomaly of my existence, feelings with me, had never been of the heart, and my passions always were of the mind."

     Poe was speaking on behalf of a lot of intellectuals and people in general who work with their ideas and brains heavily. Beyond the wealth through labor and the satisfaction of curiosity, being intelligent can lead to a scenario of depression, seclusion and disappointment in mundane life. To study work like Poe itself is sometimes lonely, but relative to other literary figures he is a modern celebrity. This speaks to me somewhat personally in Aegis. 

     "but as the Berenice of a dream; not as a being of the earth, earthy, but as the abstraction of such a being; not as a thing to admire, but to analyze; not as an object of love, but as the theme of the most abstruse although desultory speculation. And now - now I shuddered in her presence, and grew pale at her approach; yet, bitterly lamenting her fallen and desolate condition, I called to mind that she had loved me long, and, in an evil moment, I spoke to her of marriage."

     This is again going back to how Poe views woman. He is obviously quite one sided and Berenice is not given to many personality traits. Nothing much beyond Poe's Obsession of the usual Feminine character in his works.

     "An icy chill ran through my frame; a sense of insufferable anxiety oppressed me; a consuming curiosity pervaded my soul; and sinking back upon the chair, I remained for some time breathless and motionless, with my eyes riveted upon her person. Alas! its emaciation was excessive, and not one vestige of the former being lurked in any single line of the contour. My burning glances at length fell upon the face."

     The character is obviously so very disturbed  I feel so bad for him for having to suffer this kind of pain. The description seems so real and of a first person account. The narrator was acting basically as an outlet for Poe to release some of these mental descriptions as things that struck him, not in the direct manner of the disease in which Aegis is struck with, but in addiction, grief and simply brain chemistry being off. 

     "The shutting of a door disturbed me, and, looking up, I found that my cousin had departed from the chamber. But from the disordered chamber of my brain, had not, alas! departed, and would not be driven away, the white and ghastly spectrum of the teeth. "

     Poe has a good theme going through this story of the minds obsession, this is another stellar example. She departed from the physical world, but "stuck" to his brain. The lack of control over one owns thoughts are scary in itself. 

     "I felt that their possession could alone ever restore me to peace, in giving me back to reason."

     This is so close to what I would expect somebody with Monomania to say, Poe is either very familiar on mental diseases from a firsthand account, spent a lot of time editing and forming consistent features or  simply was a genius at standing in the light of another judgement, he could step into another shoes, or he was stepping into his own. I think equally both, Poe was disturbed, but also an anomaly that is a genius. 

     "and still I sat buried in meditation - and still the phantasma of the teeth maintained its terrible ascendancy, as, with the most vivid hideous distinctness, it floated about amid the changing lights and shadows of the chamber."

     This is a direct reference to the Schizophrenia the narrator is experiencing. It slipped my attention until about the 8th or 9th time hearing this story that I noticed he is referring to an actual set of teeth that is floating around his room, his eyes following every shift. The Narrator has just about lost it all at this point and the disease seems to be toying with him to his death. He is openly crazy at this point. His reaction to this is notably lacking. He is accepting it and decaying further until a end that cannot end well.

     "I knew that it was now midnight, and I was well aware, that since the setting of the sun, Berenice had been interred. But of that dreary period which intervened I had no positive, at least no definite comprehension. Yet its memory was replete with horror - horror more horrible from being vague, and terror more terrible from ambiguity. It was a fearful page in the record my existence, written all over with dim, and hideous, and unintelligible recollections. I strived to decipher them, but in vain; while ever and anon, like the spirit of a departed sound, the shrill and piercing shriek of a female voice seemed to be ringing in my ears. I had done a deed - what was it? I asked myself the question aloud, and the whispering echoes of the chamber answered me, - " what was it? "

     The narrator has to come to himself to remember what has just happened. The schizophrenic character has purged the memory of digging his cousin up. He is confused and his conscious and unconscious may very well be in disagreement  The full force of the n a disease has entertained its desire and he does not even remember it. The forgetting of such a n act is scary itself. Our narrator cannot go on much longer. 

     "He pointed to garments; - they were muddy and clotted with gore. I spoke not, and he took me gently by the hand: it was indented with the impress of human nails. He directed my attention to some object against the wall. I looked at it for some minutes: it was a spade. With a shriek I bounded to the table, and grasped the box that lay upon it. But I could not force it open; and in my tremor, it slipped from my hands, and fell heavily, and burst into pieces; and from it, with a rattling sound, there rolled out some instruments of dental surgery, intermingled with thirty-two small, white and ivory-looking substances that were scattered to and fro about the floor."

     In an excellent piece of writing Poe wraps up the story with the moment the audience has been waiting for. The narrator has lost it completely now and the story must come to an end. His satisfied monomaniac fantasy of holding the teeth is complete and he is founded to be the culprit of such actions. The fear of the man who had to confront Poe shows the shock of such a crime.

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     Thanks for reading my review of Berenice. Below are some useful links that I utilized in this and other writing about Poe and his works,

     Michael G. Morrison
     Morrison Marketing
     Augusta, Georgia, USA





     

     

"Berenice" by Edgar Allen Poe

Michael Morrison

Morrison Marketing

Review of the work of Edgar Allen Poe