Yesterday I talked about an old collection of short stories that I keep around. Now two of those stories are Poe’s “The Telltale Heart” and “The Cask of Amontillado.” And I will say those are among his best. But after writing the post last night it got me thinking about Poe, about his body of work. Now without a doubt he was a very talented writer and poet. But what about the bulk of his work? Did it maintain a uniform quality? This question interested me.
So, I took down my 1935 edition of “Tales of Mystery and Imagination by Edgar Allan Poe with Illustrations by Harry Clarke,” and attempted to remind myself of what Poe has left us of his talent. And so, this will ignore his poetry; “The Raven” and his other gems which have their own charms but are mostly outside of my purview.
- Found in a Bottle
- Berenice
- Morella
- Some Passages in the Life of a Lion (Lionizing)
- The Assignation
- Bon-Bon
- King Pest
- Metzengerstein
- Silence
- A Descent into the Maelström
- Ligeia
- The Fall of the House of Usher
- William Wilson
- The Conversation of Eiros and Charmion
- The Man of the Crowd
- The Murders in the Rue Morgue
- The Mystery of Marie Rogêt
- The Colloquy of Monos and Una
- The Masque of the Red Death
- The Pit and the Pendulum
- The Tell-Tale Heart
- The Gold Bug
- The Black Cat
- The Spectacles
- The Premature Burial
- The Facts in the Case of M. Valdemar
- The Oblong Box
- The Cask of Amontillado
- Landor’s Cottage
Now a quick count told me I hadn’t read even half of these stories. Looking at the stories I had read I could confirm that Poe was not pigeonholed into a narrow genre. The “Gold Bug” and “the Murders in the Rue Morgue” were completely removed from his more fantastical stories like “The Fall of the House of Usher” or “The Masque of the Red Death.” And something like “The Pit and the Pendulum” or “A Descent into the Maelström” were something else completely different. All they do share is his style (or maybe voice). He’s constantly adding touches to the story and the scene and the characters and their words. Sometimes he overdoes it and the story reels out as this drunken lord of language adds embellishment onto embellishment, like in “Some Passages in the Life of a Lion (Lionizing)”:
“We were all lions and recherchs.
There was a modern Platonist. He quoted Porphyry, Iamblicus, Plotinus, Proclus, Hierocles, Maximus Tyrius, and Syrianus.
There was a human-perfectibility man. He quoted Turgot, Price, Priestly, Condorcet, De Stael, and the “Ambitious Student in Ill Health.”
There was Sir Positive Paradox. He observed that all fools were philosophers, and that all philosophers were fools.
There was stheticus Ethix. He spoke of fire, unity, and atoms; bi-part and pre-existent soul; affinity and discord; primitive intelligence and homomeria.
There was Theologos Theology. He talked of Eusebius and Arianus; heresy and the Council of Nice; Puseyism and consubstantialism; Homousios and Homouioisios.
There was Fricasse from the Rocher de Cancale. He mentioned Muriton of red tongue; cauliflowers with velout sauce; veal à la St. Menehoult; marinade à la St. Florentin; and orange jellies en mosaïques.
There was Bibulus O’Bumper. He touched upon Latour and Markbrünnen; upon Mousseux and Chambertin; upon Richbourg and St. George; upon Haubrion, Leonville, and Medoc; upon Barac and Preignac; upon Grâve, upon Sauterne, upon Lafitte, and upon St. Peray. He shook his head at Clos de Vougeot, and told, with his eyes shut, the difference between Sherry and Amontillado.
There was Signor Tintontintino from Florence. He discoursed of Cimabu, Arpino, Carpaccio, and Argostino – of the gloom of Caravaggio, of the amenity of Albano, of the colors of Titian, of the frows of Rubens, and of the waggeries of Jan Steen.
There was the President of the Fum-Fudge University. He was of opinion that the moon was called Bendis in Thrace, Bubastis in Egypt, Dian in Rome, and Artemis in Greece. There was a Grand Turk from Stamboul. He could not help thinking that the angels were horses, cocks, and bulls; that somebody in the sixth heaven had seventy thousand heads; and that the earth was supported by a sky-blue cow with an incalculable number of green horns.
There was Delphinus Polyglott. He told us what had become of the eighty-three lost tragedies of Æschylus; of the fifty-four orations of Isus; of the three hundred and ninety-one speeches of Lysias; of the hundred and eighty treatises of Theophrastus; of the eighth book of the conic sections of Apollonius; of Pindar’s hymns and dithyrambics; and of the five and forty tragedies of Homer Junior.
There was Ferdinand Fitz-Fossillus Feltspar. He informed us all about internal fires and tertiary formations; about eriforms, fluidiforms, and solidiforms; about quartz and marl; about schist and schorl; about gypsum and trap; about talc and calc; about blende and horn-blende; about mica-slate and pudding-stone; about cyanite and lepidolite; about hematite and tremolite; about antimony and calcedony; about manganese and whatever you please.
There was myself. I spoke of myself; – of myself, of myself, of myself; – of Nosology, of my pamphlet, and of myself. I turned up my nose, and I spoke of myself.”
Now, obviously Poe is having a good time here trying to impress us with the lengths to which he would stretch the absurdity of his little conceit. Interestingly in the section above about “Bibulus O’Bumper” I notice he threw in the word “Medoc” and the phrase “the difference between Sherry and Amontillado.” These would show up again in “The Cask of Amontillado.” So, it seems like his stories may bubble up ex tempore from the contents of his normal life and he just applies the details to decorate the plots. Obviously, he is an educated and cultured man. What is interesting is how he can apply this knowledge base to the most fantastical and bizarre stories. Premature burial and murderous orangutans stalking the streets of Paris and a plague spreading ghost in a masked costume.
Of course, Poe has his problems. His stories are closing in on two hundred years of age and sometimes the prose looks a little stilted. Not always mind you. The “Telltale Heart” reads like modern English for the most part. But there are some stories that feel antique mostly because of the use of some literary conventions that just aren’t used anymore. But all in all, Poe is still an author that a modern audience can read for pleasure.
And I think I’m going to read through his tales again, or in some cases, for the first time. I’d like to decide just where he fits in the pantheon. Let’s see.
