After wrestling for several days to post not one but TWO grotesquely dumbed-down versions of Poe's masterpiece The Cask of Amontillado, I guess his ghost must have come down and scotched the whole thing, just wouldn't let me do it. At one point text was literally disappearing, whole pages at a time! The formats were just too weird and wouldn't translate to my outdated Blogger. If I were Poe's ghost, which some days I wonder if I am (not the literary stuff but the craziness), I might be tempted to do the same.
Suffice it to say, in more than one instance, the unparalleled brilliance of the story has been boiled down to less than half its original length, reconfigured in idiot language that sucked out every bit of poetry as insatiably as Fortunato sucked down flagons of Medoc. Difficult words like "mortar" were changed to "cement", and things were actually added that weren't supposed to be there, like a detailed description of Fortunato's costume (including his color scheme). We also found out that Fortunato married a beautiful woman who gave him sons (?!), which made Montresor mighty jealous. And being jealous is why he did that mean thing.
I kept giving up and starting again, then thought, why not spare my readers (all two of them, heh-heh!) when I can just as easily state, in conclusion, that horrendously dumbed-down versions of classics do exist, and are used to teach either children, or those learning to speak English.
Children's story, it is not. Burying your pal alive in a rotting boneyard? I think not. But for adults, I guess the philosophy is that the "adapted" or "abridged" versions make these stories accessible to people who might not otherwise be able to read them.
But ARE they reading Poe? My sense is that they are not. It's a sort of outline for the story, not the story itself. You go, Poe - you go boy, pull the plug on this thing! Thwart my computer, because nobody should even get a chance to read about Fortunato's striped pajamas.
Meantime. . . I'm not through with it yet, this latest sojourn into Poe's spooky magic. I have found a few worthwhile dramatized versions, which in this genre do require some adaptation. But the really good ones at least carry the spirit. They are respectful to that shade which keeps hovering around my desk and making a cold spot in the corner. Fortunato's cough should sound like "ugh, ugh, ugh, ugh, ugh" (and have you ever seen such an accurate onomato-poe-ic verbal representation of an ugly, suffocated, phlegmy subterranean cough?
So I'm posting some video-ettes which, if clicked on, will take you to a much better YouTube version. I don't feel so bad now, but how about you, Eddie?
POST-BLOG BLAH: I did find a couple of excerpts, which you can compare if you have the stomach for it. It will at least give you an idea. Stay back, Eddy (the true spelling! Sorry, Ed - ed). If you can't tell which is which, GET OFFA MY BLOG.
THE thousand injuries of Fortunato I had borne as I best
could; but when he ventured upon insult, I vowed revenge. You, who so well know
the nature of my soul, will not suppose, however, that I gave utterance to a
threat. At length I would be avenged; this was a point definitively settled—
but the very definitiveness with which it was resolved, precluded the idea of
risk. I must not only punish, but punish with impunity. A wrong is unredressed
when retribution overtakes its redresser. It is equally unredressed when the
avenger fails to make himself felt as such to him who has done the wrong. It must be understood that neither by word
nor deed had I given Fortunato cause to doubt my good will. I continued, as was
my wont, to smile in his face, and he did not perceive that my smile now was at
the thought of his immolation. He had a
weak point—this Fortunato—although in other regards he was a man to be
respected and even feared. He prided himself on his connoisseurship in wine.
Few Italians have the true virtuoso spirit. For the most part their enthusiasm
is adopted to suit the time and opportunity—to practise imposture upon the
British and Austrian millionaires. In painting and gemmary, Fortunato, like his
countrymen, was a quack—but in the matter of old wines he was sincere. In this
respect I did not differ from him materially: I was skilful in the Italian
vintages myself, and bought largely whenever I could.
Fortunato had hurt me a thousand times and I had suffered
quietly. But then I learned that he had laughed at my proud name, Montresor,
the name of an old and honored family. I promised myself that I would make him
pay for this — that I would have revenge. You must not suppose, however, that I
spoke of this to anyone. I would make him pay, yes; but I would act only with
the greatest care. I must not suffer as a result of taking my revenge. A wrong
is not made right in that manner. And also the wrong would not be made right
unless Fortunato knew that he was paying and knew who was forcing him to pay. I
gave Fortunato no cause to doubt me. I continued to smile in his face, and he
did not understand that I was now smiling at the thought of what I planned for
him, at the thought of my revenge. Fortunato was a strong man, a man to be
feared. But he had one great weakness: he liked to drink good wine, and indeed
he drank much of it. So he knew a lot about fine wines, and proudly believed
that he was a trained judge of them. I, too, knew old wines well, and I bought
the best I could find. And wine, I thought, wine would give me my revenge!
Poe goes in circles in my life, or in cycles, or orbits, coming around and around again with his own spooky timing. I wasn't expecting to like the PBS documentary I saw a few weeks ago, but I did, and wanted more. Even the actor they chose to portray Poe became more convincingly Poe-like as the show went on. They interviewed the usual suspects, scholars who basically spend all their working life trying to understand him. But they also kept interviewing an author named Lynn Cullen, who had written an intriguing-sounding book called Mrs. Poe.
At that point, I didn't know if it was biography or fiction. Turns out, not only is it fiction, it isn't even about Mrs. Poe! It's about the "lady friend" who almost took Poe away from his fragile wife (the fabled 13-year-old first cousin he married to save her from penury, or worse). So I ordered it from Amazon, with my first question being, "Will she 'get' Poe? Will she be able to 'do' Poe? Will he be at all convincing?" I haven't even finished it yet, and so far it has me in its thrall.
I see Poe differently from the usual perception of a half-mad, emotionally-frail alcoholic who barely made it in the literary world. Hah! Barely made it? The man was a literary rock star. He didn't "barely make" anything, from his youth as a tough, wiry athlete to his adulthood as a tough, wiry poet who bore all the slings and arrows of his trade (and handed out more than a few in his blistering book reviews).
We're all affected a little too much by that famous photo (which see), where he really DOES look half out of his mind, with unfocused and even unmatched eyes staring into the unknown. Maybe he just disliked having his picture taken, in keeping with his bristly personality. I think if you saw Poe in a room with other poets of his time, you'd be hard-pressed to pick him out. I see him as a serious-looking man, thin and intense, with a big head and untidy hair, and though I have no way of knowing this, I keep thinking he had an educated Southern accent (having been raised in Virginia). He had enough of the thespian in him to give great drawing-room performances of his work. The Lynn Cullen book is delicious in its imagining of an incredible literary salon where "Walter Whitman" basically makes an ass of himself, Horace Greeley pontificates, Louisa May Alcott shows up for tea, and everyone sucks up to Poe because he just published The Raven and is now terribly, terribly famous.
I've walked around and around inside this epic poem before, of course, but I just now read the whole thing out loud (with no one listening - I didn't even record it, but wanted those cadences inside my mouth and throat and lungs). Stuff sprang out at me, and for the first time I kept bursting out laughing, for this is a really funny poem. At least, it's funny in spots, when it's not absolutely gut-twisting in its loneliness and horror. Poe was one of these people who had a huge hole in him where the wind blew, a chill wind that never stopped.
I realize that for the most part, my longer posts never get read or even opened, like gifts that just stay under the Christmas tree. But it's my blog, and I will do verse-by-verse literary analysis if I want to!
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.
"'T is some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door;
Only this and nothing more."
The first thing you notice is the clean, impeccable meter, the highly complex, perfectly balanced syllables glittering like gems in the dark. This is what makes it so challenging to read aloud, but if you work at it a bit, it's perfect. As Poe usually does, he immediately sets the scene, plunks the narrator into our lap, and lets us know that this is a man who likes to sit in a dark room alone and read weird books which are completely forgotten (kind of like my three novels). This implies that he's feeling pretty darned forgotten himself, perhaps on the romantic scrap-heap. The rhyme scheme kicks in very soon, and he plays it to death, along with the famous Poe repetition: napping, tapping, rapping, rapping again, then taking one neat step backward to tapping. Well, if you and I did this verbal cha-cha, it would be a bad poem. The "only this and nothing more" already clues us in on his mood - both dismissive and wary, already reassuring himself, whistling in the dark.
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 borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore,
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore:
Nameless here for evermore.
Oh really? "Nameless here forevermore"? All he DOES for the rest of the poem is blather on and on about Lenore, who is likely some pure and virginal, consumptively lovely maiden (and as a matter of fact, that sounds an awful lot like his wife). Calling her rare and radiant, well, I've seen a few people who were radiant, but only for moments. Soon that candle will be snuffed out. He sets this thing in December, of course, the dying of the year, and don't forget he has Christmas and all its disappointments in mind. I won't get into "and each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor", as it makes me want to howl and/or burst into tears because I should just stop writing forever.
And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
"'T is some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door,
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door:
This it is and nothing more."
Those first two lines, among the best-known in English literature, are so incredibly sensuous that you can only read them out loud to fully appreciate them. There isn't a syllable that's wrong - we're in geniusland here. Silken, sad, uncertain. Such words for a mere curtain, not just any curtain but a purple one - no, "each" purple curtain, so how many of them ARE there? I like how he juxtaposes "thrilled me, filled me" with "fantastic terrors" - don't most of us love having the bejeezus scared out of us, even paying for the privilege? And now, repeating and entreating have replaced rapping and tapping. He is the sceptred king of internal rhyme.
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.
Oops. There's nobody there. I'll bet HE felt the fool. Here he is talking on and on to someone who doesn't exist, or at least not in fleshly form! And I really love that "Sir", said I, "or Madam" - is he hoping it might be the lost Lenore showing up, as if to deliver a pepperoni pizza from another dimension? But it's funny, too, reminding me of those awful old "Dear Sir or Madam" form letters (rejection letters? For Poe got a lot of those, too. "Ravens, Mr. Poe?" - perhaps from the same editor who said, "Whales, Mr. Melville?").
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.
Well OK, then, he misses his girl friend! But we really know nothing about her, except that she's a "rare and radiant maiden" - and not there. For some reason a Bob Dylan line leapt into my head: "But she makes it all too concise and too clear that Johanna's not here."
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat 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:
'T is the wind and nothing more."
I love this verse. There is so much to love in it! When I saw that he had rhymed "that is" with "window lattice", I laughed out loud, but it was nothing to what I did when I got to "let me see, then what thereat is". This is a sly joke, no mistake, a little clever turn of phrase meant to relieve the bleakness just enough to keep his audience on the hook. For Poe was seductive, along with everything else he was.
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.
We knew it was coming, the grand entrance. But how it comes is rather strange. The word "flirt" is not used casually, and fluttering eyelids are almost always seen as flirtatious. But suddenly, "in there stepped a stately Raven" - the thing WALKS in to his gloomy old chamber, looking positively royal. If you've ever studied a raven, though, they're exactly like this; they give no quarter. They really do just sit there, in a hunch. Unlike crows, they don't twitch or dart. They stare at you. It's unnerving. And in case you're curious:
PALLAS was the Titan god of battle and warcraft. He was the father of
Nike (Victory), Zelos (Rivalry), Kratos (Cratus, Strength) and Bia
(Power) by Styx (Hatred), children who sided with Zeus during the
Titan-War. Pallas' name was derived from the Greek word pallô meaning "to brandish (a spear)". He was vanquished by the goddess Athena who crafted her aigis (a goat-hide arm-guard) from his skin.
Then this 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."
This is just another sly joke, a clever turn of phrase. It's "Who's on first, What's on second" all over again. No, quoth the Raven, I WON'T tell you my name, so there! So Poe assumes his name is "Nevermore", a nice play on the "nothing more" which he has already used SIX TIMES (!! I counted).
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 being
Ever 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."
He's sure he's the only one. Ever. In all of human history. No ego here! And maybe he's right. I never encountered such long raven poems from any other author. "Ever yet was blessed" must be sarcasm, for a moment ago he was cursing the damn thing. I like how quickly he switches from words like stately, lordly, grave, stern, etc., to "ungainly fowl" (homonym time!), as if it's just a big black chicken.
But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further 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."
Oh, you'll just leave me like everybody does. Oh, no I won't. But I wish you would. And it's funny how HIS hopes are capitalized. I wonder how he does that?
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore:
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of 'Never—nevermore.'
So! So now he's so desperate for an explanation for that gloomy triplet that he's telling us this bird's owner had a vocabulary of ONE WORD.
But the Raven still beguiling all my 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 linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore,
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking "Nevermore."
This is one of my favorite passages. It completely deflates all the horror he has been building up: the guy wheels up a soft, cushy chair - I didn't know chairs had casters then - and lounges on the lavish velvet, tipping it back, yawning and stretching, linking fancy unto fancy - maybe even lighting a cigar or swigging a little laudanum - can't you see it?
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er
She shall press, ah, nevermore!
Ah yes, now we get to it, the repressed sex. It had to come some time. Once more he's nodding off into some sort of erotic reverie, using a bloated word like "gloated" not once but TWICE, a word so pregnant and ready to burst that it reminds me of the seethingly fertile abdomen of a termite queen - and then, all of a sudden, here she is, back again for a return engagement - LENORE! Or at least, we can assume it's Lenore who was pressing that velvet violet lining, or having her velvet violet lining ("with the lamp-light gloating o'er") pressed. Never have I seen sex so subtly expressed.
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!"
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore."
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
He likes words which were probably antiquated even then. Quaff I get, nepenthe - well - not so much. So here's what it means:
Nepenthe: a potion used by the ancients to induce forgetfulness of pain or sorrow
Something capable of causing oblivion of grief or suffering
I assume it was a sort of laudanum used by the gods in ancient times. Some sources say it didn't really exist. Laudanum did, as did alcohol, and it's my belief that Poe mixed them freely.
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! prophet still, if bird or devil!
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—
On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore:
Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
I have always loved this line, and think it's one of the finest ever written: "Is there - is there balm in Gilead?" It brings to mind the old hymn, "There is a balm in Gilead to make the wounded whole/There is a balm in Gilead to heal the sin-sick soul." The original Biblical line read, "Is there no balm in Gilead?" Poe's version clings to a shred of hope, but the repeating "is there - is there - " is completely heartbreaking. Strangely, almost all versions I've heard treat this as a kind of sarcasm, but I think it's a cri du coeur from a man who has almost given up.
But then again. . . it could also be a test.
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil—prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us, by that God we both adore,
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore:
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
OK, I'm going to stop looking things up, so you can take a guess at who or what Aidenn is. These classicists bug me to death. The important thing is Lenore. Lenore, Lenore, Lenore! By now she's not just radiant but "sainted". Did Poe ever have sex, I wonder? I think he worshipped women and even held some of them in high regard as writers, but there is a sense - well, maybe it was marrying that thirteen-year-old cousin. It would render you a little cautious.
"That God we both adore" is a nice touch. Come on, we're both on the same side, aren't we? And I don't think anyone who rants and rages this much is particularly religious. It's yet another attempt to seduce. Devious man.
As for the Raven's response, I'm beginning to think Poe was right the first time: he was taught just one word, and that's all he's going to say.
"Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting:
"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
I like this guy, I really do. I can see him stamping around and jumping up and down, and probably quaffing as Poe was wont to do. "Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!" Which prompts the inevitable response: Polly want a cracker. And the black plume! Isn't that a nice touch - the horses wore them for funeral processions. "Leave my loneliness unbroken" is a plea, which tells us a lot about how he really feels about being alone.
And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor:
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted—nevermore!
Edgar Allan Poe
So we all know this is a Poem About Death. But it's also a poem about Poe. It's about the things that were important to him. Privacy. Quiet. Introversion. Womblike chambers of refuge. A sort of carefully cultivated loneliness. Shock and fright as delicious physical sensations that were perhaps a substitute for sex. Radiant, unbesmirched, angelic women, the kind that don't exist. Scholarship, the classics, escape into literature. Thwarted romance. Abandonment, rejection. Being angry and upset with something external, which is really a problem he has generated himself. Ranting and railing at God, the Fates, demons, annoying symbols of mortality roosting on his doorframe, and all those things over which he has absolutely no control.
So let's look at Nevermore. What does it really mean? "No"? "Never"? I always thought it meant "not any more". The things that were, are no more, and love has bloomed and died and been swept away. So the bird just keeps on saying it, in case Poe didn't get it the first time. It's a grim thing to teach it to say, but for a raven it seems more or less appropriate. Ravens don't budge, it's true. Lately I have seen seven at a time on my back fence, and it gave me a thrill, let me tell you. They just stay, is what they do. They stand their ground. Sometimes they make a gritchy sort of grinding sound, or a hollow rattle. Personally, I love them - I think they're magnificent, and creepy. What other bird could have stood its ground through a whole long poem such as this?
The Happiest Day The happiest day–the happiest hour My sear'd and blighted heart hath known, The highest hope of pride and power, I feel hath flown.
Of power! said I? yes! such I ween; But they have vanish'd long, alas! The visions of my youth have been– But let them pass.
And, pride, what have I now with thee? Another brow may even inherit The venom thou hast pour'd on me Be still, my spirit!
The happiest day–the happiest hour Mine eyes shall see–have ever seen, The brightest glance of pride and power, I feel–have been:
But were that hope of pride and power Now offer'd with the pain Even then I felt–that brightest hour I would not live again:
For on its wing was dark alloy, And, as it flutter'd–fell An essence–powerful to destroy A soul that knew it well.
You thought I was kidding, didn't you? DIDN'T you? - that I would ever run a series about Edgar Allan Poe? No, I was deadly serious, as serious (and deadly) as I could be about such a topic.
I don't know all of his poetry, and to dip into it is difficult, for it's melancholy and dense and written in that Victorian way, full of morbid verbal bric-a-brac and swirling emotional effluvia. So I cast around for something a bit lighter. Ah! This must be it, The Happiest Day! Even a morose bugger like Poe must have had a little fun, even though it's said he never had sex with his wife, and perhaps not with anyone. Maybe he liked to play canasta or enjoyed chilled melon balls or something, I don't know. But when I found this poem and realized it was relatively short, I thought, aha, here's one I can analyze line-by-line without busting my brain or bursting into tears.
Wrong. This guy just never lightens up.
Analyzing poetry is an awful thing, really, because it should mean exactly what it means to the reader. If it's really good, the poem reads you. It pulls uncomfortable stuff out of you, the stuff we shove aside in order to get through the day and deal with its noise and tussle. Whilst all this slimy stuff lurks beneath.
So I will let this poem read me. It seems to be saying - and here I am reminded of Oscar Levant's statement, "Happiness isn't something you experience, it's something you remember" - that what we call happiness is so evanescent that it melts and evaporates even as we experience it. The poet, who was maybe 22 when he wrote this, feels his life has already peaked and it's all a downward slide from here on in (though little did he know he'd only make it to forty).
It's a short poem, after all, certainly short for for Poe - but he packs a lot into it, or rather sneaks it in. Two weighty words repeat almost as alarmingly as those infernal "bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells": "pride" and "power":
The happiest day–the happiest hour My sear'd and blighted heart hath known, The highest hope of pride and power, I feel hath flown.
Is the poet in some sort of disgrace here? Or has he missed out on something? "The highest hope of pride and power" - this isn't about happiness at all, but about position, worldly position! Loftiness, almost. And because he fell off his high horse, he's whimpering about it: "sear'd and blighted" seems to imply some sort of assault from the outside, a burn, a rotting on the vine, which is a vastly different thing from internally-generated grief.
Of power! said I? yes! such I ween;
But they have vanish'd long, alas! The visions of my youth have been– But let them pass.
Here we get a clue. We get a clue what this guy is really all about, what turns his crank. What he dreamed about as a youth. What he hoped for. Longed for. And it ain't a pretty picture. He argues with himself for a moment, as if somewhat incredulous: Power? Are you sure that's what did it for me? Then (after using the almost supernatural term "vanished" to describe the loss) he dismisses the whole thing, though there are several more stanzas to come.
And, pride, what have I now with thee?
Another brow may even inherit The venom thou hast pour'd on me Be still, my spirit!
Now here's a mysterious couple of lines: "Another brow may even inherit/The venom thou hast pour'd on me". Who is this "other", and is "inherit" to be taken literally? And how can pride - whom I assume he is addressing rhetorically - pour venom on someone? Or perhaps it's the loss of pride? Again, it's the external assault, the snakebite from the bluff. "Be still, my spirit!" may not have been quite as histrionic then as now, but it's still an obvious play for sympathy.
The happiest day–the happiest hour
Mine eyes shall see–have ever seen, The brightest glance of pride and power, I feel–have been:
"The brightest glance of pride and power" - but now we begin to see the vanity at the core. Bright glances, ah, those too must come from the outside - glances of approval, we must assume. Or is the "glance of pride and power" really his own? I can't figure this man out! Whichever it is, it's revealing that this is the thing that made him happiest - a happiness he is certain will never come again.
Or does he not deserve to be happy?
But were that hope of pride and power
Now offer'd with the pain Even then I felt–that brightest hour I would not live again: Now is he really telling us here that, given the chance to relive it, he would turn away the brightest moment of his life? Is this sour grapes - who needs this shit, anyway? - or is he so far into his own self-pity that he actively chooses pain over pleasure? I'd murder the guy, if he weren't already dead.
But he's not saying that at all. He is saying "the HOPE of pride and power" - and a hope isn't the same thing at all, it's just a desire, unfulfilled. Something that was never real to begin with. A fantasy.
And then he tells us - if I'm digging anything real out of this at all - he tells us he wouldn't want to experience that hope again because he KNOWS it would be followed by some awful, shot-sparrow, plummeting despair. This is some sort of definition of soul-destroying melancholia.
For on its wing was dark alloy, And, as it flutter'd–fell An essence–powerful to destroy A soul that knew it well.
I can't help but feel, as this densely-written, enigmatic thing comes to a screeching close, that it's really about the old Biblical warning, "Pride goeth before a fall". Certainly the image of the falling bird (or bat? Ewwwww!) seems to imply that all his lusting and yearning for power and approval will eventually bring about his downfall. I don't quite get the "alloy", which is a sort of metallic reference that does not fit with shot sparrows or ravens or whatever-it-is (though it is a dandy rhyme with "destroy"). Alloy seems to indicate two elements fusing together. Pride and power? Poe and status, perhaps literary status? Is this alloy the "essence" which is so powerful (oops, that's ironic - power IS the problem) to destroy? It's unclear if the alloy is an external element this time, or something inextricably bound up with his own heart. Which would mean that the poet has, in contemporary terms, sold out.
But the kicker is that last line. "A soul that knew it well" - knew what, the shallowness of power trips and pride, of drawing-room debate over which poet has scored the most literary Brownie points (or pale waxen virgins gently expiring on velvet divans)? Has he been playing worldly games all along, and being utterly seduced by them? Is he afraid to re-enter the Eden of his youth, because he knows damned well he'll just be thrown out of there again?
Oh, not another original sin poem! Anything but that!
POST-BLOG NOTE. I was amazed but not surprised, in trying to find tasty images of Poe, that I kept coming up with pictures of John Astin, the actor who portrayed Gomez Addams in The Addams Family. It seems he has played Poe on the Broadway stage, and my goodness, they wouldn't need to put much makeup on him! He's a dead ringer for the man (except too jolly by half). I think Astin must be, oh, God in heaven, 80 years old by now if he's still around, and Poe croaked (so to speak) at 40, so it must have been a long time ago. I will do more research on this fascinating topic once I've had some sleep. Sleeeeeeeeeeep. . . . . . . .)
The Road Not Taken Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth.
Then took the other, as just as fair, And having perhaps the better claim, Because it was grassy and wanted wear; Though as for that the passing there Had worn them really about the same, And both that morning equally lay In leaves no step had trodden black Oh, I kept the first for another day! Yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I - I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.
Quirky little thing, this poem. It's probably
Robert Frost's most famous, largely because of the title of an M. Scott Peck
self-help tome called The Road Less Travelled. In fact, I have seen
people vehemently argue that that's the real title of this poem. On being
corrected, selfsame people seem to want to have it legally changed, as if the
original Frost title makes no sense. It makes no sense.
How did all this get started? It's a chain, as
usual. I was indulging my obsession with all things Oz, particularly the Tin
Man, when a line from a ridiculous old song came to me. I thought it went, "I
couldn't say anything to the Tin Man/That he didn't already know." Looking it
up, as usual, I had remembered it wrong. The line was "Oz never gave nothin' to
the Tin Man/That he didn't already have." The song was by a '70s group called
America, known
for their impenetrable easy listening songs that often seemed to cover a range
of three notes. While looking up Tin Man, I noticed
another song by the same group called Horse with No Name. Oh yes, I
remember that one: talk about monotony! But then that one stirred the
memory of a truly passionate and tender song, Wildfire. And thus a post
was born.
Way leads on to way. If you take another look at the Frost poem, it
isn't at all the way we remember it. The conventional synopsis is, "A guy is
standing there in the woods and the path forks into two. One of the paths is
smooth and straight and well-tended, whereas the other path is grown over with
weeds, rocky and twisted. In a great act of heroism, he decides to take the road
'less travelled by'". Then comes the capper: "And that has made
all the difference."
I probably did not recognize until this very
second that Frost's best-known poem is saturated with irony. That momentous
existential fork in the road isn't at all what we assumed:
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same About the same? He's saying here that the two paths really aren't that much different. It's almost a toss-up which one he'll take. Eeny-meeny, and all that. So his decision to go with. . . OK, that one is really not so momentous.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back. He's saying, OK, I'll take that other path next time I'm back here, but. . . I don't really plan to be back here. Ever.
It's that line "yet knowing how way leads on to way" that grabs however: don't we all realize that, at a certain point in life (maybe age 50)? My process in going from a rusty old tin man to a stunning song/poem about a wild pony happened in steps or stages. Way led on to way.
But this is a pretty trivial example. College leads on to career. Date leads on to marriage. One-night stand leads to accidental conception and a new human being that nobody wants. Body-smoothers lead on to a billion-dollar empire (sorry, I couldn't resist slipping that in). It's as if every decision we make, whether large or small, can divert us from the path, or even cause us to abandon it altogether. Or is it this way? This fellow is bumbling along in the woods, sees two paths that are practically identical, says to himself "OK, that one," then waxes lyrical about how this momentous choice changed his entire life.
So what's he saying? I wonder if it isn't some kind of satire on the Scott Peck idea of taking the heroic path and giving up the conventional. Taking the ultimate risk. Ultimate risk? He already told us that both paths were relatively virgin. Both paths were not particularly worn down, yet not treacherous either. So when Frost concludes "that has made all the difference," is he having us on? Is it a sort of play on the heroic choice: "Look what risks I took in life! I went left instead of right!"
Or maybe he's serious. Left orright can be hazardous; we simply don't know. My own personal philosophy is that anything can happen to anyone at any time. If Frost's outlook had any connection to this sort of belief, then he's saying something that surpasses irony.
The title, The Road Not Taken, always puzzles and even offends people, which is why they seem to think he got it wrong. It might refer to the conventional traveler who rejects the "risky" road, but it could also mean the safe road he rejected. But why use that as the title, when it really isn't about that at all?
But maybe it is. If you actually read the thing, which most people who quote it don't, it becomes clear that it's pretty much all the same to him. The paths are almost indistinguishable. Infuriating, these poets, all that damned ambiguity.
The rest of us mortals have to try to figure all this stuff out. Could it be something as simple as this? Each path is going to have its own hardships, or else be boring and disappointing. Taking one over the other may make a huge difference, or barely any difference at all. If it's a path you've never been on before, you just don't know. Maybe the important thing is to put one foot in front of the other, no matter how leaden or uncertain. Foot, foot, foot. Get going. Now. Move.
