Edgar Allan Poe @ MindSay

Here I sit in the dark, just me and my laptop. There is not a sound to be heard on this night – no traffic up and down the street, no sound of the neighborhood animals, no sounds of humans to break the silence. So here I sit in the dark telling my tale in an almost unnatural darkness that has enveloped the house and the world that surrounds it...

To my left a candle flickers so that I have enough light to tell the tale of this night. I can imagine myself being a scribe in a monastery in some far off corner of a kingdom that has long ago ceased to exist. And here I sit transcribing some ancient document that I have completely memorized from the many times that I have done so during my lifetime. Every word is a story unto itself, every punctuation an insect scurrying across the words, every paragraph a cliff to peer from off into the distance, every page another life to live. And so I have gone medieval upon my laptop...

And a sound cuts through the silence and reminds me that there is still life beyond these castle walls. At first the sound is hard to recognize - so distant and so faint. It grows slowly, coming closer and closer. And then I recognize the sound for I have heard it so many times before. It is the roar of a dragon as it flies over the countryside in search of treasure or food or quite possibly both. I sit careful to not make a sound so that it doesn't mistake me for a midnight snack and I pray that this castle isn't inviting enough for it to steal my wealth. After a few tense moments, the dragon is gone; and this little far-off corner of the kingdom is again returned to silence...

I and I lone am brave enough to conquer this unnatural darkness that has descended upon this realm. It is I who is brave enough to stand before the Armies of Darkness and force them to yield to my will. It is I who must defend this castle and all who may have taken refuge within from the horrors that hide within the darkness. It is I who shall survive this onslaught and tell the tale so all the world may know what abominations dwell within the cover of night and that devour the weak and helpless...

And so it is as I await the return of electricity in this far-off corner of this kingdom...

Na The Murders in the Rue Morgue is dit het tweede verhaal waarin Poe Auguste Dupin opvoert als speurder. Dupin blijkt een aanhanger te zijn van de school waartoe ook Hercule Poirot beweert te behoren: alleen denkwerk, geen voetenwerk. Het verhaal bestaat uit een aantal krantenfragmenten waarin de mysterieuze verdwijning van Marie Roget wordt beschreven en de vondst van een dood meisje in de rivier dat Marie zou kunnen zijn -- of niet. Dupin weerlegt de verschillende argumenten en komt uiteindelijk tot zijn eigen conclusie.

'And what,' I here demanded, 'do you think of the opinions of Le Commerciel?'
'That, in spirit, they are far more worthy of attention than any which have been promulgated upon the subject. The deductions from the premises are philosophical and acute; but the premises, in two instances at least, are founded in imperfect observation. Le Commerciel wishes to intimate that Marie was seized by some gang of low ruffians not far from her mother's door. "It is impossible," it urges, "that a person so well known to thousands as this young woman was, should have passed three blocks without someone having seen her." This is the idea of a man long resident in Paris -- a public man -- and one whose walks to and fro in the city have been mostly limited to the vicinity of the public offices. He is aware that he seldom passes so far as a dozen blocks from his own bureau, without being recognized and accosted. And, knowing the extent of his personal acquaintance with others, and of other with him, he compares his notoriety with that of the perfumery girld, finds no great difference between them, and reaches at once the conclusion that she, in her walks, would be equally liable to recognition with himself in his. This could only be the case were her walks of the same unvarying, methodical character, and within the same species of limited region as are his own.

Na The Dante Club is dit Pearl's tweede historisch-literaire detective. The Dante Club was wat spannender, omdat de speurders daar de aanwijzingen moesten ontraadselen om volgende moorden te voorkomen. In dit boek speelt het verhaal alleen met terugwerkende kracht. Quentin Clark, een jonge advocaat in Baltimore halverwege de 19e eeuw, en een groot liefhebber van het werk van Poe, is ontsteld als hij verneemt dat Poe in eenzaamheid en onder merkwaardige omstandigheden is overleden. In die tijd wordt het werk van Poe nog niet allom gewaardeerd en de vreemde gebeurtenissen rond zijn dood, voeden negatieve roddels over Poe in de kranten. Clark neemt zich voor om uit te zoeken wat er is gebeurd en er zo voor te zorgen dat Poe de eer krijgt die hij verdient. Maar de mensen in zijn omgeving -- zijn zakenpartner, zijn verloofde -- begrijpen hem niet. Hij reist zelfs af naar Parijs om de persoon te vinden op wie Poe zijn scherpzinnige speurder Auguste Dupin heeft gebaseerd, in de hoop dat die hem kan helpen.

'Ik ben ervan overtuigd dat we onze overeenkomst nu officieel kunnen maken, broeder Quentin,' zei de baron, en met die woorden trok hij me uit mijn betovering. Hij vouwde mijn brieven open en liet ze aan me zien.
'Overeenkomst?'
Hij strafte me met een teleurgestelde blik. 'Monsieur. De overeenkomst die ervoor zal zorgen dat we samen het mysterie rond de dood van Edgar Poe zullen oplossen!'
De kracht van de aankondiging maakte bijna dat ik vergat waarom dat onmogelijk was. 'Er is een vergissing in het spel,' zei ik. 'Ik vrees dat u niet het model voor Poe's verhalen over Dupin bent, zoals ik dat ooit heb gesuggereerd. Ik heb het echte voorbeeld gevonden: Auguste Duponte. Hebt u mijn laatste brief gelezen?'

Het blijkt dat de omstandigheden van Poe's dood inderdaad raadselachtig zijn, en in de kern overeenkomen met de uitgangspunten in dit boek, en dat er in de loop van de geschiedenis al allerlei theorieën zijn ontwikkeld om die te verklaren. Ook interessant dat in dit boek de connectie tussen de VS en het Frankrijk van de revolutie en Napoleon wordt belicht.

Jeffery Combs has a hard time with pussy as Edgar A. Poe in the Masters of Horror episode...

THE BLACK CAT

Ever wondered how crazy Poe was?  Ever wonder if it was all the drinking he did that inspired his genius?  Or was it the untimely death of his young wife (his first cousin whom he called "Sissy" bringing up all sorts of creepy by today's standards) by consumption that changed him into the master of macabre we know him to be?  Well, the Masters of Horror guys bring up the idea that it was all due to the black cat Virginia "Sissy" Poe doted on that drove Edgar over the edge.  No matter how many times he thinks he's got that pussy under control, it just keeps coming back to make a demon out of him.  While watching this I couldn't ignore the sexual connotations -- Poe struggling to have sex with his wife but big, black puss gets in his way, hissing, glaring, and he just can't take it.  He can't get at the kitty, so he drinks while wifey Virginia spits up blood all over the place.  Hello, MENSES! Hello, I'm afraid of the vagina!  Jeez.  At least the Masters of Horror people broke away from season 2's political themes to finally get down and dirty with a dreary tale of Poe woe. 

 

Forget what Poe's true biography was, this tale has nothing realistically to do with him.  It is pure despair fantasy pricking you with a cat's claw on your ankles.  Plenty of gore and eye pricking nastiness to make you look away and hug your pillow, too.  While watching you can't help but feel for the cat.  The title says it all.  It's not about Poe.  It's all about the cat.  Go rent it.  Go buy it.  Watch it with your cat.  I rest my case.

 

Gloomy the Cat gives this one two paws up and a scratch!   

 

Sorry, I must have experienced a mighty vestige of lunacy previously. I need to regain my sanity, urgently. No longer can I let this go on; I need to remind myself of some things that matter.

Yes, depression. Of all things I get depressed over -the oddest would be getting depressed over depression; my sudden lack of control. If I do not stop this, I would probably end up like Edgar Alan Poe, whoose literary works are exemplary by the way.

Calmer now, but I wonder if my sanity has transcended my mind.