Tag: The Cask of Amontillado

Best Served Up Cold

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“The thousand injuries of Fortunato I had borne as I best could, but when he ventured upon insult I vowed revenge.”

“from hell’s heart I stab at thee; for hate’s sake I spit my last breath at thee.”

“For the love of God, Montresor!”  “Yes,” I said, “for the love of God!”

cask

Revenge is perhaps the strongest vice in my soul.  I come by it honestly.  I think it’s an ingrained family trait.  Revenge and spite are as native to me as breathing.  And I feel the urge for revenge at all levels of existence.  I equally despise the rude coworker and the oligarch who despises and demeans the deplorable masses.  And what my heart craves is revenge.  Not fairness or justice or an apology.  I long for Nemesis to strike down hubris.  And strike it down out of all proportion to the offense.

Of course, the opportunity to indulge such a passion rarely occurs without the necessity of paying a very high price for the privilege of stabbing from hell’s heart.  But the desire is still there even if the intellect steps between the doer and the deed and declares the price too high.

And so, when I think of the contempt that our elites feel for us my instinct is to imagine a way to hit back at them.  So, for instance, when they revel in the pain they inflict by flooding a town in Ohio with twenty thousand Haitians or a suburb in Minnesota with Somalis my sense of outrage wants to see Martha’s Vineyard or Bel Air or Weston Massachusetts suddenly overrun by meth addicts and Congolese.

And not because it would be a teachable moment whereby these people would learn a lesson but rather so they would become the victims of the same dysfunction that they so carelessly wished upon the fellow citizens that they despise so heartily.  But I realize that this is just a fantasy.  The wealth and power these people possess preclude them from suffering the consequences they so richly deserve.  It would take the dissolution of the United States to bring about the “comeuppance” I crave.  And so, I would be wishing for the toppling of the very place that I live in.  It would be like a Roman citizen rooting for Atilla the Hun during the fifth century.

And yet, there are documents that preserve that very sentiment by a character out of history.  That was exactly what the Greek historian Priscus recorded back in 450 A.D.  I guess the question comes down to whether revenge is more important than safety.  Or maybe whether honor is more important than food.

And the funny thing is, I’m beginning to lean toward honor.  Being a despised freak in the Left’s menagerie is getting to be less and less tolerable.  If the Russians and Chinese finished off World War III, would I really be worse off than I am now?  The rational answer is yes.  Even surviving Doomsday in Southern New England is a very doubtful proposition.  Forget about thriving.  Making believe that isn’t true would be delusional.  And yet, a part of me says, “let’s get on with it.”

Well, the dark night of the soul is upon me but don’t worry nobody has shared the codes for the nuclear football with me.  So, sleep deeply oligarchs.  Your time is not yet up.

01MAY2018 – Quote of the Day

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Yo, Poe!  My father had a very old illustrated edition of Poe’s stories that is still one of my favorite possessions.  I always liked this short story.  It must be my vengeful spirit.

 

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 definitely 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 skillful in the Italian vintages myself, and bought largely whenever I could.

………………………

“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 and 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 imbedded in the heel.”

“And the motto?”

“Nemo me impune lacessit.”

“Good!” he said.

………………………..

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 recognizing as that of the noble Fortunato. The voice said—

“Ha! ha! ha!—he! he! he!—a very good joke indeed—an excellent jest. We shall 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 reply 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 re-erected the old rampart of bones. For the half of a century no mortal has disturbed them. In pace requiescat!

Title: The Cask of Amontillado

Author: Edgar Allan Poe