Edgar Allan Poe   
   
Mnogima je Edgar Allan Poe ništa drugo do ružna lektirska uspomena, ali oni koji se smatraju obrazovanima moraju znati da se radi o geniju iz prve polovice 19. stoljeća nastalom na američkom tlu, o ikoni jedne generacije koja će stasati tek godinama kasnije
   
   
   
Edgar Allan Poe   
   
   
Teško je pisati o Poeu s potpunom sigurnošću jer jedino sigurno u njegovoj biografiji su datumi izdavanja određenih djela i godine rođenja i smrti. Veći dio njegova života obavijen je velom tajni, što zbog njegovih vlastitih laži, a što zbog zlobnika koji nakon njegove smrti nisu vjerodostojno iznijeli činjenice. Nevjerojatno je koliko se različitih podataka može pronaći o njegovu životu, a posebno o smrti.

Bio je alkoholičar i psihički nestabilna osoba, ali prije svega genijalni pripovjedač i pjesnik. Amerika nije bila izolirana u to doba od europske književnosti pa će mnogi stručnjaci, a i Poeovi suvremenici, govoriti o utjecaju romantizma (posebice njemačkog) na američkog pisca jer, dok je on još učio pisati, u Europi su već bili tiskani najbolji primjeri novog mističnog vala koji je nazvan romantizmom. Poe je, međutim, jasno odgovorio još tada: 'Užas ne stiže iz Njemačke, stiže iz moje duše.'


   
   
   
   Kod Poea nema zamorne patetike; na svakom mjestu i u svako vrijeme neumorni entuzijazam teži za idealom.
C. Baudelaire      
   
   
   
To je možda najvažnija činjenica vezana uz njegov život; svaka mračna atmosfera, svaki mistični događaj i prisutnost onostranog pretočeni su na papir iz Poeove mašte i izmorenog duha. Od samog početka priča njegovog života ne ide 'normalnim' tokom. Rodio se 19. 01. 1809. u Bostonu. Roditelji su mu bili putujući glumci. Otac ih je napustio odmah po Edgarovu rođenju, a majka mu je umrla dvije godine kasnije. Primio ga je, ali ne i zakonski posvojio, bogati trgovac John Allan. Od njega uzima prezime kao srednje ime.

S pet godina Poe je recitirao englesku poeziju, a jedan od njegovih profesora kasnije je priznao kako je većina učenika automatski slagala stihove, prema unaprijed određenom kalupu, jedino je Poe sastavljao orginalnu poeziju, bio je rođeni pjesnik. Između 1826. i 1827. pohađao je sveučilište Virginia, ali je bio izbačen zbog navodnih kockarskih dugova. To ga je dovelo do vojske iz koje je također bio otpušten zbog 'zanemarivanja dužnosti'.

Od tad je 'zamrznuo' odnos sa svojim skrbnikom Allenom, mijenjao mjesta boravišta i poslove. Ipak, glavna okupacija bila mu je pisanje. Do svoje smrti radio je kao novinar u raznim dnevnim i tjednim listovima, u nekima je bio i urednik, ali zbog neurednosti života i nestalnosti nigdje se nije zadržavao predugo. U toj je profesiji ipak bio i ostao jako cijenjen.


   
Sukob sna i jave...   


Ženio se jednom i to 1836. za trinaestogodišnju sestričnu Virginiu, koja je već tad bila slabog zdravlja. 1842. dobila je prve znakove tuberkuloze, a umrla je pet godina kasnije. Poe joj je posvetio pjesmu 'Annabel Lee' o ljubavi u 'carstvu kraj mora'. Što se tiče njegove poezije, tek nekoliko pjesama smatra se vrhunskim ostvarenjima (među njima neizostavni 'Gavran'), ali ostavio je velik utjecaj na francuske simboliste, na primjer Stephanea Mallarmea, dok je Charles Baudelaire preveo na francuski velik broj priča i nekoliko pjesama zbog čega je utjecao i na kasnije avangardne pjesnike.

Puno je važnije, međutim, spomenuti Poeove kratke priče. Njegov mračni, mistični stil koji je blizak snu, ali onom koji proizvodi noćne more, utjecao je na stvaranje vrste horora i fantastike. Poznatiji je ipak po tome što je započeo novi književni žanr – detektivsku priču. Tu se posebno izdvajaju tri pripovijetke o Augusteu Dupinu od kojih je najpoznatija 'Umorstva u Ulici Morgue'. Bez sumnje je inspirirao velike pisce poput Arthura Conana Doylea i Julesa Vernea. Jedino veće djelo koje je napisao je roman 'Doživljaji Arthura Gordona Pyma'.


   
Ilustracija 'Gavrana'   


U svojoj fantastičnoj prozi uglavnom se bavio paranojom koja je korijen imala u njegovoj vlastitoj ličnosti, u fizičkoj i mentalnoj slabosti, opsesiji, fenomenu smrti, u grozničavim fantazijama i strahovima, ali pritom se nije doticao nadnaravnih i fantastičnih bića poput vukodlaka, duhova, vampira itd. Ponekad je uvodio vraga kao izvor zala i strahova, ali i on je uglavnom bio ismijavan i ironiziran. Poe je bio uvjeren da sva mistika, zlo, horor i fantastično leži samo u nama, ne postoji izvan nas.

Njegova smrt do danas je nerazjašnjena. Pronađen je u polusvjesnom stanju 3. 10. 1849. na ulici u Baltimoreu, gdje je bio na proputovanju. Četiri dana nakon toga u bolnici je umro. Čitavo to vrijeme nije bio pri sebi dovoljno da bi opisao što mu se dogodilo, a između ostalog je pronađen u odjeći koja mu nije pripadala. Neki tvrde da je umro od alkohola, neki od izljeva krvi u mozak, od bjesnoće, sifilisa, ideja ima mnogo, ali niti jedan vjerodostojni dokument nije sačuvan. Prema tome možemo samo nagađati.

Nijedan drugi američki pisac 19. stoljeća, osim Laniera, nije živio tako kratko. Poniženja, krivotvorine i skandali pratili su ga i nakon smrti kad ga je izvjesni Rufus Griswold osvećujući mu se proglasio običnim pijanicom i nadrogiranim luđakom, ali sve to ne bi bilo toliko neobično da dotični zavidnik nije išao toliko daleko da je sam sastavljao tobožnja Poeova pisma u kojima se 'jasno vidi njegova neuračunljivost'.

AS
18.01.2005.

Annabel Lee  

 It was many and many a year ago,
          In a kingdom by the sea,
    That a maiden there lived whom you may know
          By the name of ANNABEL LEE;
    And this maiden she lived with no other thought
          Than to love and be loved by me.

    I was a child and she was a child,
          In this kingdom by the sea;
    But we loved with a love that was more than love-
          I and my Annabel Lee;
    With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
          Coveted her and me.

    And this was the reason that, long ago,
          In this kingdom by the sea,
    A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
          My beautiful Annabel Lee;
    So that her highborn kinsman came
          And bore her away from me,
    To shut her up in a sepulchre
          In this kingdom by the sea.

    The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
          Went envying her and me-
    Yes!- that was the reason (as all men know,
          In this kingdom by the sea)
    That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
          Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

    But our love it was stronger by far than the love
          Of those who were older than we-
          Of many far wiser than we-
    And neither the angels in heaven above,
          Nor the demons down under the sea,
    Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
          Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

    For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
          Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
    And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
          Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
    And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
    Of my darling- my darling- my life and my bride,
          In the sepulchre there by the sea,
          In her tomb by the sounding sea.

A Valentine

 For her this rhyme is penned, whose luminous eyes,
    Brightly expressive as the twins of Leda,
  Shall find her own sweet name, that nestling lies
    Upon the page, enwrapped from every reader.
  Search narrowly the lines!- they hold a treasure
    Divine- a talisman- an amulet
  That must be worn at heart. Search well the measure-
    The words- the syllables! Do not forget
  The trivialest point, or you may lose your labor
    And yet there is in this no Gordian knot
  Which one might not undo without a sabre,
    If one could merely comprehend the plot.
  Enwritten upon the leaf where now are peering
    Eyes scintillating soul, there lie perdus
  Three eloquent words oft uttered in the hearing
    Of poets, by poets- as the name is a poet's, too,
  Its letters, although naturally lying
    Like the knight Pinto- Mendez Ferdinando-
  Still form a synonym for Truth- Cease trying!
    You will not read the riddle, though you do the best you can do.

The Raven

[First published in 1845]

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 named 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 darkness 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 mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door -
Perched upon a 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 above 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 further then he uttered - not a feather then he fluttered -
Till I scarcely more than muttered `Other friends have flown before -
On the morrow will he 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, 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 violet 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 has 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 tempter 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 named Lenore -
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named 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!

Were I called on to define, very briefly, the term Art, I should call it 'the reproduction of what the Senses perceive in Nature through the veil of the soul.' The mere imitation, however accurate, of what is in Nature, entitles no man to the sacred name of 'Artist.'


There are few cases in which mere popularity should be considered a proper test of merit; but the case of song-writing is, I think, one of the few.


I have no faith in human perfectability. I think that human exertion will have no appreciable effect upon humanity. Man is now only more active - not more happy - nor more wise, than he was 6000 years ago.


A gentleman with a pug nose is a contradiction in terms.


A strong argument for the religion of Christ is this - that offences against Charity are about the only ones which men on their death-beds can be made - not to understand - but to feel - as crime.


Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary.


All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream.


Man's real life is happy, chiefly because he is ever expecting that it soon will be so.


I wish I could write as mysterious as a cat.


A gentleman with a pug nose is a contradiction in terms.


We loved with a love that was more than love.


That man is not truly brave who is afraid either to seem or to be, when it suits him, a coward.


Poetry is the rhythmical creation of beauty in words.


In one case out of a hundred a point is excessively discussed because it is obscure; in the ninety-nine remaining it is obscure because it is excessively discussed.


The true genius shudders at incompleteness - and usually prefers silence to saying something which is not everything it should be.


To be thoroughly conversant with a man's heart, is to take our final lesson in the iron-clasped volume of despair.


The best chess-player in Christendom may be little more than the best player of chess; but proficiency in whist implies capacity for success in all these more important undertakings where mind struggles with mind.


The nose of a mob is its imagination. By this, at any time, it can be quietly led.


Beauty of whatever kind, in its supreme development, invariably excites the sensitive soul to tears.


In criticism I will be bold, and as sternly, absolutely just with friend and foe. From this purpose nothing shall turn me.


Those who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night.


I never can hear a crowd of people singing and gesticulating, all together, at an Italian opera, without fancying myself at Athens, listening to that particular tragedy, by Sophocles, in which he introduces a full chorus of turkeys, who set about bewailing the death of Meleager.


It is by no means an irrational fancy that, in a future existence, we shall look upon what we think our present existence, as a dream.


I have great faith in fools; self-confidence my friends call it.


That pleasure which is at once the most pure, the most elevating and the most intense, is derived, I maintain, from the contemplation of the beautiful.


To vilify a great man is the readiest way in which a little man can himself attain greatness.


There is something in the unselfish and self-sacrificing love of a brute, which goes directly to the heart of him who has had frequent occasion to test the paltry friendship and gossamer fidelity of mere Man.


With me poetry has not been a purpose, but a passion.



Edgar Allan Poe

TO ONE IN PARADISE


by Edgar Allan Poe
(1834)



Thou wast all that to me, love,
   For which my soul did pine-
A green isle in the sea, love,
   A fountain and a shrine,
All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers,
   And all the flowers were mine.
Ah, dream too bright to last!
   Ah, starry Hope! that didst arise
But to be overcast!
   A voice from out the Future cries,
"On! on!"- but o'er the Past
   (Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies
Mute, motionless, aghast!

For, alas! alas! me  
   The light of Life is o'er!
   "No more- no more- no more-"
(Such language holds the solemn sea
   To the sands upon the shore)
Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree
   Or the stricken eagle soar!

And all my days are trances,
   And all my nightly dreams
Are where thy grey eye glances,
   And where thy footstep gleams-
In what ethereal dances,
   By what eternal streams.

Za mnogo veci pregled dela Edgara Allana Poea pogledati:

http://bau2.uibk.ac.at/sg/poe/Work.html

Edgard Allan Poe - The raven with illustrations by Ryan Price

Njega sam citao u srednjoj skoli, narocito su mi se svidele njegove pripovetke, malo mracan pisac ali zanimljiv.

ko je iskopao temu, svaka čast