Do you want to play a game? |
| By Filthy cat (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons |
One of my goals for 2014 was that I read more. Another, longer-standing, goal is that I honor the spirit of one of my fave writers, Edgar A. Poe, on his birthday every January 19. To satisfy both aims, I chose to make this January, which marks Poe's 205th year, an all-Poe reading month. First on the list was The Unknown Poe: an anthology of fugitive writings by Edgar Allan Poe, with appreciations by Charles BAUDELAIRE, Stéphane MALLARMÉ, Paul VALÉRY, J.K. HUYSMANS & André BRETON, edited by Raymond FOYE. (Bit of a mouthful, that, eh?)If any ambitious man have a fancy to revolutionize, at one effort, the universal world of human thought, human opinion, and human sentiment, the opportunity is his own — the road to immortal renown lies straight, open, and unencumbered before him. All that he has to do is to write and publish a very little book. Its title should be simple — a few plain words — ”My Heart Laid Bare.” But — this little book must be true to its title.Numerous questions flooded my mind and I closed the book to ponder these words as my commuter train rumbled its speedy way north of Manhattan. Why would the paper blaze? Why would the pen catch fire? Is it because of the flaming rage which would have to grip an author for her to be capable of laying her heart bare to the world?
Now, is it not very singular that, with the rabid thirst for notoriety which distinguishes so many of mankind — so many, too, who care not a fig what is thought of them after death, there should not be found one man having sufficient hardihood to write this little book? To write, I say. There are ten thousand men who, if the book were once written, would laugh at the notion of being disturbed by its publication during their life, and who could not even conceive why they should object to its being published after their death. But to write it — there is the rub. No man dare write it. No man ever will dare write it. No man could write it, even if he dared. The paper would shrivel and blaze at every touch of the fiery pen. (Text: Edgar Allan Poe, “Marginalia [part X],” Graham’s Magazine, January 1848, pp. 23-24.)
...many...bear the word Luckless written in mysterious characters in the sinuous folds of their foreheads. The blind angel of Expiation hovers for ever around them, punishing them with rods for the edification of others. It is in vain that their lives exhibit talents, virtues or graces. Society has for them a special anathema, accusing them even of those infirmities which its own persecutions have generated...Does there, then, exist some diabolic Providence which prepares misery from the cradle; which throws, and throws with premeditation, these spiritual and angelic natures into hostile ranks, as martyrs were once hurled into the arena? Can there, then, be holy souls destined to the sacrificial altar, compelled to march to death and glory across the very ruins of their lives! Will the nightmare of gloom eternally besiege these chosen souls? Vainly they may struggle, vainly conform themselves to the world, to its foresight, to its cunning; let them grow perfect in prudence, batten up every entry, nail down every window, against the shafts of Fate; still the Demon will enter by a key-hole; some fault will arise from the very perfection of their breastplate; some superlative quality will be the germ of their damnation...(Text: C. Baudelaire [trans. H. Curwen], “Edgar Allan Poe: His Life and Works,” The Works of Edgar Allan Poe, London: John Camden Hotten, 1873, pp. 1-21)Will the nightmare of gloom eternally besiege these chosen souls? A fine question, Charles. Perhaps you and Eddy have discovered the answer(s) lying beyond the veil. If so, some slight hint would not go amiss, whether by the encounter of some night-clad bird or slinky cat, or a flower wafting across my path. Is "surcease of sorrow" ever to be gained, in this lifetime? Or is the best which can be hoped for solely surcease of all earthly sensation?
