Oh, God, these ads. WHAM-O had this aggressive-sounding whip-crack as its signature sound (like an auditory logo), and their products were so strange and obscure that I just had to post some of them on my channel. I don`t remember Instant Fish or most of the others I`ve run across on YouTube. About all I remember are Frisbees, and I am not even sure WHAM-O originated them. But there are instant gardens, cricket condos, wheelie bars that would probably put you in the hospital, air-blaster thingies that do absolutely nothing. . . The products seem incredibly cheap by today`s standards, and the Instant Fish did not fly as a product and may never have even hit the store shelves. I believe it was an attempted followup to sea monkeys, which in spite of the hype and disappointing reality were actually quite the thing in the early '60s.
To quote the info under my video:
WHAM-O had some of the strangest products in toy history. The INSTANT FISH AQUA-RAMA allowed you to raise REAL FISH from a packet of "magic seeds". This reminds me of the scandal over Sea Monkeys, which were in reality just slimy, stinky brine shrimp that promptly died. After a few WHAM-O whip cracks, we see another ad for the WHAM-O "Fun Farm" (in which you can grow pumpkins in a tiny cup!), featuring the most absurd voice-dubbing I've ever heard.
MORE ABOUT INSTANT FISH! On safari in Africa in the 1960s, someone discovered a species of fish that lays eggs in mud, which dried up during the drought season but later hatched after the ground was soaked in rain. WHAM-O immediately came up with a million-dollar idea: they could sell the dehydrated fish eggs and a cheapie plastic aquarium, creating magical, miraculous INSTANT FISH! When WHAM-O pitched the idea at the New York Toy Fair, they sold every Instant Aquarium they had and walked away with millions in pre-orders. However, there was a snag. The fish they intended on using, an African breed of killfish, couldn’t breed fast enough for them to make the idea economically viable, and INSTANT FISH was. . . well. . . dead in the water.
To celebrate the tenth anniversary of this blog, I'm repeating responses to the post that received the most attention (125,000+ views and almost 100 comments). To my surprise, I am still getting comments on this post, which (hard as it is to believe) I wrote in 2012! Here are some selected comments from the many I received. Some are truly heartfelt and even heartbreaking. I wish to honor them here, but have removed names and identifying marks to maintain their privacy.
A lady I worked with did this. Her baby passed away about two weeks after she was born so the took away all the tunes and wire and she took a picture of her holding her baby. She looked like a beaming proud mommy in the picture. :(
Very informational - I was always thinking that the photos of people standing up and such were mislabeled by unscrupulous antique dealers - Now I see - it was quite a Jim Henson type production to be photographed post mortem. I have just aquired my second post mortem photo & now your page has educated me a bit more - many thanks.
Thank you, Margaret. I spend a lot of time with medical and social work records from the 1st half of the 20th century in China for a Ph.D. dissertation. The stories stick with me in a way I can't quite describe. As medical records, photos are either of living people or parts of their bodies that were removed. The social work narratives live with me, although these people are now gone.
This practice still occurs today - I volunteer for Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep and do infant memorial photography. The pictures are not so disturbing looking, but yes, we photograph babies who have passed so their parents have something to remember of them.
Bless the work you do. I know of several mothers who have unfortunately had to call upon NILMDTS for portraiture of their lost babies and they so treasure those only images they'll ever have of so much promise lost.
IN the old days, I was told, in the South especially, they made these for people who could not travel to attend the funerals, and it allowed closure, as a visitation does. I found photos of my great-great grandparents in my grandmothers' things.
I'm not that old and even my southern grandparents did this.
Regarding the open eyes... Some of the "open eyes" were painted on the lids, and if you look at many of them, like that man standing up by himself (diagram of post mortem stand beneath him) his eyes looks ANYTHING but "normal". The eyes ALL have a very vacant look to them or else they look peculiar (i.e painted on). Thhe subject of these photos facinates me, too... and that bothers me. I have 4 children, aged 2-8 and it IS hard to NOT put yourself in the place of these poor families, when you see these poor children. You catch yourself saying "oh, Lord, if that was one of MY children" then you immediately get disturbed. And of course you are GLAD it isnt one of your own loved ones, but the depth of the subject makes you bond in a heartbreaking way with these people.
Those are myths brought on by the internet and greed. Death was a common occurrence in the Victorian era, and photography was a new concept. It is true the Victorians took post mortem photos, but they certainly didn't consider it morbid to photograph the dead as they were, dead. That is a concept started in more recent times, and gained popularity as the internet gained popularity. The earliest mention I can find is from 2003. They did not stand the dead, sit them upright, paint eyelids or do anything else so the dead appeared alive. A photographer may have altered a photo itself, but not so the dead appeared alive,but in cases where a person may have blinked, etc.VPMP were usually quite obvious with decedent in a bed or coffin surrounded by flowers. Closed eyes do not always mean dead because they often photographed small children as they slept because they were still. MANY pics on the net are labeled pm when they are not pm. Don't you wonder when looking at a photo, why you can't tell who is deceased? Because it isn't a post mortem photo. If you question the validity of a VPMP, 9x out of 10 it is not post mortem. Why do these myths continue? Look up VPMP on Etsy and you'll see why. You'll also notice pics are now labeled "possibly pm" because reports of fraud. Sellers know many believe these myths and are adamant about it, so they need not worry about selling these fake VPMP. They also know many perpetuate these myths, therefore the concept isn't likely to die down any time soon.
As the mother of a stillborn son, I appreciate this discussion. We took pictures of ourselves with our son and treasure those photos greatly, but they can be disturbing to people not comfortable with death, so we keep them in an album rather than in frames. I don't envy their losses, but I do envy Victorians' ability to openly acknowledge their infants' deaths.
We are ushered away from death as if it is some sort of shameful secret. This has been especially true of infant death, where parents are made to feel ashamed of their grief. I worked at a children's hospital about 12 years ago. Cutting a long story short, I was required to photocopy a pathology report for a baby who died not long after birth, and who also had physical deformities. I must have photocopied those photos about 6 times before I was satisfied with the quality. I was very anxious that the parents would be upset seeing their baby (the photos were somewhat unsettling), but I was also concerned that they would also want a clear photo of the baby they had never stopped grieving for. When they met with the counsellor, who warned them they might find the photo upsetting, the mother said how much the baby looked like its father (l don't recall if baby was a boy or a girl). I was so relieved when she told me this. I learnt a lot about the grief of losing a child, and in this particular case, how important that picture was to the parents-they had buried their grief for all those years, and the only concrete thing left was baby's post mortem photo. The photos of the children in this blog post are poignant beyond words, not creepy. It shows a maturity about death that we have lost in the intervening years. I'm sure there are many folks out there who wish they had a picture of their deceased child. The photos are dignified and sensitive and must have been of great emotional value to their bereaved parents and wider family.
You are such a caring person to have taken the time to make sure the photocopies were the best possible quality for the parents. Not many would take the time to do that today. I agree that the photos here are dignified and quite moving, to me at least. The photos of the children are the most heartbreaking. I can understand why parents and other family members would want to have a keepsake of their loved one. I can remember my own grandmother having a photo of a mother holding her recently deceased child, who appeared to be about 10 years old. I was a child when I first saw that photo and I just thought the mother was holding the child awkwardly; I did not realize the child was dead. It was only later on as an adult did I found out the truth about the photo. I do think it is a shame that we are so 'afraid' of death in today's world. It is a natural part of our existence and yet we want to sanitize it with funeral homes and all the modern trappings of a visitation and funeral. Sometimes I think it would be better if we _could_ die in peace at home, surrounded by loved ones and knowing they will be the ones to handle our body.
I think these pictures are beautiful. I know, with our thinking today, they seem creepy... and yeah it could be pretty creepy having pictures of dead people. But these pictures are commemorating a life that once was. A life that was short lived. In that era the death rate was high.. expecially in children. We are lucky enough today to have access to cameras where we can take pictures of our childrens (and other loved ones) every second if we choose. This was not an option then. For most, the post mortem photos was the ONLY picture they had of their loved ones. My heart breaks for all the loss back then. I can't imagine what it would be like to lose a child let alone multiple children over a period of time. I have a picture of my grandmother in her casket. It helped me to gain closure by having that. As it most likely did these people so long ago.
Our society has lost all compassion and been highly desensitized to the fact that death is ALWAYS around the corner.
My nephew was 2 when he died a few weeks ago, and I was by his side every day for the 2 weeks that he was dying. It was very dignified, and I held his hand, kissed him, talked to him the whole time. Even in the hours after he died, when he was cold, it wasn't difficult. Until the funeral. I had to put his shoes on, and I just couldn't do it. The stiffness didn't make it impossible, it just really hit me then. I couldn't imagine the parents of these children having to position them when their bodies were that way...
Not all of the post mortem photos were so easy to spot. Writing a lovely blog about this subject is so titillating when you show only gruesome and creepy dead babies, gives you the impression that the only photographs of post mortem children were the “in your face dead babies and toddlers”. Most post mortem photos are sweet and sad and very respectful, you see a life, not a death. The “in your face dead” was a later transformation as more middle class had access to photography and the abundance of less talented photographers who did not take the time to pose subjects as lifelike as possible. There are subtle hints. I have seen many, many, many post mortem photos, they certainly don't catch the eye as well as the preceding photos. I see so many wonderful examples of post mortem children and so many “Post Mortem????” EBay rip-offs, some wonder what we value anymore. I just don't think there is a definitive answer, some children looked very much alive although they were very much dead. To the contrary not all children with eyes closed or creepy expressions or blank stares are dead, some are just that, really creepy kids. I like to believe in good old fashioned intuition, it's just genetically programed into our subconscious to know when someone is dead and in many photos there are subtle hints, you just have to look.
As a parent who lost a baby to miscarriage...the void carries on. You have certain expectations, they are stifled and cut short before they have a chance to begin. Not having the opportunity to hold my unborn baby, touch its tiny little hands...it leaves no room for closure but a void that lingers. The only "proof" I had that my baby was ever real...the sonogram photo. Even that allows me to know that the pain I still carry was for a reason. It wasn't real to everyone else, but it was certainly real to me. Something as simple as a photo...even a poor one...can become a priceless treasure to anyone experience grief and loss. Thank you for being so sensitive about this post and for sharing the information.
I am a graveyard photographer, and many times I come across graves of children that died so many years ago that their siblings are probably dead too, and that headstone is the only record of their passing. I couldnt make up my mind about these post mortem images initially, but as I read more over the months they began to be less creepy and more of a last impression of that loved one. I think that black and white photography does give them a slightly surreal feel, and I doubt if it would work well in colour. I have a niece in my family that drowned when she was just over 4, and many times I wish there was some record of her in pictures, but alas there is nothing.
My little girl was a preemie (29 weeks) and the last picture of the baby in the parents hands is about the size she was when she was born. You had better believe that had she not made it, we would have had pictures taken of her with us in as normal a way as possible and might have even had our son take pictures with her. I guess because I have had to on several occasions thought of what would happen if my daughter did not make it, that this seems less unusual for me. My thoughts on this are that these are not dead children. These are someone's babies that they had hopes and dreams for and this is their desperate attempt to somehow hold onto those babies just a small while longer. God bless anyone who loses a child.
I understand what you're saying. Our whole culture has become so removed from death that it's seen as an aberration. It's "normal" to die alone in a hospital bed and be immediately cremated. Even wanting to spend some time with the "body" is seen as "creepy" and somehow abnormal and unhealthy, when it was once normal to wash and dress the body for burial as a last act of love. Now we are told over and over again that we must "let go". At best, the stages of grief are assigned to us and we must pass through each of them in order. Memorial services have become "a celebration of his/her life", and while I can see the value in this, sometimes it's like one big party and if you have to cry, you have to leave the room or you will be seen as "negative" and gloomy or unable to "let go". In other words, we're lousy at grief. The Victorians had no such hangups. Death was part of life. I don't think they felt any less agony at the death of a child however. People wore black as a visible sign of mourning, perhaps so others would treat them more gently. Now we slap a smile on and say, boy, he had a great life!
There's a slightly macabre story about the great Welsh poet Dylan Thomas, a man so dissipated he expired from chronic alcoholism in his late 30s. (His last words purportedly were, "I've had eighteen straight whiskeys. I think that's the record.") Lionized in America, he found the seductions of the White Horse pub a little too much for him and keeled over with a brain hemorrhage. His widow Caitlin recalls that when his body was being shipped back to Wales for burial, some of the deckhands noticed his coffin and sat down around it to play a spirited game of poker.
"How Dylan would have loved that!" she exclaimed.
Indeed.
The coffin in the picture above doesn't contain Dylan Thomas. More likely the photo depicts one of those Irish wakes where they like to prop up the body with a drink in its hand and carouse all night long. It does not really qualify as post-mortem photography except in the broadest sense: the subject is someone who is being memorialized in a permanent and significant way.
Before we look at any more of these, let's quote the Great and Powerful Wikipedia:
Post-mortem photography (also known as memorial portraiture or memento mori) is the practice of photographing the recently deceased.
The invention of the daguerreotype in 1839 made portraiture much more commonplace, as many of those who were unable to afford the commission of a painted portrait could afford to sit for a photography session. This cheaper and quicker method also provided the middle class with a means for memorializing dead loved ones.
These photographs served less as a reminder of mortality than as a keepsake to remember the deceased. This was especially common with infants and young children; Victorian era childhood mortality rates were extremely high, and a post-mortem photograph might have been the only image of the child the family ever had. The later invention of the carte de visite, which allowed multiple prints to be made from a single negative, meant that copies of the image could be mailed to relatives.
The practice eventually peaked in popularity around the end of the 19th century and died out as "snapshot" photography became more commonplace, although a few examples of formal memorial portraits were still being produced well into the 20th century.
The earliest post-mortem photographs are usually close-ups of the face or shots of the full body and rarely include the coffin. The subject is usually depicted so as to seem in a deep sleep, or else arranged to appear more lifelike. Children were often shown in repose on a couch or in a crib, sometimes posed with a favorite toy or other plaything. It was not uncommon to photograph very young children with a family member, most frequently the mother. Adults were more commonly posed in chairs or even braced on specially-designed frames. Flowers were also a common prop in post-mortem photography of all types.
The effect of life was sometimes enhanced by either propping the subject's eyes open or painting pupils onto the photographic print, and many early images (especially tintypes and ambrotypes) have a rosy tint added to the cheeks of the corpse.
Later examples show less effort at a lifelike appearance, and often show the subject in a coffin. Some very late examples show the deceased in a coffin with a large group of funeral attendees; this type of photograph was especially popular in Europe and less common in the United States.
I knew nothing of this practice, one which seems so macabre by today's standards, until I stumbled upon it while searching for something else on YouTube. A lot of the videos contained severe warnings about content (so of course I had to look).
And it's true that on the surface of it, the images seem creepy and provoke a visceral response. We're not used to seeing dead people, except perhaps at open-casket funerals. Not used to seeing them arranged like furniture or braced so they could stand up beside their living kin.
But some sites devoted to this strange practice claim (correctly, I think) that post-mortem photography reflects a fascinating and very significant cultural shift in attitudes toward mortality. Death was much closer then, and less sanitized; people died in their beds, were washed and dressed and prepared for burial by loved ones. The camera was magic in those days, a way to paint an instant portrait, but not to be used lightly due to scarcity and cost (i.e. no one owned a camera then; you went to a portrait studio in your best clothing, sat very still, and didn't smile).
The babies are the saddest, of course. Victorian women must have gone through agony in their childbearing years, with primitive or non-existent obstetrics, high mortality rates and a complete absence of birth control. Almost everyone would lose an infant, more likely several. Were people more hardened to loss back then? I doubt it. They had to put their grief somewhere, just as we have to today.
They needed something to hold on to, a memento. Because there were no Kodak moments then, no digital cameras or phones or any of the gadgets with which we so casually snap a picture, there would be no record of Junior's first smile or first steps or first day of school.
The post-mortem photograph, the only existing image of a baby or a child or even an adult, would be cherished and preserved for generations (as witness the thousands of images I found on the internet). I can feel the melancholy behind this gesture, the aching grief in the attempt to make a dead infant appear "lifelike".
These waxen dolls are disturbing, but only if seen through our modern abhorrence of anything to do with death. We die in hospitals now, often alone. Life is prolonged past the point of any real meaning: we do it because we can, which has come to mean that we're supposed to, that there's no other choice. Death is the enemy, to be beaten back as long and fiercely as possible.
People "fight" cancer, "triumph" over it or "lose the battle". The medical community seems embarrassed by it all. Disease isn't supposed to happen, and if it does, it must be vanquished. I don't think the Victorians thought in terms of losing battles, or even winning. The majority of them were deeply Christian, which means they believed the dead were gathered up by the Almighty and transported to a better place for all eternity.
Spiritualism became tremendously popular in this era, along with the belief that the ghosts of loved ones sometimes appeared in photos. And they did, if the photographer knew what he was doing.
The Victorians knew that life and death were separated not by a doorway or a passageway but by a gossamer veil, something the merest breeze could draw aside. These eerie portraits of life-in-death convey a sense of dwelling in that mysterious other world, even while still embodied on earth. It's a bizarre and even repugnant concept to us, but not to them.
I try to imagine it. It's hard to go there, to put myself there. I wonder what it would be like to touch a dead baby, to tenderly position it for a portrait under blazing lights, to hold its likeness close for years and years while other children came and went.
Their haunted eyes seem to stare at us through time, through space, even through the mists of death itself.
BLOGGER'S NOTE. Many of these photos have been blogged and reblogged, pinned and repinned so many times that it was impossible for me to discover their true provenance, which fills me with regret. There was a time when these pictures were incalculably precious to someone and, in fact, irreplaceable. Try to see them in that light.
NOTE: This is a repeat of one of my very first posts, circa 2012 - all of TEN years ago. It received more than 125,500 views and nearly 100 comments (which I am still getting today!). Only a few of my posts ever garnered this kind of response (and the Korean Crow-tit one was, for some reason, both popular and contentious, as people argued back and forth about WHAT BIRD it really was!) I may repeat that one, as well as some of the comments on the post-mortem one. The topic has since become very popular, but also very contentious, as many of the photos have turned out NOT to be post-mortem at all, but just the odd, stiff way early photography was taken, in which people could not even blink.
The only thing more gratifying than collecting trolls is displaying trolls on my YouTube channel. This has become an aesthetic exercise for me, which I share on a modest level with others (meaning not that many views - but the way I see it, if ONE person watches it, it's one more than if I HADN'T posted it). I've had a number of comments from people admiring my collection, which is gratifying as well. It has become an organizing activity in my life as well as a compulsively enjoyable one.
My channel has burgeoned to nearly 13,000 subscribers in the past few months, due to ONE silly video which, for reasons I never counted on, blew up to over SEVEN MILLION views. All due to the algorithm and a similar video on Tik-Tok, which I was barely aware of over a year ago when I first posted it. It`s oh-so-typical of the capriciousness of the internet that the video I just threw together in five minutes went that ``big``, whereas one like this - which took a lot of troll arrangement, fancy camera work, several retakes, and finding a compatible audio track - gets just a handful. But it was ever thus! At one point in my life, in fact at many points in my life, I wanted to be famous, or thought I did. Now I think perhaps I was spared. Famous people now strike me as perhaps the single most miserable group of human beings in existence. Maybe it`s just more wholesome and even safer to do what you want to do, and if someone sees your creation, enjoys it, or even wants to see another one, then that`s an added blessing.
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. It was about dusk, one evening during the supreme madness of the carnival season, that I encountered my friend. He accosted me with excessive warmth, for he had been drinking much. The man wore motley. He had on a tight-fitting parti-striped dress and his head was surmounted by the conical cap and bells. I was so pleased to see him, that I thought I should never have done wringing his hand.
I said to him -- "My dear Fortunato, you are luckily met. How remarkably well you are looking to-day! But I have received a pipe of what passes for Amontillado, and I have my doubts."
"How?" said he, "Amontillado? A pipe? Impossible ? And in the middle of the carnival?"
"I have my doubts," I replied; "and I was silly enough to pay the full Amontillado price without consulting you in the matter. You were not to be found, and I was fearful of losing a bargain."
"Amontillado!"
"I have my doubts."
"Amontillado!"
"And I must satisfy them."
"Amontillado!"
"As you are engaged, I am on my way to Luchesi. If any one has a critical turn, it is he. He will tell me" --
"Luchesi cannot tell Amontillado from Sherry."
"And yet some fools will have it that his taste is a match for your own."
"Come let us go."
"Whither?"
"To your vaults."
"My friend, no; I will not impose upon your good nature. I perceive you have an engagement Luchesi" --
"I have no engagement; come."
"My friend, no. It is not the engagement, but the severe cold with which I perceive you are afflicted . The vaults are insufferably damp. They are encrusted with nitre."
"Let us go, nevertheless. The cold is merely nothing. Amontillado! You have been imposed upon; and as for Luchesi, he cannot distinguish Sherry from Amontillado."
Thus speaking, Fortunato possessed himself of my arm. Putting on a mask of black silk and drawing a roquelaire closely about my person, I suffered him to hurry me to my palazzo.
There were no attendants at home; they had absconded to make merry in honour of the time. I had told them that I should not return until the morning and had given them explicit orders not to stir from the house. These orders were sufficient, I well knew, to insure their immediate disappearance , one and all, as soon as my back was turned.
I took from their sconces two flambeaux, and giving one to Fortunato bowed him through several suites of rooms to the archway that led into the vaults. I passed down a long and winding staircase, requesting him to be cautious as he followed. We came at length to the foot of the descent, and stood together on the damp ground of the catacombs of the Montresors.
The gait of my friend was unsteady, and the bells upon his cap jingled as he strode.
"The pipe," said he.
"It is farther on," said I; "but observe the white webwork which gleams from these cavern walls."
He turned towards me and looked into my eyes with two filmy orbs that distilled the rheum of intoxication .
"Nitre?" he asked, at length
"Nitre," I replied. "How long have you had that cough!"
My poor friend found it impossible to reply for many minutes.
"It is nothing," he said, at last.
"Come," I said, with decision, we will go back; your health is precious. You are rich, respected, admired, beloved; you are happy as once I was. You are a man to be missed. For me it is no matter. We will go back; you will be ill and I cannot be responsible. Besides, there is Luchesi" --
"Enough," he said; "the cough is a mere nothing; it will not kill me. I shall not die of a cough." "True -- true," I replied; "and, indeed, I had no intention of alarming you unnecessarily -- but you should use all proper caution. A draught of this Medoc will defend us from the damps."
Here I knocked off the neck of a bottle which I drew from a long row of its fellows that lay upon the mould.
"Drink," I said, presenting him the wine.
He raised it to his lips with a leer. He paused and nodded to me familiarly, while his bells jingled.
"I drink," he said, "to the buried that repose around us."
"And I to your long life."
He again took my arm and we proceeded.
"These vaults," he said, are extensive."
"The Montresors," I replied, "were a great numerous family."
"I forget your arms."
"A huge human foot d'or, in a field azure; the foot crushes a serpent rampant whose fangs are embedded in the heel."
"And the motto?"
"Nemo me impune lacessit."
"Good!" he said.
The wine sparkled in his eyes and the bells jingled. My own fancy grew warm with the Medoc. We had passed through walls of piled bones, with casks and puncheons intermingling, into the inmost recesses of the catacombs. I paused again, and this time I made bold to seize Fortunato by an arm above the elbow.
"The nitre!" I said: see it increases. It hangs like moss upon the vaults. We are below the river's bed. The drops of moisture trickle among the bones. Come, we will go back ere it is too late. Your cough" --
"It is nothing" he said; "let us go on. But first, another draught of the Medoc."
I broke and reached him a flagon of De Grave. He emptied it at a breath. His eyes flashed with a fierce light. He laughed and threw the bottle upwards with a gesticulation I did not understand.
I looked at him in surprise. He repeated the movement -- a grotesque one.
"You do not comprehend?" he said.
"Not I," I replied.
"Then you are not of the brotherhood."
"How?"
"You are not of the masons."
"Yes, yes," I said "yes! yes."
"You? Impossible! A mason?"
"A mason," I replied.
"A sign," he said.
"It is this," I answered, producing a trowel from beneath the folds of my roquelaire.
"You jest," he exclaimed, recoiling a few paces. "But let us proceed to the Amontillado."
"Be it so," I said, replacing the tool beneath the cloak, and again offering him my arm. He leaned upon it heavily. We continued our route in search of the Amontillado. We passed through a range of low arches, descended, passed on, and descending again, arrived at a deep crypt, in which the foulness of the air caused our flambeaux rather to glow than flame.
At the most remote end of the crypt there appeared another less spacious. Its walls had been lined with human remains piled to the vault overhead , in the fashion of the great catacombs of Paris. Three sides of this interior crypt were still ornamented in this manner. From the fourth the bones had been thrown down, and lay promiscuously upon the earth, forming at one point a mound of some size. Within the wall thus exposed by the displacing of the bones, we perceived a still interior recess, in depth about four feet, in width three, in height six or seven. It seemed to have been constructed for no especial use in itself, but formed merely the interval between two of the colossal supports of the roof of the catacombs, and was backed by one of their circumscribing walls of solid granite. It was in vain that Fortunato, uplifting his dull torch, endeavoured to pry into the depths of the recess. Its termination the feeble light did not enable us to see.
"Proceed," I said; "herein is the Amontillado. As for Luchesi" --
"He is an ignoramus," interrupted my friend, as he stepped unsteadily forward, while I followed immediately at his heels. In an instant he had reached the extremity of the niche, and finding his progress arrested by the rock, stood stupidly bewildered . A moment more and I had fettered him to the granite. In its surface were two iron staples, distant from each other about two feet, horizontally. From one of these depended a short chain. from the other a padlock. Throwing the links about his waist, it was but the work of a few seconds to secure it. He was too much astounded to resist . Withdrawing the key I stepped back from the recess.
"Pass your hand," I said, "over the wall; you cannot help feeling the nitre. Indeed it is VERY damp. Once more let me IMPLORE you to return. No? Then I must positively leave you. But I must first render you all the little attentions in my power."
"The Amontillado!" ejaculated my friend, not yet recovered from his astonishment.
"True," I replied; "the Amontillado."
As I said these words I busied myself among the pile of bones of which I have before spoken. Throwing them aside, I soon uncovered a quantity of building stone and mortar. With these materials and with the aid of my trowel, I began vigorously to wall up the entrance of the niche.
I had scarcely laid the first tier of my masonry when I discovered that the intoxication of Fortunato had in a great measure worn off. The earliest indication I had of this was a low moaning cry from the depth of the recess. It was NOT the cry of a drunken man. There was then a long and obstinate silence. I laid the second tier, and the third, and the fourth; and then I heard the furious vibrations of the chain. The noise lasted for several minutes, during which, that I might hearken to it with the more satisfaction, I ceased my labours and sat down upon the bones. When at last the clanking subsided , I resumed the trowel, and finished without interruption the fifth, the sixth, and the seventh tier. The wall was now nearly upon a level with my breast. I again paused, and holding the flambeaux over the mason-work, threw a few feeble rays upon the figure within.
A succession of loud and shrill screams, bursting suddenly from the throat of the chained form, seemed to thrust me violently back. For a brief moment I hesitated -- I trembled. Unsheathing my rapier, I began to grope with it about the recess; but the thought of an instant reassured me. I placed my hand upon the solid fabric of the catacombs , and felt satisfied. I reapproached the wall. I replied to the yells of him who clamoured. I reechoed -- I aided -- I surpassed them in volume and in strength. I did this, and the clamourer grew still.
It was now midnight, and my task was drawing to a close. I had completed the eighth, the ninth, and the tenth tier. I had finished a portion of the last and the eleventh; there remained but a single stone to be fitted and plastered in. I struggled with its weight; I placed it partially in its destined position. But now there came from out the niche a low laugh that erected the hairs upon my head. It was succeeded by a sad voice, which I had difficulty in recognising as that of the noble Fortunato. The voice said --
"Ha! ha! ha! -- he! he! -- a very good joke indeed -- an excellent jest. We will have many a rich laugh about it at the palazzo -- he! he! he! -- over our wine -- he! he! he!"
"The Amontillado!" I said.
"He! he! he! -- he! he! he! -- yes, the Amontillado . But is it not getting late? Will not they be awaiting us at the palazzo, the Lady Fortunato and the rest? Let us be gone."
"Yes," I said "let us be gone."
"FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, MONTRESOR!"
"Yes," I said, "for the love of God!"
But to these words I hearkened in vain for a reply. I grew impatient. I called aloud --
"Fortunato!"
No answer. I called again --
"Fortunato!"
No answer still. I thrust a torch through the remaining aperture and let it fall within. There came forth in return only a jingling of the bells. My heart grew sick -- on account of the dampness of the catacombs. I hastened to make an end of my labour. I forced the last stone into its position; I plastered it up. Against the new masonry I reerected the old rampart of bones. For the half of a century no mortal has disturbed them.
(In my recent quest to find a decent or even a complete biography of Poe, I was disappointed - twice. I was upset enough to do something I would not normally do - write and post a book review, FOR FREE. For, no matter what people assume, I was paid for my reviewing, and had a modest but steady income as a writer for more than thirty years. In this case, I was upset and disappointed enough to post a couple of freebies on Amazon.)
The Reason for the Darkness of the Night: Edgar Allan Poe and the Forging of American Science
This is NOT a true biography of Poe at all, only a dull synopsis of his life events and some of his stories (with spoilers galore for people who have not read them all). The author strains to connect Poe to "science" (a tenuous connection at best), and recounts in page after page the “discoveries” of lesser scientists, one of whom made “astonishing” discoveries that it turned out had ALREADY been discovered a year earlier by someone else!
He forces his thesis into the narrative like someone trying to make a jigsaw puzzle with pieces that do not fit. Finally it became so tedious that I told myself I'd skip any passages that WEREN'T about Poe, and several times had to skip four or five or SIX pages, as it turned out Poe had no connection to these "scientists" and their amazing "discoveries" at all. At one point he is commissioned to write a textbook about shells, and a few people read it and he made all of $50.00.
But the narrative stops and starts, derailed by all these long science detours, and the writing style is unengaging – I’ve read textbooks which were more interesting than this. And after reading it, I still know virtually nothing about Poe and his life, relationships, and the inner man. When he marries his 13-year-old first cousin (and she takes up maybe one small paragraph, then drops out of sight), his only remark is that since other biographers have commented on it extensively, he will not (!!). So he is also lazy, letting other biographers write the material for him, quoting their ideas as if they are gospel truth - meaning he has nothing new to bring to the table.
In between the long drones about science, he will drop things such as that he and his aunt and wife are starving to death and living on bread and molasses, even though he always seems to be gainfully employed. I was never clear as to how this money was drained away, and there was no enlightenment to be found here. Wasn't he a compulsive gambler? I'm not sure, because it isn't mentioned here at all! But not only was he gainfully employed virtually all his adult life, he was employed in his own field as a literary critic and editor of his own magazine.
Thus he was quite well-known and even well-respected as an author, a poet and a literary critic: a very fortunate situation for someone living on bread and molasses! His interest in “science” was peripheral at best, and largely in the realm of the speculative and the mystical, actually running counter to real science. I can’t return it, though I tried to, because – the “window of return is closed” – which I have never seen before! Means I can’t unload it and get my $25-some back.
This is NOT about Poe, and we have no sense at all of the man, his convoluted relationships, or why he was so chronically destitute. I read in a review about an early engagement to a woman, which I had to look up in the index because I did not remember even seeing it, and found, once again, her name mentioned exactly twice, with NO EXPLANATION and nothing at all about their romance. Period. So I am shelving it, but only because I can’t return it.
Edgar A. Poe: Mournful and Never-Ending Remembrance
This is the SECOND time I've been disappointed by a Poe biography. The first one (The Reason for the Darkness of the Night) tried to tie him to the scientific discoveries of his time - and didn't, because there was no real connection. Silverman's bio is detailed to the point of agony, but mostly recounts in microscopic detail his work as a magazine writer, editor and critic, which he seems to think took up far more of his time and energy than writing his famous tales and poems.
But what was truly dismaying was the fact I just could not get a good sense of Poe the man. His life could be as creepy and disturbing as his stories, in that he married a blood relative who was basically a little girl, lived with his aunt who comes across as unpaid help, and was a shameless opportunist and even a hypocrite, savagely criticizing the noted authors of the day, then sucking up to those same authors for writing opportunities and even money.
The fact that Poe was constantly broke is also baffling: surely he was gainfully employed through most of his life, and in his own field of literature - so where did all the money go? Silverman does not explain it. His mental illness and alcoholism were tremendous obstacles, though Silverman does not get around to writing about them in detail until about mid-book.
The main fault of this bio is that he spends too little time on Poe's complex, contradictory personality, his spirituality, his sexuality, and all those deeper traits that make a biographical subject come alive. Poe worked, drank, and swindled people, often plagiarizing writers while railing against OTHER writers who did the same thing. After all this, I find there really isn't much that I like about Poe, but I am reading this mainly as a biographical introduction to a massive tome I bought featuring all his tales and poems.
I have read enough Poe to realize he was brilliant, subtle, mercurial, sly, and undoubtedly a genius - in his work. As a person, he was pretty dreadful. Though his life was cut short, It truly amazes me he managed to live for forty years. It's hard to determine just what Silverman thought of his subject, and by mid-book I got the distinct impression he wished he hadn't committed himself to writing this. The hard-slog feeling is difficult to push past, and the sense of "homework assignment" gives the narrative a labored quality.
Worst of all, his writing style is so ponderous that I often had to go back and read sentences twice to figure out just what he meant. "Where's the verb?" This should NEVER happen in ANY book! Do anything, but don't bore or confuse me. Overall, it's a doorstop, and has helped me get to sleep on many a midnight dreary, which I hope I will not be able to say about Poe's complete works when I finally get to them.
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.
I will confess right now that I don't know a lot of Poe's poe-etry, 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 devil 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. Even his biographers don't know for sure, and the secret died with him. 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 dark and 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 he dreamed about as a youth. What he hoped for. Longed for. And it's not 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? 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, anyway? - or is he so far into his own self-pity that he actively chooses pain over pleasure?
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 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 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, 90 years old by now if he's still around, and Poe expired at 40. His Gomez was so wacky and vibrant that it's hard to imagine he could plumb such scary depths. But the resemblance goes far beyond his physical appearance. There's something haunted and hunted in those sad and weary eyes.
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 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.
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,
"'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 mortal 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 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; –
'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 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."
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 blest 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 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."
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.'"
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 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 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 lamp-light gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!
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."
"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."
"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."
"Be that word our sign in 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."
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!
THE AFTERMATH. Never explain yourself! says the poet. All right then, I will. My dalliance with Poe is an ongoing, or at least recurrent thing, and who knows if it will lead to any conclusions. I certainly will NOT be writing any books about him. I have found a superb site hosted by the Poe Society of Baltimore (I have provided a link at the end of this post), and I hope to creep and crawl around in it in the coming days. It has simply everything - remarkably complete, even down to what his voice sounded like ("melodious", as poets' voices were often described, with a touch of Southern accent, the kind we hear in the polished and well-moneyed. And in spite of dire poverty, he always affected a slightly shabby gentility.)
But this is my Poe moment. Having strung together a crazy assortment of subconscious images (and some people are SO annoyed at the lack of one-on-one or sequential significance to these, as I prefer to dredge them up from the depths of the Land of Odd), yes, yes, having done ALL that - yes, done all that - well - well - I bought a cask of amontillado, and. . . and. . . Actually, I went for a walk. Sasamat Lake, a gorgeous place where I love walking, because the winding trail is right up against the shore, so close you can almost dip your toe in. There's a white sandy beach, and breeze, and many geese with goslings (we counted 18 babies last time, and by now they were almost as big as chickens and looking weirdly ostrichlike). We were delighted to see them promenade again, the adults with stiff necks and nodding heads which seemed to say, eloquently, "Get lost, you humans, you're bothering me."
But it wasn't that. Wasn't. That. At all. When we arrived, just as we walked toward the white sands, we heard a - squawk. An - AWWKK.
An -AWWWHHKKK!
This was a primal, even prehistoric sound, and soon it was joined by another voice even more evil and squawky, and then a third, and a fourth, and - God, how many were there? "Ravens," I said to Bill. "It's ravens, and they're completely insane." These ravens, at least four of them, or perhaps five or six, or even more, were not happy campers. The croaky squawks just escalated in frequency and volume until I thought I was in a Hitchcock movie. The resonance of their croaky Nevermore-ish throats just richochets and bounces off trees and rocks. This couldn't have been a good situation. Were they defending their territory? Nesting? Just plain ticked off? I could see them wheeling in the sky, looking vaguely vulturelike above the treetops, while some of them hunched blackly in the branches.
The squawking and awwhhk-ing went on and on, until we outwalked it on the trail. Still there was an echo behind us, crows on steroids, murderous birds whose deep-throated squawks made crow-cawing seem melodious. I had the thought: a murder of crows, yes, but ravens - ? At any rate, in light of my Poe-ish mood, it did seem like serendipity, or at least synchronicity, if only of a darkish shade. I have not had time nor energy to analyze The Raven - God, what an undertaking, if I may use such an expression! And I hear there are Poe scholars who make it their life's work to sift out the meaning of all this macabre stuff. But I did notice some dark humor in it, lines that others don't seem to have noticed (humor? In Poe?).
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; –
'Tis the wind and nothing more!"
To me, this verse, if not ALL the verses, has the feeling of a black ditty, a rhyme and rhythm scheme that is almost fun. "Surely THAT is. . . at my window LATT-ice. . . what there-AT is. . ." He's having us on here, and he knows it. It sounds like a patter song from Gilbert and Sullivan, perhaps "I am the very model of a modern Major-General". And thinking the bird's name is Nevermore - why, that's nothing but an early version of "who's on second, what's on third"!
Surely Poe was one of the strangest men, who wrote one of the strangest poems, at the strangest time. For The Raven, which ran in an American newspaper, he was paid $17.00, not enough to keep him in amontillado for a week. Sometimes he was destitute enough to break up and burn his chairs for warmth in the winter - can't you see it? Poe always having to stand up? No wonder he looked so desperate!
But for him, this crow on steroids is an appropriate companion. The ideal Poe pet. AWKKKKHH!
*Collective nouns for the corvids varies.
A parliament of ravens is a reference to the robes the members of British parliament wear.
An unkindness of ravens is another collective used because the birds are known to taunt and torment other predators. They will work together to steal prey and drive off raptors or dogs in the raven's territory. As in Poe's poem, ravens have an ominous image
A constable of ravens is what the roosting birds that live in the Tower of London are called.
A conspiracy of ravens refers to their low rough group muttering. Ravens have a range of vocalizations that sound like undecipherable talk.
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