One of my goals for 2014 was that I read more. Another, longer-standing, goal is that I honor the spirit of one of my fave writers,
Edgar A. Poe, on his birthday every January 19. To satisfy both aims, I chose to make this January, which marks Poe's 205th year, an all-Poe reading month. First on the list was
The Unknown Poe: an anthology of fugitive writings by Edgar Allan Poe, with appreciations by Charles BAUDELAIRE, Stéphane MALLARMÉ, Paul VALÉRY, J.K. HUYSMANS & André BRETON, edited by Raymond FOYE. (Bit of a mouthful, that, eh?)
The book promises snatches of Poe's writing which are hard to find elsewhere. Though it's not a comprehensive collection, from this tidy little volume I derived great pleasure as I read some of Poe's witticisms, as well as an empathetic pity for the suffering revealed in his letters to those he considered trustworthy of such revelations. And it's on the subject of revelations that I write today.
In
The Unknown Poe, I came across one of his "Marginalia" (ruminations and other fragments which he slipped into the various periodicals for which he worked) which struck me profoundly and I share with you here (via text believed to be in the public domain, posted on the most excellent website of
The Edgar Allan Poe Society of Baltimore):
If any ambitious man have a fancy to revolutionize, at one effort, the universal world of human thought, human opinion, and human sentiment, the opportunity is his own — the road to immortal renown lies straight, open, and unencumbered before him. All that he has to do is to write and publish a very little book. Its title should be simple — a few plain words — ”My Heart Laid Bare.” But — this little book must be true to its title.
Now, is it not very singular that, with the rabid thirst for notoriety which distinguishes so many of mankind — so many, too, who care not a fig what is thought of them after death, there should not be found one man having sufficient hardihood to write this little book? To write, I say. There are ten thousand men who, if the book were once written, would laugh at the notion of being disturbed by its publication during their life, and who could not even conceive why they should object to its being published after their death. But to write it — there is the rub. No man dare write it. No man ever will dare write it. No man could write it, even if he dared. The paper would shrivel and blaze at every touch of the fiery pen. (Text: Edgar Allan Poe, “Marginalia [part X],” Graham’s Magazine, January 1848, pp. 23-24.)
Numerous questions flooded my mind and I closed the book to ponder these words as my commuter train rumbled its speedy way north of Manhattan. Why would the paper blaze? Why would the pen catch fire? Is it because of the flaming rage which would have to grip an author for her to be capable of laying her heart bare to the world?
I say "rage" because I see the truth of Poe's assertion in me and in my blogging. In my previous post, my first of 2014, I initially filled a good third of the page with incensed verbiage, which, once written, I swiftly deleted in favor of the tamer opening which remains. I'd laid open a dark recess of my heart, roiling with fury, but I couldn't let it be seen. In part, I daren't expose the ugliness, the pathetic impotence, within me. I'm a writer of romance who'd just placed an ad on a website popular with her target readers, one which links to her blog. Did I really want the first thing these folks saw to be all this
ick?
Not only
they; but
who the hell else would want to read it? No one admires weakness; God knows that point's been brought home to me, again and again. And it's not due to repeated, whiny, useless bitching which, when it's not followed by decisive action to bring about the desired change, is bound to try the patience of even a saint (and, I will admit, tries my own when I'm subjected to it, and I sure as fuck ain't no saint). No, I reference the near-immediate shutdowns from those claiming to love me best when I've unburdened myself to them on a matter
for the very first time. Faced with their disdain, I've resealed my heart and lips. If those nearest and dearest to me can disparage my heartache so swiftly, so
brutally, how much more would the world? Or would the world, because it
is so far removed from my heart, be kinder to it?
Right, so: now I've just done what I'd sworn not to do last week. Encountering Poe's words
this week, words so connected to this sore spot, encouraged me to uncover this darkness. I can't say I feel it's accomplished anything, but at the very least I feel a bit more
authentic for having done it. And I'm about to go one better, though the coming words are also not my own.
As noted in
The Unknown Poe's title, the book contains "appreciations" of Poe and his work by several French poets and writers. Perhaps the most notorious among them,
Charles Baudelaire proved a great admirer of Poe, and defender of The Artist in general. In an introduction to one of his translations of Poe's works, presented in this book (and again on the EAP Society of Baltimore's website, slightly abridged here), Baudelaire laid out a series of ideas which have haunted me for some time, whether due to the depression my meds only just manage to keep at bay, or an overly developed artistic sensibility. Even if the latter, so bloody well be it: it's a relief to know that, at least once in time, another
acknowledged the injustices perpetrated by the dark forces which surround us, and railed against them:
...many...bear the word Luckless written in
mysterious characters in the sinuous folds of their
foreheads. The blind angel of Expiation hovers for ever around them,
punishing them
with rods for the edification of others. It is in vain
that their lives exhibit talents, virtues or graces. Society has for
them a
special anathema, accusing them even of those infirmities
which its own persecutions have generated...Does there, then, exist some diabolic Providence which prepares
misery
from the cradle; which throws, and throws with
premeditation, these spiritual and angelic natures into hostile ranks,
as martyrs were
once hurled into the arena? Can there, then, be holy souls
destined to the sacrificial altar, compelled to march to death and
glory
across the very ruins of their lives! Will the nightmare
of gloom eternally besiege these chosen souls? Vainly they may struggle, vainly conform themselves to the world, to its foresight, to
its
cunning; let them grow perfect in prudence, batten up
every entry, nail down every window, against the shafts of Fate; still
the Demon
will enter by a key-hole; some fault will arise from the
very perfection of their breastplate; some superlative quality will be
the germ
of their damnation...(Text: C. Baudelaire [trans. H. Curwen], “Edgar Allan Poe: His Life and Works,” The Works of Edgar Allan Poe, London: John Camden Hotten, 1873, pp. 1-21)
Will the nightmare of gloom eternally besiege these chosen souls? A fine question, Charles. Perhaps you and Eddy have discovered the answer(s) lying beyond the veil. If so, some slight hint would not go amiss, whether by the encounter of some night-clad bird or slinky cat, or a flower wafting across my path. Is "surcease of sorrow" ever to be gained, in this lifetime? Or is the best which can be hoped for solely surcease of all earthly sensation?
