I declined to show my smarts.
Elsewhere on the Web are comments from people confused by the story’s ending, and my favorite is from mister_noel_ y2k of Cardiff, Wales, who posted: “for anyone who has read this story, could they perhaps explain what this story was about because I wasn’t sure whether or not the two william wilson’s were the same person or not or whether it was a jekyll and hyde kind of story or whether or not the narrator was obsessed with william wilson” (http://www.online-literature.com/forums/showthread.php?t=12581).
So why do I think this story is so great, and how does it speak to why Poe himself was so great? I think it’s in the pull of its terrific premise, the doubling between William Wilson and his look-alike. As our friend mister_noel_ y2k says, while it’s unclear whether William and his double are two halves of the same whole, or in fact two separate people, the effect is the same. His fragmented or broken identity terrifies us at a profound level, and when it’s the protagonist who’s having an identity crisis, we’re placed squarely in his very shaky shoes. So it’s impossible to read “William Wilson” and not identify with William, feeling his anguish and his evil, both at once.
And the threat is so much greater when it comes from within, as in this story of psychological horror, than from without, as in a conventional ghost story. Poe must have known that no monster is half as scary as the evil within us, and it’s tempting to wonder if he “wrote what he knew,” considering his own personal unhappiness and the fact that he assigned William Wilson his own birthday. Read that way, the story is poignant indeed.
Plus, Poe may not have invented the Evil Twin, but he certainly anticipated it, as well as the spookiness that comes from the fragmenting or doubling of the self, and the splintering of identity. Sigmund Freud would later explain the psychology at work here in his essay “The Uncanny,” written in 1919, but there’s no doubt that the concept gives “William Wilson” its dramatic impact. And the hold that doubling has on our collective psyche is underlined by more recent examples in popular culture, from benign sitcoms like The Patty Duke Show to the comic-book conflict of Spider Man and his evil flip side, Venom. Think, too, of Invasion of the Body Snatchers, where the man looks like your husband but he’s not your husband. Or vice versa, in The Stepford Wives, when the terrified wife stumbles upon her own replica.
Robert Ludlum’s Jason Bourne novels trade on the doubling concept when our hero flashes back on a self he doesn’t know, remember, or even recognize. Bourne’s confusion about his own identity, and about whether he is fundamentally good or evil, echoes “William Wilson.” And there’s even a hint of identity duality, or a split self, in Stephen King’s classic, The Shining, in which a frustrated writer takes a job as a hotel caretaker, loses his mind, and tries to kill his family. Not only is the caretaker a double of a previous caretaker, who had followed the same deranged path, but we see how easily Good Dad crosses the median to become Evil Dad when a hotel and a blank page drive him crazy.
The blank page I know well.
In fact, I was thinking of “William Wilson” when I wrote my novels Mistaken Identity and Dead Ringer. The main character in those books, Bennie Rosato, is a strong, independent, and clever woman whose life gets turned upside down when she’s summoned to prison to meet with a look-alike inmate-who claims to be her long-lost twin sister. I didn’t get the idea from Poe, I got it from my own life, when I learned I had a half sister I didn’t know about. That she looked uncannily like me, down to the blue eyes we both got from our father, at first unsettled me at the deepest level, and by the time we got to know each other, I knew I had to write about the experience. You can’t have this job and ignore something like that or you forfeit your advance.
I reread “William Wilson” for the inspiration to turn my life into fiction, and though my half sister is a lovely person, I made her into an Evil Twin (with her permission). The psychological journey that Bennie Rosato takes in my novels was informed not only by my own confused feelings but by those of the entirely fictional William Wilson, and I like to think they gave those novels an emotional truth.
So I owe Edgar Allan Poe quite a lot.
Thank you, sir, and Happy Birthday.
And what is the lesson in all this?
Eat your vegetables.
Lisa Scottoline will admit that she got interested in Edgar Allan Poe only after he got interested in her, which is the story of her social life in general and perhaps why she is twice divorced. After she won an Edgar, she picked up Poe’s stories and fell in love with “William Wilson,” a great tale of dual identity. She has mined that theme for many of her fifteen best-selling novels, which is a nice way of saying that she steals from the best. She has served on the board of MWA and teaches Justice and Fiction at the University of Pennsylvania Law School, her alma mater. She also writes a weekly column for the Philadelphia Inquirer, because nine hundred words comes a lot easier than ninety thousand. She still lives in her hometown, Philadelphia, the rightful home of Edgar Allan Poe, but let’s not get into that.
Manuscript Found in a Bottle
Qui n’a plus qu’un moment a vivre N’a plus rien a dissimuler.
– QUINAULT -Atys.
OF MY COUNTRY AND OF MY FAMILY I have little to say. Ill usage and length of years have driven me from the one, and estranged me from the other. Hereditary wealth afforded me an education of no common order, and a contemplative turn of mind enabled me to methodize the stores which early study very diligently garnered up. Beyond all things, the works of the German moralists gave me great delight; not from any ill-advised admiration of their eloquent madness, but from the ease with which my habits of rigid thought enabled me to detect their falsities. I have often been reproached with the aridity of my genius; a deficiency of imagination has been imputed to me as a crime; and the Pyrrhonism of my opinions has at all times rendered me notorious. Indeed, a strong relish for physical philosophy has, I fear, tinctured my mind with a very common error of this age-I mean the habit of referring occurrences, even the least susceptible of such reference, to the principles of that science. Upon the whole, no person could be less liable than myself to be led away from the severe precincts of truth by the ignes fatui of superstition. I have thought proper to premise thus much, lest the incredible tale I have to tell should be considered rather the raving of a crude imagination, than the positive experience of a mind to which the reveries of fancy have been a dead letter and a nullity.
After many years spent in foreign travel, I sailed in the year 18-, from the port of Batavia, in the rich and populous island of Java, on a voyage to the Archipelago Islands. I went as passenger-having no other inducement than a kind of nervous restlessness which haunted me as a fiend.
Our vessel was a beautiful ship of about four hundred tons, copper-fastened, and built at Bombay of Malabar teak. She was freighted with cotton-wool and oil, from the Lachadive Islands. We had also on board coir, jaggeree, ghee, cocoanuts, and a few cases of opium. The stowage was clumsily done, and the vessel consequently crank.
We got under way with a mere breath of wind, and for many days stood along the eastern coast of Java, without any other incident to beguile the monotony of our course than the occasional meeting with some of the small grabs of the Archipelago to which we were bound.