Nothing too scary
My wife and I love Halloween. Each year,
we count down the days until we can get close enough to October to decently
begin the transformation of Gunnels Manse into a chamber of mild-mannered horrors.
I began cruising the craft stores in
mid-August to survey the holiday merchandise with an eye to updating and
expanding our Halloween décor. I ordered new orange lights for the outside,
purchased materials for a new wreath on the front door and secured spray paint
to spruce up the giant jack-o’-lantern that is the centerpiece of our
front-yard display.
But it’s the harmless kind of crazy that
fits rather nicely into the ethos of Halloween. Nothing too serious. Nothing
too scary. A nod to the frightening nature of the world, but with an innocent
overlay of good-natured fun.
When Marice and I had kids, we started
them early on their Halloween adventure. My daughter, who was just over 4
months old on her first Halloween, was adorable as a tiny pumpkin. At 3, my son
rocked as a not-so-scary clown. He loved the white makeup and insisted on
applying it himself. Come to think of it, that was pretty scary.
An excuse to party
Today, they’re fairly blasé about the
holiday and view it mostly as an excuse to party. But lurking in their
sub-conscious is the seed of Halloween ardor planted in their brains by their
mother and me when they were small. It will flower, according to my evil plan,
when they have children of their own. That’s when they will become Halloween
cultists like their parents.
While on my Halloween prowl through
Michaels, Kirkland’s and Hobby Lobby this year, I came across a mounted wooden carving
of a raven. It looks great on my mantel.
It got me to thinking about one of my
favorite poems and its author, a man associated with the macabre and mysterious
and one who has become a staple of Halloween.
Edgar Allan Poe published “The Raven” in
1845, and it immediately made him famous. Famous but not rich. He was paid $9
for his effort, which barely made a dent in his mounting debts. Denied
financial security, he gained immortality instead.
A brilliant but tortured artist, Poe created
the detective story with his atmospheric “Murders in the Rue Morgue” and “The
Gold-Bug.” He’s often associated with Halloween because of morbid, disturbing stories
like “Fall of the House of Usher,” “The Pit and the Pendulum,” “The Tell-Tale
Heart,” “Masque of the Red Death” and “The Premature Burial.”
If some of these titles seem familiar,
it’s because Hollywood crafted them into low-budget horror films. As Halloween
nears, they’re already appearing on Turner Movie Classics and other late-night
TV venues.
Durability of sorrow
And then there’s “The Raven,” a poem
taught in most high school English classes at one point or another. On the
surface, it’s about a lonely, unhappy scholar visited late one winter night by
a raven with a limited vocabulary. It’s left to the reader to decide if the “nevermore”-spouting
bird is a messenger from the Devil, a figment of the man’s imagination or a
metaphoric representation of his longing for the lost Lenore.
What it’s really about, I think, is the
durability of sorrow and its corrosive power to overwhelm and ruin us. “The
Raven” is taught in school because of Poe’s masterful use of language to
provoke a mood of melacholy and dread and for his skillful internal rhyming.
Critics either adore it or loathe it.
I love it. Occasionally, I’ll pull out my
copy of Poe’s collected works and read it aloud. Just to hear the sound of the
words as they flow together into a moody, oppressive dirge. I once read it to
my kids on Halloween, a performance so memorable that neither recalls it today.
Poe’s
death in 1849 – in the month of October, no less – is shrouded in mystery, highly
appropriate for a writer who wrote so well about the creepy and the strange.
Here, in honor of approaching Halloween,
is the full text of “The Raven.” If only you could hear my heart-rending recitation,
complete with my version of a raven croaking “nevermore.” Alas, that is
impossible. This will have to do.
The Raven
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 someone 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 the treat 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 blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door—
Bird
or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With
such name as “Nevermore.”
But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That
one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing farther then he uttered – not a feather then he fluttered—
Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before—
On
the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.”
Then
the bird said, “Nevermore.”
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“Doubtless,”
said I, “what it utters is its only stock and 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 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 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, me thought, 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 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.”
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!
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