Prologue
Many considered him an eccentric, certainly associated with horror. He is often identified as one with dark, mysterious, and sinister thoughts. Yet, others like myself considered him a tormented genius. His writings are unparalleled in content with a depth that leaves one in a life long bewilderment as to his true identity.
In this make-believe interview, may I introduce...Mr. Edgar Allan Poe.
An Interview
Narrator: Good morning sir. I am quite honored and equally delighted you are here!
Poe: Thank-you. Our conversation we are about to engage might be quite easier for me than for you! ( Poe smiles as he looks into the narrator's eyes for the first time.)
Narrator: Oh, why would that be? Do you prefer Mr. Poe or may I call you Edgar?
Poe: Whatever is comfortable for you. Some, like my dearest Virginia simply called me Eddie. As to the difficulty of this interview from your perspective, I have left my earthly surroundings. Thank Heaven! The crisis, the danger is past, and the lingering illness is over at last, and this fever called "living" is conquered at last.
Narrator: You are quoting from your poem "For Annie", written shortly before your own death in 1849. It has turned out to be a rather controversial poem. Some think Annie was a type of poison, a plan you had made to commit suicide?
Poe: (leaning forward toward the narrator with a sparkle in his eyes). Or perhaps my love for a woman named Annie, whom I refer to as Nancy. Were you aware she later changed her name legally to Nancy, to accommodate my personal fancy? ( a serene smile appeared ).
Narrator: Yes I do sir. In truth, there are so many aspects of your life I would love to explore, (the narrator pauses for a brief moment out of silent respect). Yet to even attempt such a feat would take weeks, months, or perhaps years. It is needful my focus today to remain in tact, to specifically ask how women influenced your life, particularly in your early childhood years. Some "Poe enthusiasts" which I am included ( a rather proud smile on the face of the narrator), think this was the very heart and motivation to writing your stories and poems.
Poe: ( pausing and then looking into the narrator's eyes not speaking a word. He raised his left hand with one finger in the air) My life has taught me that a beautiful woman is to be written about. The problem arose when I did, it equally condemned her to her death. That being said, the death of a beautiful woman is unquestionably the most poetical topic in the world.
Narrator" A quote from your "The Philosophy of Composition?" I believe you penned that in 1846 and if my memory serves me correctly, it was first published in Graham's magazine.
Poe: You impress me sir. Yes, the intent of the composition was to convey how good writers write well. Of course, I am of the opinion women play a key role in our ability to write well.
(once again, a serene smile.)
Narrator: Picking up on your last statement, how did a woman become a key role in your various writings and what or whom I might say helped lead you to this conclusion?
Poe: I will begin with a summary statement: all the women I loved, I loved alone. Allow me to explain. My biological parents were both traveling actors. My father, David Poe, left my mother when I was but one year of age. I never knew him. Yet my mother had an early impact on my life.
My mother's name is Elizabeth, although she was lovingly called Eliza. She was born in London and joined my father in the hopes of finding successful acting careers. My mother was of rare beauty and I was not quite three years old when she died. I have always carried vivid memories of her in my mind. I distinctly remember her perform one evening as I sat watching ever so intently. She slightly coughed during her performance and I noticed a small amount of blood on her lips. She wiped her blood with a cloth. It was then I was about to learn of the dreaded disease we refer to as... consumption.
Consumption was a horrible disease in my day. It weakens the body and soul while demanding...much blood. Soon after that evening with our funds being low, we moved to Richmond Virginia. We lived in a rather poor and shoddy boarding home. On the night of her death, December 8th, 1811, she had indeed coughed up so much blood she became delirious. The very first true love of my life was about to die and I had only her blood stains on my clothing to take with me and face a world without her.
I did keep a small miniature of her and it remained with me wherever I journeyed for quite some time. A short time later I learned my father had also passed. He passed just a few days after my mother. (Poe bows his head momentarily in what appears to be a moment of deep thought, the images he described seemingly flashing through his mind. He then gives a rather deep sigh, raises his head, and looks directly into the eyes of the narrator.)
Narrator: It must have been, well, what words could express or comfort the horror you witnessed at such a young age.
Poe: The imprint of these events with my mother are quite real to me. Consumption was a disease that had been feared for centuries. We didn't have antibiotics then and sanitation, housing, and nutrition were virtually unknown. My memory is simply one where love was removed and only a trail of blood remained. I wish my first love would have ended with the word "nevermore", but quite the contrary. I was to be the recipient of various and horrendous deaths with female companions. Yes, one must take note, this blood-filled journey began at a very early age of my life.
Narrator: Mr. Poe, it is deeply moving to hear of your initial and quite violent experience with blood. Unlike today's society, where a mere paper cut is thought to be gruesome, you were exposed to blood and death all around you. If that wasn't enough, this came at such a young age to the very people you loved. Any further thoughts that might give the listeners a 'feel" of what you were facing?
Poe: Any other thoughts you ask? ( Poe raises his eyes rather upward, then looks directly into the eyes of the narrator.) I would reply to your question with the words written by Lord Byron ( Poe now leans forward in almost anticipated excitement): "What is the worst of woes that wait on age? What stamps the wrinkle deeper on the brow? To view each loved one blotted from life's page, and be alone on earth, as I am now."
Narrator: You paint your experience with passion. Lord Byron is one of your favorite poets or so I have read. You have revealed a frightful series of worrisome thoughts, leaving one to consider the depth of feeling alone with the blood of your first true love only to confirm the reality of death.
Dear Mr. Poe, I would like to continue our conversation, there are so many questions I have. May we take a break and return sir?
Poe: Certainly. I might add although the loss of my dear mother brought to me a deep sorrow, I was later to discover how words have no power to express what is in the mind without the exquisite horror of their reality.
There is a bell to the right of you sir, just ring when you are ready to continue.
Narrator: Thank-you Mr. Poe, or should I say Mr. Pym? Horror being exquisite? An almost oxymoron in many circles, yet seems to have become the core of your writing. I am eager to speak with you soon!
Many considered him an eccentric, certainly associated with horror. He is often identified as one with dark, mysterious, and sinister thoughts. Yet, others like myself considered him a tormented genius. His writings are unparalleled in content with a depth that leaves one in a life long bewilderment as to his true identity.
In this make-believe interview, may I introduce...Mr. Edgar Allan Poe.
An Interview
Narrator: Good morning sir. I am quite honored and equally delighted you are here!
Poe: Thank-you. Our conversation we are about to engage might be quite easier for me than for you! ( Poe smiles as he looks into the narrator's eyes for the first time.)
Narrator: Oh, why would that be? Do you prefer Mr. Poe or may I call you Edgar?
Poe: Whatever is comfortable for you. Some, like my dearest Virginia simply called me Eddie. As to the difficulty of this interview from your perspective, I have left my earthly surroundings. Thank Heaven! The crisis, the danger is past, and the lingering illness is over at last, and this fever called "living" is conquered at last.
Narrator: You are quoting from your poem "For Annie", written shortly before your own death in 1849. It has turned out to be a rather controversial poem. Some think Annie was a type of poison, a plan you had made to commit suicide?
Poe: (leaning forward toward the narrator with a sparkle in his eyes). Or perhaps my love for a woman named Annie, whom I refer to as Nancy. Were you aware she later changed her name legally to Nancy, to accommodate my personal fancy? ( a serene smile appeared ).
Narrator: Yes I do sir. In truth, there are so many aspects of your life I would love to explore, (the narrator pauses for a brief moment out of silent respect). Yet to even attempt such a feat would take weeks, months, or perhaps years. It is needful my focus today to remain in tact, to specifically ask how women influenced your life, particularly in your early childhood years. Some "Poe enthusiasts" which I am included ( a rather proud smile on the face of the narrator), think this was the very heart and motivation to writing your stories and poems.
Poe: ( pausing and then looking into the narrator's eyes not speaking a word. He raised his left hand with one finger in the air) My life has taught me that a beautiful woman is to be written about. The problem arose when I did, it equally condemned her to her death. That being said, the death of a beautiful woman is unquestionably the most poetical topic in the world.
Narrator" A quote from your "The Philosophy of Composition?" I believe you penned that in 1846 and if my memory serves me correctly, it was first published in Graham's magazine.
Poe: You impress me sir. Yes, the intent of the composition was to convey how good writers write well. Of course, I am of the opinion women play a key role in our ability to write well.
(once again, a serene smile.)
Poe: I will begin with a summary statement: all the women I loved, I loved alone. Allow me to explain. My biological parents were both traveling actors. My father, David Poe, left my mother when I was but one year of age. I never knew him. Yet my mother had an early impact on my life.
My mother's name is Elizabeth, although she was lovingly called Eliza. She was born in London and joined my father in the hopes of finding successful acting careers. My mother was of rare beauty and I was not quite three years old when she died. I have always carried vivid memories of her in my mind. I distinctly remember her perform one evening as I sat watching ever so intently. She slightly coughed during her performance and I noticed a small amount of blood on her lips. She wiped her blood with a cloth. It was then I was about to learn of the dreaded disease we refer to as... consumption.
Consumption was a horrible disease in my day. It weakens the body and soul while demanding...much blood. Soon after that evening with our funds being low, we moved to Richmond Virginia. We lived in a rather poor and shoddy boarding home. On the night of her death, December 8th, 1811, she had indeed coughed up so much blood she became delirious. The very first true love of my life was about to die and I had only her blood stains on my clothing to take with me and face a world without her.
I did keep a small miniature of her and it remained with me wherever I journeyed for quite some time. A short time later I learned my father had also passed. He passed just a few days after my mother. (Poe bows his head momentarily in what appears to be a moment of deep thought, the images he described seemingly flashing through his mind. He then gives a rather deep sigh, raises his head, and looks directly into the eyes of the narrator.)
Narrator: It must have been, well, what words could express or comfort the horror you witnessed at such a young age.
Poe: The imprint of these events with my mother are quite real to me. Consumption was a disease that had been feared for centuries. We didn't have antibiotics then and sanitation, housing, and nutrition were virtually unknown. My memory is simply one where love was removed and only a trail of blood remained. I wish my first love would have ended with the word "nevermore", but quite the contrary. I was to be the recipient of various and horrendous deaths with female companions. Yes, one must take note, this blood-filled journey began at a very early age of my life.
Narrator: Mr. Poe, it is deeply moving to hear of your initial and quite violent experience with blood. Unlike today's society, where a mere paper cut is thought to be gruesome, you were exposed to blood and death all around you. If that wasn't enough, this came at such a young age to the very people you loved. Any further thoughts that might give the listeners a 'feel" of what you were facing?
Poe: Any other thoughts you ask? ( Poe raises his eyes rather upward, then looks directly into the eyes of the narrator.) I would reply to your question with the words written by Lord Byron ( Poe now leans forward in almost anticipated excitement): "What is the worst of woes that wait on age? What stamps the wrinkle deeper on the brow? To view each loved one blotted from life's page, and be alone on earth, as I am now."
Narrator: You paint your experience with passion. Lord Byron is one of your favorite poets or so I have read. You have revealed a frightful series of worrisome thoughts, leaving one to consider the depth of feeling alone with the blood of your first true love only to confirm the reality of death.
Dear Mr. Poe, I would like to continue our conversation, there are so many questions I have. May we take a break and return sir?
Poe: Certainly. I might add although the loss of my dear mother brought to me a deep sorrow, I was later to discover how words have no power to express what is in the mind without the exquisite horror of their reality.
There is a bell to the right of you sir, just ring when you are ready to continue.
Narrator: Thank-you Mr. Poe, or should I say Mr. Pym? Horror being exquisite? An almost oxymoron in many circles, yet seems to have become the core of your writing. I am eager to speak with you soon!
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