Most people are quite familiar with Poe's stories, because of their dark and gruesome plots, but also because Poe writes from the first person perspective of deeply disturbed "madmen" who hope to prove their sanity in killing people or things. In the Tell-Tale Heart, it is no different as the narrator tries to rid himself of an old man's "evil eye" by killing him. Due to the fact that most of Poe's writing are written through the eyes of the "madman," something compels me to see or understand how his victim(s) would feel. Though I am sure no one would want to be in the same situation as any murder victim, I feel this may indicate something about Poe's deeper fear in himself, since most of the time Poe writes as if he is the one killing, and never takes on that different perspective.
This journal entry is written then from the perspective of the old man, in The Tell-Tale Heart, who has been aroused in his sleep by some unknown fear. Little does he know that he will be attacked and killed within moments.
The air was thick as I jolted up my resting head. Something wasn't right. "Who's there?" I said with a low sullen voice. It was all I could do, to pull the blanket farther up my chest. I sat there timelessly with the thin blanket seemingly swallowing me up whole. I couldn't stand it, my heart grew faint, and then quickened the longer the darkness held. My eyes glazed over the darken sea of blackness, searching...searching for any familiar form it could find. Nothing. Something wasn't right. The darkness and silence seemed to slither up my back, and the fear bottled inside of me caused my stomach to lurch. "It is nothing," I thought. Yet I felt trapped and encased in the darkness. "It is nothing but the wind." I felt my muscles relax slightly as I felt the ever so small beam of moon light graze over my eye... but then,... wasn't the window on the other side of my bed, of which I could possibly see light? I tilted my head ever so slightly to the side, fearful of what I might glimpse. Terror escalated in my heart as I felt the presence of an unknown form in my room, releasing it into a low moan from my held breath. "IT...IS...NO ONE!" screamed my head to my quickening heart beat. My heart would not listen. I sat there longer, telling my deaf heart to listen, but it refused.Then.... I saw him! He screeched fiercely at me, and in my shear terror came at me engulfing me with his body. He moved swiftly and purposefully with his task, and as I realized that my defeat was soon at hand, I let out a final cry of horror from my mouth until I felt my mattress encase it. I thrashed hoping to gain the smallest molecule of air in which to fill my lungs, but the more I pushed the more he held. My lungs grew as stone, and I felt there weight hard pressed on my body, until I could no longer feel them. It was then that I was no longer afraid.
I just love Edgar Allan Poe. My blog also involves him. It is beautiful how someone can take their life experiences and turn them into a sort of grief outlet and create such popular works of literature. Though he never seemed to catch a break in his life from death, alcoholism, and hardship he became one of the most important men in American Literature.
ReplyDeleteGood choices for your posts, Sarah! I have enjoyed reading the entries here.
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