Showing posts with label poem. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poem. Show all posts

Sunday, July 5, 2020

A Slumber Did My Spirit Seal by William Wordsworth: Analysis and Commentary


Copyright 2020 by Gary L. Pullman


A slumber did my spirit seal;

I had no human fears:

She seemed a thing that could not feel
The touch of earthly years.

No motion has she now, no force;
She neither hears nor sees;
Rolled round in earth's diurnal course,
With rocks, and stones, and trees.

Commentary

 


 In the first stanza, we learn that the speaker was, as it were, asleep to the reality of human mortality. Like a youth who is unaware of death or discounts it, he “had no human fears.” His beloved seemed to be immortal. For many young people, death is not much of a concern. Invulnerable and immortal, many young people believe that death happens only to other people-and, usually, to older other people. Apparently, the speaker of the poem shares these same illusions. For him, as he tells us, his Lucy “seemed a thing that could not feel/ The touch of earthly years.”


When his immature attitude toward death and his unrealistic notions about the immortality of his beloved are shattered by her untimely demise, the speaker is clearly appalled by the inescapable fact that his beloved Lucy, once a vibrant and lovely young woman, has been reduced to a mere object. Horribly, she has become a mere thing among things, motionless, lifeless, deaf, and blind, like all the other inanimate objects that are “rolled round in earth’s diurnal course”:

No motion has she now, no force;
She neither hears nor sees;
Rolled round in earth's diurnal course,
With rocks, and stones, and trees.


For anyone, the death of a loved one is terrible. It is perhaps more horrible still for a young man who has believed that death happens only to others and could never touch his beautiful young Lucy. The comparison, in the second stanza of the poem, of the inanimate Lucy to “rocks, and stones, and trees” reinforces the speaker’s sense of shock and horror, echoing the numbing grief that he obviously feels. In having been so rudely awakened, as it were, from the “slumber” that once “sealed” his spirit, he has suffered the death of an illusion. He may be wiser, but he is also sadder. The final lines of the poem suggest, perhaps, the numbness that he now feels-a numbness that is akin to the insensate condition of the deceased Lucy. He, too, has become something of an insensate thing, akin to “rocks, and stones, and trees.”

Wednesday, July 1, 2020

She Dwelt among the Untrodden Ways by William Wordsworth: Analysis and Commentary

She Dwelt among the Untrodden Ways by William Wordsworth


She dwelt among the untrodden ways
Beside the springs of Dove,
A Maid whom there were none to praise
And very few to love:

A violet by a mossy stone
Half hidden from the eye!
Fair as a star, when only one
Is shining in the sky.

She lived unknown, and few could know
When Lucy ceased to be;
But she is in her grave, and, oh,
The difference to me!

Commentary


This is one of several short poems that William Wordsworth wrote concerning the death of a beautiful young woman named Lucy. Like its companions, this deceptively simple piece is a meditation on death and how it affects the loved one’s survivor.


The Lucy of this poem is not famous. She was not celebrated. In fact, she lived an isolated and obscure life “among the untrodden ways.” As the speaker of the poem informs us, there was no one to sing her praises, and only a few loved her during her life. She was, if we were to use a harsher term than the poem employs, a nobody.


If the first stanza of the poem tells us that Lucy lived an obscure, lonely, and isolated existence virtually unknown and uncelebrated, the second stanza tells us that the speaker of the poem, nevertheless, found her to be a rare beauty. He compares her to “a violet by a mossy stone/ Half-hidden from the eye” and then emphasizes that beauty further by pointing to its rarity. As a flower, she was “half-hidden from the eye.” As a heavenly body, so to speak, she was “Fair as a star/ When only one is shining in the sky.” 

Imagine the sky at night, pitch black, even though there are no clouds, with only one star shining in that inky darkness. The eye would be drawn to it instantly, and its solitary brightness would seem all the brighter by virtue of it’s being alone. The implication is that the lonely Lucy had seemed all the more beautiful to her lover because she lived alone, “among the untrodden ways.”


In the poem’s final stanza, the speaker points out that isolated Lucy lived a life that was so seemingly insignificant that only a handful of people even knew that she had died: “She lived unknown, and few could know/ When Lucy ceased to be.” However, for the speaker, the death of his beautiful, beloved Lucy has made a world of difference: “But she is in her grave, and, oh,/ The difference to me!”


Most of us, beautiful or not, do not achieve great fame. Most of us are not praised or celebrated. Nevertheless, a simple, unassuming girl can mean more than anyone, including herself, can imagine, especially when she is no longer one who dwells “among untrodden ways”—or anywhere else. To gain an appreciation of the power of this poem, all one needs to do is imagine that its Lucy is one’s own girlfriend. She may not be a movie star, but her death would hurt far more than that of any sultry siren of the silver screen who, despite her fame and celebrity, was unknown and unloved.

Tuesday, June 30, 2020

Leda and the Swan by William Butler Yeats: Analysis and Commentary

Copyright 2020 by Gary L. Pullman



A sudden blow: the great wings beating still
Above the staggering girl, her thighs caressed
By the dark webs, her nape caught in his bill,
He holds her helpless breast upon his breast.
How can those terrified vague fingers push
The feathered glory from her loosening thighs?
And how can body, laid in that white rush
But feel the strange heart beating where it lies?
A sudden shudder in the loins engenders there
The broken wall, the burning roof and tower
And Agamemnon dead. Being so caught up,
So mastered by the brute blood of the air,
Did she put on his knowledge with his power
Before the indifferent beak could let her drop?

Commentary


This poem recounts Zeus’ rape of Leda, the wife of Sparta’s King Tyndareus. From this union, the twin Castor and Polydeuces were born, as was their sister, Helen of Troy. When Helen was abducted and carried off from Sparta to Troy, her brothers rescued her.

The poem begins with violence. Zeus, having taken the form of a swan, ravishes Leda, and there is neither tenderness nor love in the act; it is a “brutal” violation, not an act of love, in which a god seizes that which he desires by brute force. The first words suggest only a physical assault. There is “a sudden blow,” the “beating” of wings, and a “staggering girl.” However, the next images of the opening lines quickly add a sexual context. The assault is not merely physical; it is sexual-it is rape: the girl’s’ “thighs [are] caressed/By the dark webs,” and “her nape [is] caught in his bill”:
 
A sudden blow: the great wings beating still
Above the staggering girl, her thighs caressed
By the dark webs, her nape caught in his bill,
He holds her helpless breast upon his breast.


If we are familiar with the myth in which Zeus takes the form of a swan to ravish Leda, these lines make sense at once. If we are not familiar with the myth, the sudden references to “wings” and “webs” and “bill” are not only unexpected but fantastic, even bizarre. The rapist, we realize, is not a man but a bird-the bird, apparently, alluded to in the title of the poem. In either case, the depiction of bestiality-and an adulterous bestiality at that-arrests our attention. The rape becomes both immediate and concrete. It is not merely a past event described; it is one that is taking place, as it were, before our eyes and, as witnesses to this “brutal” act, we must feel much the same as its victim feels.

Leda is not a willing participant in the act. Terrified, she tries to resist, struggling to push her attacker’s “feathered glory from her loosening thighs”:

How can those terrified vague fingers push
The feathered glory from her loosening thighs?

She is unable to prevent the assault. She is, after all, a mortal woman, whereas her attacker is none other than Zeus himself. It is the chief of the gods who holds her “helpless breast upon his breast.”

The next lines reinforce the attacker’s bestial character. The rapist is not human. In fact, Zeus, in his present guise, is of another species entirely, and Leda, “laid in that white rush,” cannot help but feel “the strange heart beating where it lies.”


With his emission, Zeus engenders not only Leda’s future children, but creates the catalyst for the Trojan War as well, for it will occur due to the abduction of Leda’s daughter, Helen:

A sudden shudder in the loins engenders there
The broken wall, the burning roof and tower
And Agamemnon dead.

The concluding lines of the poem ask whether Leda envisioned the future war, which Zeus, it seems, even in the act of ravishing her, knew would occur. In addition, these lines tell the reader explicitly that Zeus had no feeling whatever for the object of his lust, dropping Leda with indifference as soon as he had satisfied his passion:

So mastered by the brute blood of the air,
Did she put on his knowledge with his power
Before the indifferent beak could let her drop?

The poet leaves no room for debate as to whether Zeus felt any love or affection for the woman he ravished. The god felt nothing for her; she was only a means of satisfying his lust and, perhaps, a vehicle by which to set up the future war between the Greeks and the Trojans. Whether he allowed her to glimpse that future war is unclear, as is the question of his motive if he did allow her a prophetic glimpse of the catastrophe to come. If he did permit Leda to foresee the war, was it to dignify or justify his rape of her or was it to torment her by letting her see what would come of the act? 



Nowhere in the poem do we get any hint that Zeus is at all concerned with Leda as a human being. In fact, the opposite is true. The rape is sudden and violent; Leda is “terrified”; she attempts to resist, but is “helpless,” “mastered by the brute blood of the air.” When Zeus finishes with her, his “indifferent beak” lets her “drop.” It would seem, therefore, that his motive, if he did grant her a glimpse of the war to come, must have been to torment her with the knowledge that her rape would be followed by a future war, resulting from her daughter’s abduction, in which thousands will be killed. Zeus is not human on any level. As a god, he is not only above human beings but he has neither human feelings nor any feeling for them.

Monday, June 29, 2020

Long-Legged Fly by William Butler Yeats : Analysis and Commentary

Copyright 2020 by Gary L. Pullman




That civilization may not sink,
Its great battle lost,
Quiet the dog, tether the pony
To a distant post;
Our master Caesar is in the tent
Where the maps are spread,
His eyes fixed upon nothing,
A hand upon his head.
Like a long-legged fly upon the stream
His mind moves upon silence.


That the topless towers be burnt
And men recall that face,
Move most gently if move you must
In this lonely place.
She thinks, part woman, three parts a child,
That nobody looks; her feet
Practice a tinker shuffle
Picked up on a street.
Like a long-legged fly upon the stream
Her mind moves upon silence.


That girls at puberty may find
The first Adam in their thought,
Shut the door of the Pope's chapel,
Keep those children out.
There on that scaffolding resides
Michael Angelo.
With no more sound than the mice make
His hand moves to and fro.
Like a long-legged fly upon the stream
His mind moves upon silence.

Commentary


 The first line of this poem alerts us that something of monumental importanceno less than the survival of civilization—is at risk. For this reason, the speaker of the poem asks that precautions be taken against potential distractions. The dog should be silenced, and the pony should be tied to a “distant post.” The next lines introduce the subject of this first stanza. None other than Caesar himself is plotting his next battle. He is in his tent, “where the maps are spread,” but his gaze is “fixed upon nothing.” The “nothing” that he focuses on could be the destruction that will result from the battle to come, the very battle that he is, even now, planning. However, this immediate destruction will have the paradoxical effect of ensuring civilization’s survival, as the opening line contends. To this end, Caesar’s mind, the speaker says, “moves upon the silence” “like a long-legged fly upon the stream,” with quickness and certainty, a fluid movement of consciousness.

 
In the next stanza, the poem moves from Caesar to Helen of Troy, she of the face that launched a thousand ships. Helen’s mother is Leda, the Spartan queen who was raped by Zeus in the guise of a swan. As a result of their union, Helen was born and, upon her abduction, the Trojan War was waged: “A sudden shudder in the loins engenders there/ The broken wall, the burning roof and tower/ And Agamemnon dead.” The line in “Long-Legged Fly,” “That the topless towers be burnt,” recalls the line “The broken wall, the burning roof and tower” from “Leda and the Swan.” This is the same event that Leda, in “Leda and the Swan,” was allowed, perhaps, to see. Now, Helen is beginning to develop her charms. (Here, we see her practicing a dance, whereby, we may suppose, she will develop grace.) Her development will require an uninterrupted silence, just as quiet was needed for Caesar to plot his strategies. That’s why we are asked to “Move most gently if move” we “must/ In this lonely place.”
 

 The third stanza concerns the artist Michelangelo at work on the Sistine Chapel. It may seem amusing that the speaker suggests that the importance of this work will be to ignite lust in young women. “Girls at puberty,” upon viewing the nude men in the artist’s painting will have their first thoughts of men as menthat is, their first sexual thoughts concerning men“the first Adam in their thought.” However, we should remember that civilization’s continuance is predicated as muchor moreupon such thoughts and their attendant actions as it is on the winning of wars. For the sake of the artistor perhaps for art’s sakethe speaker, once again, calls for the elimination of all distractions, including not only children but also the Pope himself, who might quarrel with Michelangelo’s use of nudes in his painting:

That girls at puberty may find
The first Adam in their thought,
Shut the door of the Pope's chapel,
Keep those children out.


The chapel is as quiet as a mouse, so to speak, as the great artist works, his mind, like that of both Caesar’s and Helen’s, moving “upon the silence” “like a long-legged fly upon the stream.” 
 
 
A great general, a great beauty, and a great artist
three famous persons of celebrated accomplishment, each in a different area of lifeshare the same genius, for the mind of each “like a long-legged fly upon the stream/ . . . moves upon silence.” In each case, the genius requires nothing more than silence to perform, since the movement upon that silence is a movement of the mind, which is subjective and unique rather than objective and general. The poem suggests that the rest of us also have a part to play in the accomplishments of such genius. What is more, our part may be neither as small nor as insignificant as it might first seem. It is the ordinary person who is called upon to “quiet the dog,” to “tether the pony,” to “move most gently,” to “shut the door of the Pope’s chapel,” and to “keep those children out” so that the great men and women of genius can exercise their genius. In short, it is we, ordinary men and women, who are called upon to maintain order and to sustain civilization so that, within the peace and quiet afforded by such orderly life, genius can develop and create.

Saturday, June 27, 2020

Ozymandias by Percy Bysshe Shelley: Analysis and Commentary

Copyright 2020 by Gary L. Pullman


I met a traveler from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;
And on the pedestal these words appear:
"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.

Commentary

The poem expresses the fleeting nature of fame and its ultimate vanity, or futility. It begins with the speaker of the poem recounting his meeting a “traveler from an antique land.” The “antique land” is Egypt, a place steeped in ancient history, tradition, and lore. According to this traveler, “two vast and trunkless legs of stone/ Stand in the desert,” not far from a “a shattered visage” that lies “half sunk” in the sand. Obviously, this had once been a huge statue of a man, whose figure had been carved to stand for all time.

Apparently, the figure was one of authority, for the haughty, contemptuous face that is now half buried in the desert sand wears a “frown,/ And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command.” The face is lifelike in the sense that it conveys its real-life counterpart’s arrogant disdain: showing “that its sculptor well those passions read,” passions which “survive” in the features of the stone visage that the artist had “stamped” centuries ago, “on these lifeless things.” Ironically, the statue that was to memorialize the proud ruler has come to ruin in the desert wasteland, a victim of centuries of erosion. It is broken, partly missing, and to some extent buried. It has not stood the test of time very well. Time has not been kind to the memory of the harsh ruler. His memorial has not immortalized him.

On the pedestal, the haughty ruler has left a final address to the world. His last words identify him as “Ozymandias, king of kings,” commanding the mighty who should see his statue to consider his accomplishments and “despair” at ever hoping to rival his own mighty works. These final words, however, are empty and vain. They are hollow and seem to mock the broken, decapitated statue that has long since become nothing more than “a mighty wreck”:

Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.


Fame is as uncertain as life itself. In pagan societies, even far later than those of the vanished Egypt of centuries ago, people aspired to immortality by being remembered and honored by succeeding generations. We see this impulse as late as the Anglo-Saxon period, in which the hero Beowulf hopes to attain an immortality similar to Ozymandias’ by virtue of his having performed great deeds of courage. Ozymandias, it seems, was more than a mere warrior chieftain. He was “king of kings” who had accomplished peerless deeds. His person had been commemorated with a gigantic statue of stone. Nevertheless, his hopes were all in vain. The sole reminder of his long-ago existence is a crumbling “wreck,” which has been, as it were, not only dismembered and decapitated by the wind and the sand, but also half buried in the lonely desert, “boundless and bare,” that stretches away from the ruined monument on every hand.

If this king’s life has been forgotten, certainly those of ordinary men and women will not be remembered. Centuries after one’s death, what shall it mean that a man or a woman ever lived at all? The poem seems to suggest a pessimistic answer, ending not only as a cautionary tale concerning the vanity of human pride and the futility of memorials as a means of attaining immortality, but also a declaration that human existence is, when all is said and done, what the existential philosopher Jean-Paul Sartre characterized as “absurd.” We live and we die, and centuries later, it is as if we never existed, no matter how great our accomplishments might have been during our lifetimes.

Ozymandias, we should note, is the pharaoh Ramesses II, who ruled Egypt from 1279 to 1212 B. C. His shattered granite statue lies at the site of the Ramesseum, his temple, at Gurna, Egypt, and the “colossal wreck” of his shattered statue has been photographed. The ancient Greeks, who derived “Ozymandias” from one of Ramesses’ many titles, gave him the name “Ozymandias.”

Friday, June 26, 2020

The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe: Analysis and Commentary

Copyright 2020 by Gary L. Pullman



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 some one 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 thereat 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 mein of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door--
Perched upon my 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 sad soul 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, methought, 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 Tempest 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!


The opening stanza of this celebrated poem sets the tone, suggests that the narrator, or speaker, is uneasy about something; establishes the mood as a somber, gloomy one; and, of course, presents the rhyme scheme, which is both complex and calculatingly hypnotic:

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 some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door--
Only this and nothing more."

The speaker tells us that he was half-asleep, after poring over “many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,” such as, today, one might find, perhaps, in the New Age section of a bookstore--books on the occult, otherworldly, and paranormal. The adjectives, coupled with the poem’s internal and end-rhymes and the repetition of certain images and ideas (especially the phrase “nothing more“), creates a sense of gloom that is pervasive throughout the initial poem, as the same technique, employed in the following stanzas will prove to be throughout the rest of the work.

In this first stanza, the knock at the door seems “gentle,” and the speaker supposes that it signifies “some visitor,” “only this and nothing more.” His supposition seems reasonable, but it does introduce the question as to why he might thing that it could be anything more than merely “some visitor”? (It is important to observe that the speaker not only asks the questions that are posed buy that he also answers them; both the questions and the answers to them are his own.) What else does he, perhaps, suppose the tapping, rapping at the door might signify and why? With this seemingly innocent, casual comment on the speaker’s part, especially considering that the hour is midnight--the so-called witches’ hour--and that he has been studying “many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,“ an air of mystery and a hint of the malevolent enter the poem, which will become more and more pronounced.


In the next stanza, Poe, through the speaker, sets the scene, informing the reader that it was--and here’s another gloomy adjective “in the bleak December,” which is to say, the winter of the year, a season often associated with death. He reinforces the idea of death by using terms and images associated with it. Each coal in the fireplace is a “dying ember,” which is reflected upon the floor as if it were a “ghost.” It is obvious that death is much on the speaker’s mind--so much so, in fact, that he includes images of death in the description even of so mundane a phenomenon as a fire smoldering in his fireplace. The death of the fire is a slow one; the speaker marks the death of “each separate dying ember.” It is as if the fire represents the slow dying of his own hope or faith as well as his own sanity, which becomes more and more discernable as the poem progresses. He also tells the reader the motive for his having burned the midnight oil, poring over these “many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore.” He was hoping to ease his grief at having suffered the death of his beautiful, beloved, whom he describes as “the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore,” whom he recognizes is gone from his presence for ever, “nameless here for evermore.” He does not seek solace from his grief by reading the Bible or some other religious holy book, it should be observed; rather, he has sought to find “surcease of sorrow” in the study of “many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore”:

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.

So absorbed has the narrator been with his grief that, upon awakening to the tapping at his door, he is startled by the rustling of the curtains. The adjectives that he uses to describe the curtains’ rustling are those which he chooses; as such, they tell us about his own mental state, since, obviously cloth cannot experience emotions--it is he who feels and (using a Freudian term) projects his feelings onto the curtain, characterizing them as “sad” and “uncertain,” just as, earlier, he described the smoldering coals of his fire as “dying embers,” each of which reflected its “ghosts upon the floor.” The speaker’s word choice, as demonstrated in the adjectives that he uses in descriptions of the mundane objects and phenomena in his environment, together with his personifications of those objects and phenomena, do more to characterize him, showing his thoughts and feelings, than they do anything else. It is he who feels himself to be dying, not the fire, and it is he feels sad and uncertain, not the rustling curtains. The reader must wonder why the mere rustling of curtains should “thrill” the speaker, filling him with “fantastic terrors never felt before” and make himself stand, repeating, over and over, “"'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door--/ Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; --/ This it is and nothing more,” as if to convince himself of the truth of this explanation of the rustling curtains. The reader is apt, at this point, to wonder about the narrator. At best, he seems unduly frightened and worried; at worst, he seems to have a questionable grip on his sanity.


The effect of his repeating to himself that it is only “some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door” seems to calm him, as he says that “presently my soul grew stronger,” and he is able to end his hesitation about answering his visitor’s knock, although the hesitant manner in which he finally does answer, begging his visitor’s forgiveness and explaining why he is late in answering the knock, indicates that he remains frightened and apprehensive. When he finally does open the door, he sees “darkness there and nothing more.” The reader can imagine his shock and terror at finding no visitor there. He has told himself, again and again, that the tapping and rapping at his door and the rustling of the curtains at his windows have a simple, natural explanation and portend nothing more than the appearance of “some visitor.” Now, faced with “darkness . . . and nothing more,” that theory has been shown to be wrong.

His fear, as the next stanza shows, increases immensely as a result, and he next hypothesizes that the cause of the sounds he’s heard may be supernatural or otherworldly; he suspects that his “visitor” may have been the dead Lenore! However, when he goes back into his room and hears a louder tapping than that which he has heard before, this time coming from his window lattice, he attributes the sound to the effect of the wind. To explain the sounds that he hears, the speaker alternates between attributing the cause of those sounds to the supernatural or otherworldly and to the natural and mundane. He also seems to recognize that he is in an excited, frightened state of mind, because he tells himself, “Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; --‘Tis the wind and nothing more!’”

The speaker’s state of mind is conveyed by his behavior as much as by his speech. Now, he throws open the shutter to his window, as if to take by surprise whatever thing, natural or monstrous, that may wait outside his room, thereupon meeting the raven. The speaker personifies the bird, just as he has the fire and the curtains. It is a noble bird, which makes “not the least obeisance. . . but, with mein of lord or lady,” takes up its perch above the speaker’s door, as if the speaker’s room were its own and the speaker, rather than the bird, were the master of the house:

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 mein of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door--
Perched upon my bust of Pallas just above my chamber door--
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

The speaker is first amused by the solemnity of the “stately Raven”--notice the capital “R”; this is no mere raven, but The Raven--a god in avian plumage--but his amusement soon gives way to dread as he imagines that this “grim and ancient Raven” is a representative from the land of the dead, a lord from “the Night’s Plutonian shore.” Again, these are the speaker’s own thoughts. He continues to personify the bird that has entered his chamber, attributing not merely human but divine attributes to the bird, seeing it as an emissary of the dead, as a messenger sent, perhaps, by the Roman god of the dead, Pluto, himself.

When the anxious speaker asks the bird to tell him what it is called in the land of the dead, the bird answers, “Nevermore.” The reply seems to put the speaker’s fears to rest, for he muses upon the notion of a bird that can seemingly talk but whose reply is but a meaningless absurdity. Again, the speaker vacillates, hesitantly, back and forth between rational thought and mad imaginings:

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."
The speaker is quick to note that the bird’s vocabulary seems to consist of but this one word: “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.” Although, in response to the speaker’s question, the raven’s reply had borne “little relevancy,” it is interesting to note that the same response soon will come to have greater and greater significance for the speaker (who, after all, frames the questions to which the same reply is always to be made). Indeed, this single-word answer to his questions will come to terrify him, intensifying his despair of ever again seeing his “lost Lenore.”

The reader should remember, throughout the reading of the poem, that the raven answers always with the same word; it is the speaker who must frame the questions so that the bird’s response appears to be significant and appears, it might be added, to reinforce the speaker’s own preconceptions about the what, if anything, follows death. Only in the speaker’s mind is the raven The Raven, because it is he who poses questions to which “nevermore” may be regarded as being a significant response. As the speaker himself confesses, it is he who ponders possible meanings for the bird’s “croaking ‘Nevermore’”:

. . . 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."

The speaker, at first, cannot discern whether the raven is sent from God or from the devil, whether it is a messenger from heaven or from hell. When he asks it whether there is “balm in Gilead,” or a salve that is capable of healing his anguished grief at Lenore’s death, the raven replies, not surprisingly to the reader, “Nevermore,” whereupon, not liking this answer, the speaker believes the raven must be a bird from hell, although one that is able to discern the future, and he asks--almost begs to know--whether he shall ever hold Lenore in his embrace again, whether, in short, there is a life after death, during which he and his beloved may be reunited:

"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."
Outraged at this reply (which he contrived to be the answer by the way that he formulated his question), the speaker orders the raven from his chamber, but the bird ignores his command, remaining on his perch above the door:

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!
Now, the same bird that the speaker has characterized variously as merely an “ebony bird,” as an emissary from “the Night’s Plutonian shore,” as a messenger sent by God or the devil, and as a demonic prophet, now regards it as the very embodiment of wisdom, for it occupies (not, in the mind of the narrator, by sheer chance, the reader may assume) “the pallid bust of Pallas,” or Athena, the goddess of wisdom.

Here, we take our leave of the speaker, leaving him obsessed with the idea that, in having (apparently subconsciously) answered his own questions about the likelihood of his attaining “surcease of sorrow” by being reunited with his “lost Lenore,“ he has determined, just as he had believed all along, that there is no existence beyond death, and that the proper attitude to take concerning the belief in the survival of death is a despairing disbelief. His “lost Lenore” was lost even before the raven appeared to him, to reinforce his beliefs that death is the end of life and that there is no hope in an existence beyond the grave.


Paranormal vs. Supernatural: What’s the Diff?

Copyright 2009 by Gary L. Pullman

Sometimes, in demonstrating how to brainstorm about an essay topic, selecting horror movies, I ask students to name the titles of as many such movies as spring to mind (seldom a difficult feat for them, as the genre remains quite popular among young adults). Then, I ask them to identify the monster, or threat--the antagonist, to use the proper terminology--that appears in each of the films they have named. Again, this is usually a quick and easy task. Finally, I ask them to group the films’ adversaries into one of three possible categories: natural, paranormal, or supernatural. This is where the fun begins.

It’s a simple enough matter, usually, to identify the threats which fall under the “natural” label, especially after I supply my students with the scientific definition of “nature”: everything that exists as either matter or energy (which are, of course, the same thing, in different forms--in other words, the universe itself. The supernatural is anything which falls outside, or is beyond, the universe: God, angels, demons, and the like, if they exist. Mad scientists, mutant cannibals (and just plain cannibals), serial killers, and such are examples of natural threats. So far, so simple.

What about borderline creatures, though? Are vampires, werewolves, and zombies, for example, natural or supernatural? And what about Freddy Krueger? In fact, what does the word “paranormal” mean, anyway? If the universe is nature and anything outside or beyond the universe is supernatural, where does the paranormal fit into the scheme of things?

According to the Online Etymology Dictionary, the word “paranormal,” formed of the prefix “para,” meaning alongside, and “normal,” meaning “conforming to common standards, usual,” was coined in 1920. The American Heritage Dictionary defines “paranormal” to mean “beyond the range of normal experience or scientific explanation.” In other words, the paranormal is not supernatural--it is not outside or beyond the universe; it is natural, but, at the present, at least, inexplicable, which is to say that science cannot yet explain its nature. The same dictionary offers, as examples of paranormal phenomena, telepathy and “a medium’s paranormal powers.”

Wikipedia offers a few other examples of such phenomena or of paranormal sciences, including the percentages of the American population which, according to a Gallup poll, believes in each phenomenon, shown here in parentheses: psychic or spiritual healing (54), extrasensory perception (ESP) (50), ghosts (42), demons (41), extraterrestrials (33), clairvoyance and prophecy (32), communication with the dead (28), astrology (28), witchcraft (26), reincarnation (25), and channeling (15); 36 percent believe in telepathy.

As can be seen from this list, which includes demons, ghosts, and witches along with psychics and extraterrestrials, there is a confusion as to which phenomena and which individuals belong to the paranormal and which belong to the supernatural categories. This confusion, I believe, results from the scientism of our age, which makes it fashionable for people who fancy themselves intelligent and educated to dismiss whatever cannot be explained scientifically or, if such phenomena cannot be entirely rejected, to classify them as as-yet inexplicable natural phenomena. That way, the existence of a supernatural realm need not be admitted or even entertained. Scientists tend to be materialists, believing that the real consists only of the twofold unity of matter and energy, not dualists who believe that there is both the material (matter and energy) and the spiritual, or supernatural. If so, everything that was once regarded as having been supernatural will be regarded (if it cannot be dismissed) as paranormal and, maybe, if and when it is explained by science, as natural. Indeed, Sigmund Freud sought to explain even God as but a natural--and in Freud’s opinion, an obsolete--phenomenon.

Meanwhile, among skeptics, there is an ongoing campaign to eliminate the paranormal by explaining them as products of ignorance, misunderstanding, or deceit. Ridicule is also a tactic that skeptics sometimes employ in this campaign. For example, The Skeptics’ Dictionary contends that the perception of some “events” as being of a paranormal nature may be attributed to “ignorance or magical thinking.” The dictionary is equally suspicious of each individual phenomenon or “paranormal science” as well. Concerning psychics’ alleged ability to discern future events, for example, The Skeptic’s Dictionary quotes Jay Leno (“How come you never see a headline like 'Psychic Wins Lottery'?”), following with a number of similar observations:

Psychics don't rely on psychics to warn them of impending disasters. Psychics don't predict their own deaths or diseases. They go to the dentist like the rest of us. They're as surprised and disturbed as the rest of us when they have to call a plumber or an electrician to fix some defect at home. Their planes are delayed without their being able to anticipate the delays. If they want to know something about Abraham Lincoln, they go to the library; they don't try to talk to Abe's spirit. In short, psychics live by the known laws of nature except when they are playing the psychic game with people.
In An Encyclopedia of Claims, Frauds, and Hoaxes of the Occult and Supernatural, James Randi, a magician who exercises a skeptical attitude toward all things alleged to be paranormal or supernatural, takes issue with the notion of such phenomena as well, often employing the same arguments and rhetorical strategies as The Skeptic’s Dictionary.

In short, the difference between the paranormal and the supernatural lies in whether one is a materialist, believing in only the existence of matter and energy, or a dualist, believing in the existence of both matter and energy and spirit. If one maintains a belief in the reality of the spiritual, he or she will classify such entities as angels, demons, ghosts, gods, vampires, and other threats of a spiritual nature as supernatural, rather than paranormal, phenomena. He or she may also include witches (because, although they are human, they are empowered by the devil, who is himself a supernatural entity) and other natural threats that are energized, so to speak, by a power that transcends nature and is, as such, outside or beyond the universe. Otherwise, one is likely to reject the supernatural as a category altogether, identifying every inexplicable phenomenon as paranormal, whether it is dark matter or a teenage werewolf. Indeed, some scientists dedicate at least part of their time to debunking allegedly paranormal phenomena, explaining what natural conditions or processes may explain them, as the author of The Serpent and the Rainbow explains the creation of zombies by voodoo priests.

Based upon my recent reading of Tzvetan Todorov's The Fantastic: A Structural Approach to the Fantastic, I add the following addendum to this essay.

According to Todorov:

The fantastic. . . lasts only as long as a certain hesitation [in deciding] whether or not what they [the reader and the protagonist] perceive derives from "reality" as it exists in the common opinion. . . . If he [the reader] decides that the laws of reality remain intact and permit an explanation of the phenomena described, we can say that the work belongs to the another genre [than the fantastic]: the uncanny. If, on the contrary, he decides that new laws of nature must be entertained to account for the phenomena, we enter the genre of the marvelous (The Fantastic: A Structural Approach to a Literary Genre, 41).
Todorov further differentiates these two categories by characterizing the uncanny as “the supernatural explained” and the marvelous as “the supernatural accepted” (41-42).

Interestingly, the prejudice against even the possibility of the supernatural’s existence which is implicit in the designation of natural versus paranormal phenomena, which excludes any consideration of the supernatural, suggests that there are no marvelous phenomena; instead, there can be only the uncanny. Consequently, for those who subscribe to this view, the fantastic itself no longer exists in this scheme, for the fantastic depends, as Todorov points out, upon the tension of indecision concerning to which category an incident belongs, the natural or the supernatural. The paranormal is understood, by those who posit it, in lieu of the supernatural, as the natural as yet unexplained.

And now, back to a fate worse than death: grading students’ papers.

My Cup of Blood

Anyone who becomes an aficionado of anything tends, eventually, to develop criteria for elements or features of the person, place, or thing of whom or which he or she has become enamored. Horror fiction--admittedly not everyone’s cuppa blood--is no different (okay, maybe it’s a little different): it, too, appeals to different fans, each for reasons of his or her own. Of course, in general, book reviews, the flyleaves of novels, and movie trailers suggest what many, maybe even most, readers of a particular type of fiction enjoy, but, right here, right now, I’m talking more specifically--one might say, even more eccentrically. In other words, I’m talking what I happen to like, without assuming (assuming makes an “ass” of “u” and “me”) that you also like the same. It’s entirely possible that you will; on the other hand, it’s entirely likely that you won’t.

Anyway, this is what I happen to like in horror fiction:

Small-town settings in which I get to know the townspeople, both the good, the bad, and the ugly. For this reason alone, I’m a sucker for most of Stephen King’s novels. Most of them, from 'Salem's Lot to Under the Dome, are set in small towns that are peopled by the good, the bad, and the ugly. Part of the appeal here, granted, is the sense of community that such settings entail.

Isolated settings, such as caves, desert wastelands, islands, mountaintops, space, swamps, where characters are cut off from civilization and culture and must survive and thrive or die on their own, without assistance, by their wits and other personal resources. Many are the examples of such novels and screenplays, but Alien, The Shining, The Descent, Desperation, and The Island of Dr. Moreau, are some of the ones that come readily to mind.

Total institutions as settings. Camps, hospitals, military installations, nursing homes, prisons, resorts, spaceships, and other worlds unto themselves are examples of such settings, and Sleepaway Camp, Coma, The Green Mile, and Aliens are some of the novels or films that take place in such settings.

Anecdotal scenes--in other words, short scenes that showcase a character--usually, an unusual, even eccentric, character. Both Dean Koontz and the dynamic duo, Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child, excel at this, so I keep reading their series (although Koontz’s canine companions frequently--indeed, almost always--annoy, as does his relentless optimism).

Atmosphere, mood, and tone. Here, King is king, but so is Bentley Little. In the use of description to terrorize and horrify, both are masters of the craft.

A bit of erotica (okay, okay, sex--are you satisfied?), often of the unusual variety. Sex sells, and, yes, sex whets my reader’s appetite. Bentley Little is the go-to guy for this spicy ingredient, although Koontz has done a bit of seasoning with this spice, too, in such novels as Lightning and Demon Seed (and, some say, Hung).

Believable characters. Stephen King, Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child, and Dan Simmons are great at creating characters that stick to readers’ ribs.

Innovation. Bram Stoker demonstrates it, especially in his short story “Dracula’s Guest,” as does H. P. Lovecraft, Edgar Allan Poe, Shirley Jackson, and a host of other, mostly classical, horror novelists and short story writers. For an example, check out my post on Stoker’s story, which is a real stoker, to be sure. Stephen King shows innovation, too, in ‘Salem’s Lot, The Shining, It, and other novels. One might even argue that Dean Koontz’s something-for-everyone, cross-genre writing is innovative; he seems to have been one of the first, if not the first, to pen such tales.

Technique. Check out Frank Peretti’s use of maps and his allusions to the senses in Monster; my post on this very topic is worth a look, if I do say so myself, which, of course, I do. Opening chapters that accomplish a multitude of narrative purposes (not usually all at once, but successively) are attractive, too, and Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child are as good as anyone, and better than many, at this art.

A connective universe--a mythos, if you will, such as both H. P. Lovecraft and Stephen King, and, to a lesser extent, Dean Koontz, Bentley Little, and even Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child have created through the use of recurring settings, characters, themes, and other elements of fiction.

A lack of pretentiousness. Dean Koontz has it, as do Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child, Bentley Little, and (to some extent, although he has become condescending and self-indulgent of late, Stephen King); unfortunately, both Dan Simmons and Robert McCammon have become too self-important in their later works, Simmons almost to the point of becoming unreadable. Come on, people, you’re writing about monsters--you should be humble.

Longevity. Writers who have been around for a while usually get better, Stephen King, Dan Simmons, and Robert McCammon excepted.

Pacing. Neither too fast nor too slow. Dean Koontz is good, maybe the best, here, of contemporary horror writers.


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