The blood-drenched Poe, the racially charged Poe, the analytic, the poetic-all are aspects of this complicated writer; none explains him fully. When I read Poe, what makes his stories terrifying is a sense of helplessness. I imagine him suffocating-almost literally, in the alcohol he consumed and the blood he saw his consumptive mother cough up-as well as figuratively. His father abandoned him, his foster father never accepted him and ultimately cast him off, his mother died when he was two.
Most children blame themselves for abandonments like these, and in Poe’s fiction it’s the narrator who is almost always the perpetrator when evil deeds are done: “The Black Cat,” “The Education of William Wilson,” “The Tell-Tale Heart,” “The Cask of Amontillado”-all have a narrator who is a knave or a madman. In “The Black Cat,” the narrator goes out of his way to explain how vile he is, torturing the animals who have loved him, degrading himself with drink, beating his wife, and finally driving an ax into her brain.
Of course, my response is as partial as Bayard’s or Argento’s. I can’t imagine trying to make such a difficult figure the subject of a novel or a story. In general, I’m uneasy with using real figures as players in a novel-highlighting one facet means overlooking others. Still, with Poe, I can understand the temptation to do so. The opium, the alcohol, the love affairs; the slave owner, the gambler, the writer-not even the masterful Stephen King could have invented such a complex character.
Edgar Allan Poe’s father’s name was David; Sara Paretsky’s father’s name was David. Both their last names begin with the letter “P.” Poe’s and Paretsky’s mothers were both accomplished actresses. Poe died in Baltimore. Paretsky gave birth to Sisters in Crime in Baltimore. Baltimore is in Maryland, abbreviated “MD.” Paretsky’s grandfather was an MD. Poe created Dupin, the earliest male private investigator; Paretsky created V. I. Warshawski, one of the earliest female PIs. Poe was not a drug addict; neither is Paretsky. Coincidence? Hard to believe. Paretsky is clearly a reincarnation of the master of noir. Or perhaps his great-great-great-granddaughter. Or an imposter.
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore-While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door-Only this and nothing more.”
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.Eagerly I wished the morrow;-vainly I had sought to borrowFrom my books surcease of sorrow-sorrow for the lost Lenore-For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore-Nameless for evermore. And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtainThrilled me-filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,“’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door-Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;-This it is and nothing more.”
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,That I scarce was sure I heard you”-here I opened wide the door;-Darkness there and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before;But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?”This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”Merely this and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,Soon again I heard a tapping something louder than before.“Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore-Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;-’Tis the wind and nothing more!”
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door-Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door-Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then the ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore-Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,Though its answer little meaning-little relevancy bore;For we cannot help agreeing that no living human beingEver yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door-Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,With such name as “Nevermore.”
But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke onlyThat one word, as if its soul in that one word he did outpour.Nothing farther then he uttered-not a feather then he fluttered-Till I scarcely more than muttered: “Other friends have flown before-On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.”Then the bird said “Nevermore.”
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and storeCaught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful DisasterFollowed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore-Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden boreOf ‘Never-nevermore.’ ”
But the Raven still beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linkingFancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore-What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yoreMeant in croaking “Nevermore.”This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressingTo the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease recliningOn the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’erShe shall press, ah, nevermore!
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censerSwung by seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.“Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee-by these angels he hath sent theeRespite-respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore;Quaff, oh, quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!”Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”