Poe and the Outsider

Welcome to Celebrate Poe - Episode 291.  Poe and the Outsider
In the previous episode the character of the ghost of Mr. Poe and I first discussed the Alien and Sedition Acts.   First, I’d like to apologize I have a cold/flu, and just listened to my recorded voice - you will just have to bear with me. Of course, that gives the voice of the ghost of Mr. Poe - a Southern accent too

And here's the ghost of Mr. Poe -

Hello, Mr. Bartley - I believe you want to talk about the Alien and Sedition Acts, and how they indirectly affected my literary works. Now remember, while I was certainly born after the Alien and Sedition Acts were enacted and repealed, these laws quite possibly had an indirect influence on my writing and political views. Although they were no longer in effect during my Poe's lifetime, their legacy continued to shape political debates and attitudes towards government power.

Transcript

George - plain text
Ghost of Mr. Poe - bold text

Welcome to Celebrate Poe - Episode 291.  Poe and the Outsider
In the previous episode the character of the ghost of Mr. Poe and I first discussed the Alien and Sedition Acts.   First, I’d like to apologize I have a cold/flu, and just listened to my recorded voice - you will just have to bear with me.
Of course, that gives the voice of the ghost of Mr. Poe - a Southern accent too

Hello, Mr. Bartley - I believe you want to talk about the Alien and Sedition Acts, and how they indirectly affected my literary works. Now remember, while I was certainly born after the Alien and Sedition Acts were enacted and repealed, these laws quite possibly had an indirect influence on my writing and political views. Although they were no longer in effect during my Poe's lifetime, their legacy continued to shape political debates and attitudes towards government power.

Yes, Mr. Poe - I think it is fair to say that you were known for your  skepticism of democracy and republican institutions, which may have been partly informed by the historical debates surrounding the Alien and Sedition Acts.

Yes, Mr. Bartley - I believe that the Acts demonstrated the potential for government overreach in times of political tension, a theme that resonates with my general distrust of democratic systems.  One might deduce that some of my tales depict characters abusing their authority or position, which could be seen as a subtle commentary on government overreach exemplified by the Acts.

And Mr. Poe - it seems to be that you often protrayed outsiders and those on the fringes of society. While not directly linked to the Alien Acts, this focus on isolated or alienated individuals could reflect the atmosphere of suspicion towards foreigners and "others" that the Acts fostered. For example, the narrator in "The Tell-Tale Heart" is an outcast figure, potentially echoing the experiences of those targeted by the Alien Acts.

Why not present the story to us and I would like to make some comments regarding the narrator as outsider.

Certainly, Mr. Bartley.

This is the original version from the Pioneer as published in Boston in January of 1843.  Note the opening epigram by Henry Longfellow.

THE TELL-TALE HEART.
——

BY EDGAR A. POE.
——

  Art is long and Time is fleeting,
  And our hearts, though stout and brave,
  Still, like muffled drums, are beating
  Funeral marches to the grave.   Longfellow.

TRUE! — nervous — very, very dreadfully nervous I had been, and am; but why will you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses — not destroyed — not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell. How, then, am I mad? Harken! and observe how healthily — how calmly I can tell you the whole story.

It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain; but, once conceived, it haunted me day and night. Object there was none. Passion there was none. I loved the old man. He had never wronged me. He had never given me insult. For his gold I had no desire. I think it was his eye! — yes, it was this! He had the eye of a vulture — a pale blue eye, with a film over it. Whenever it fell upon me, my blood ran cold; and so, by degrees — very gradually — I made up my mind to take the life of the old man, and thus rid myself of the eye forever.

Now this is the point. You fancy me mad. Madmen know nothing. But you should have [column 2:] seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded — with what caution — with what foresight — with what dissimulation I went to work! I was never kinder to the old man than during the whole week before I killed him. And every night, about midnight, I turned the latch of his door and opened it — oh so gently! And then, when I had made an opening sufficient for my head, I first put in a dark lantern, all closed, closed, so that no light shone out, and then I thrust in my head. Oh, you would have laughed to see how cunningly I thrust it in! I moved it slowly — very, very slowly, so that I might not disturb the old man's sleep. It took me an hour to place my whole head within the opening so far that I could see the old man as he lay upon his bed. Ha! — would a madman have been so wise as this? And then, when my head was well in the room, I undid the lantern cautiously — oh, so cautiously (for the hinges creaked) — I undid it just so much that a single thin ray fell upon the vulture eye. And this I did for seven long nights — every night just at midnight — but I found the eye always closed; and so it [page 30:] was impossible to do the work; for it was not the old man who vexed me, but his Evil Eye. And every morning, when the day broke, I went boldly into his chamber, and spoke courageously to him, calling him by name in a hearty tone, and inquiring how he has passed the night. So you see he would have been a very profound old man, indeed, to suspect that every night, just at twelve, I looked in upon him while he slept.

Upon the eighth night I was more than usually cautious in opening the door. A watch's minute-hand moves more quickly than did mine. Never, before that night, had I felt the extent of my own powers — of my sagacity. I could scarcely contain my feelings of triumph. To think that there I was, opening the door, little by little, and the old man not even to dream of my secret deeds or thoughts. I fairly chuckled at the idea. And perhaps the old man heard me; for he moved in the bed suddenly, as if startled. Now you may think that I drew back — but no. His room was as black as pitch with the thick darkness, (for the shutters were close fastened, through fear of robbers,) and so I knew that he could not see the opening of the  , and I kept on pushing it steadily, steadily.

I had got my head in, und [[and]] was about to open the lantern, when my thumb slipped upon the tin fastening, and the old man sprang up in bed, crying out — “Who's there?”

I kept quite still and said nothing. For another hour I did not move a muscle, and in the meantime I did not hear the old man lie down. He was still sitting up in the bed, listening; — just as I have done, night after night, hearkening to the death-watches in the wall.

Presently I heard a slight groan, and I knew that it was the groan of mortal terror. It was not a groan of pain, or of grief — oh, no! — it was the low, stifled sound that arises from the bottom of the soul when overcharged with awe. I knew the sound well. Many a night, just at midnight, when all the world slept, it has welled up from my own bosom, deepening, with its dreadful echo, the terrors that distracted me. I say I knew it well. I knew what the old man felt, and pitied him, although I chuckled at heart. I knew that he had been lying awake ever since the first slight noise, when he had turned in the bed. His fears had been, ever since, growing upon him. He had been trying to fancy them causeless, but could not. He had been saying to himself — “It is nothing but the wind in the chimney — it is only a mouse crossing the floor,” or “it is merely a cricket which has made a single chirp.” Yes, he had been trying to comfort himself with these suppositions; but he had found all in vain. All in vain: because death, in approaching the old man had stalked with his black shadow before him, and the shadow had now reached and enveloped the victim. And it was the mournful influence of the unperceived shadow that caused him to feel — although he [column 2:] neither saw nor heard me — to feel the presence of my head within the room.

When I had waited a long time, very patiently, without hearing the old man lie down, I resolved to open a little — a very, very little crevice in the lantern. So I opened it — you cannot imagine how stealthily, stealthily — until, at length, a single dim ray, like the thread of the spider, shot from out the crevice and fell full upon the vulture eye.

It was open — wide, wide open — and I grew furious as I gazed upon it. I saw it with perfect distinctness — all a dull blue, with a hideous veil over it that chilled the very marrow in my bones; but I could see nothing else of the old man's face or person; for I had directed the ray, as if by instinct, precisely upon the damned spot.

And now — have I not told you that what you mistake for madness is but over acuteness of the senses? — now, I say, there came to my ears a low, dull, quick sound — much such a sound as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I knew that sound well, too. It was the beating of the old man's heart. It increased my fury, as the beating of a drum stimulates the soldier into courage.

But even yet I refrained and kept still. I scarcely breathed. I held the lantern motionless. I tried how steadily I could maintain the ray upon the eye. Meantime the hellish tattoo of the heart increased. It grew quicker, and louder and louder every instant. The old man's terror must have been extreme! It grew louder, I say, louder every moment: — do you mark me well? I have told you that I am nervous: — so I am. And now, at the dead hour of the night, and amid the dreadful silence of that old house, so strange a noise as this excited me to uncontrollable wrath. Yet, for some minutes longer, I refrained and kept still. But the beating grew louder, louder! I thought the heart must burst! And now a new anxiety seized me — the sound would be heard by a neighbor! The old man's hour had come! With a loud yell, I threw open the lantern and leaped into the room. He shrieked once — once only. In an instant I dragged him to the floor, and pulled the heavy bed over him. I then sat upon the bed and smiled gaily, to find the deed so far done. But, for many minutes, the heart beat on, with a muffled sound. This, however, did not vex me; it would not be heard through the walls. At length it ceased. The old man was dead. I removed the bed and examined the corpse. Yes, he was stone, stone dead. I placed my hand upon the heart and held it there many minutes. There was no pulsation. The old man was stone dead. His eye would trouble me no more.

If, still, you think me mad, you will think so no longer when I describe the wise precautions I took for the concealment of the body. The night waned, and I worked hastily, but in silence. First of all I dismembered the corpse. I cut off the head and the arms and the legs. I then took up three planks from the flooring of the chamber, and deposited all between the scantlings. I then replaced the boards so cleverly, so cunningly, that no human eye — not even his — could have detected anything wrong. There was nothing to wash out — no stain of any kind — no blood-spot whatever. I had been too wary for that. A tub had caught all — ha! ha!

When I had made an end of these labors, it was four o'clock — still dark as midnight. As the bell sounded the hour, there came a knocking at the street door. I went down to open it with a light heart, — for what had I now to fear? There entered three men, who introduced themselves, with perfect suavity, as officers of the police. A shriek had been heard by a neighbor during the night; suspicion of foul play had been aroused; information had been lodged at the police-office, and they (the officers) had been deputed to search the premises.

I smiled, — for what had I to fear? I bade the gentlemen welcome. The shriek, I said, was my own in a dream. The old man, I mentioned, was absent in the country. I took my visiters all over the house. I bade them search — search well. I led them, at length, to his chamber. I showed them his treasures, secure, undisturbed. In the enthusiasm of my confidence, I brought chairs into the room, and desired them here to rest from their fatigues; while I myself, in the wild audacity of my perfect triumph, placed my own seat upon the very spot beneath which reposed the corpse of the victim.

The officers were satisfied. My manner had convinced them. I was singularly at ease. They sat, and, while I answered cheerily, they chatted of familiar things. But, ere long, I felt myself getting pale and wished them gone. [column 2:] My head ached, and I fancied a ringing in my ears: but still they sat and still chatted. The ringing became more distinct: I talked more freely, to get rid of the feeling; but it continued and gained definiteness — until, at length, I found that the noise was not within my ears.

No doubt I now grew very pale; — but I talked more fluently, and with a heightened voice. Yet the sound increased — and what could I do? It was a low, dull, quick sound — much such a sound as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I gasped for breath — and yet the officers heard it not. I talked more quickly — more vehemently; — but the noise steadily increased. I arose, and argued about trifles, in a high key and with violent gesticulations; — but the noise steadily increased. Why would they not be gone? I paced the floor to and fro, with heavy strides, as if excited to fury by the observations of the men; — but the noise steadily increased. Oh God! what could I do? I foamed — I raved — I swore! I swung the chair upon which I had sat, and grated it upon the boards; — but the noise arose over all and continually increased. It grew louder — louder — louder! And still the men chatted pleasantly, and smiled. Was it possible they heard not? Almighty God! — no, no! They heard! — they suspected! — they knew! — they were making a mockery of my horror! — this I thought, and this I think. But anything [[was]] better than this agony! Anything was more tolerable than this derision! I could bear those hypocritical smiles no longer! I felt that I must scream or die! — and now — again! — hark! louder! louder! louder! louder! —

“Villains!” I shrieked, “dissemble no more! I admit the deed! — tear up the planks! — here, here! — it is the beating of his hideous heart!”

Ah, Mr. Poe - I never tire of that story.

Thank you, Mr. Bartley. In "The Tell-Tale Heart," I attempted to present the narrator as a quintessential outsider, someone who exists on the fringes of society and struggles to fit in or be accepted. This outsider status is central to understanding the character and the story's theme.The narrator appears to have no meaningful connections with anyone except the old man. There's no mention of friends, family, or other social ties, emphasizing his isolation from society. The narrator's mental instability sets him apart from others. He begins the story by trying to convince the reader of his sanity, which paradoxically highlights his separation from what society considers “normal." His fixation on the old man's eye indicates an inability to relate to others in a typical way. This obsession further alienates him from normal social interactions and perceptions.
Lack of Identity

Mr. Poe - I think it is interesting that you never provides a name, age, or clear background for the narrator, enhancing the sense that he exists outside of societal norms and identities.

Yes, Mr. Bartley - and by committing murder, the narrator places himself outside the bounds of moral and legal society, solidifying his status as an outsider.

Ah, Mr. Poe - The narrator's skewed perspective and questionable reliability in telling his own story further emphasize his position as an outsider, even to the reader.  The narrator's outsider status allows you to critique societal norms and the thin line between sanity and madness. And through this outsider, you can delve into the depths of human psychology, exploring themes of guilt, paranoia, and the subconscious.

Very observant, Mr. Bartley - I believe that by presenting an outsider's perspective, I can challenge readers to question their own perceptions and societal roles.

That is very interesting, Mr. Poe - The narrator's outsider status creates a complex dynamic where readers might simultaneously feel sympathy for his isolation and horror at his actions. In essence, the narrator's position as an outsider is crucial to the story's impact, driving the plot and themes while providing a unique lens through which to examine human nature and society.

Mr. Poe, how would you say that the narrator's sense of being an outsider impact his or her mental state, leading to several internal conflicts

Ah, Mr. Bartley, first there is definitely a sense of paranoia - Feeling alienated from society, the narrator becomes increasingly paranoid, imagining threats where none exist.

Then the narrator repeatedly insists on the belief that he is quite sane, reflecting an internal struggle with self-perception and a desire for acceptance.

Also, the fixation on the old man's eye stems from the narrator's inability to connect normally with others, leading to an unhealthy obsession.

So, Mr. Poe - would you comment on how the narrator’s outsider status drives much of the plot?

Certainly, Mr. Bartley. The narrator's acute awareness of sounds and details reflects an outsider perspective, always on guard and hyper-aware of the narrator’s surroundings.

Mr. Poe, in a sense it only seems logical for the the internal pressure of being an outsider to ultimately lead to the narrator's breakdown and confession.

Mr. Poe - I think that one of the reasons I enjoy The Tell Tale Heart so much is that the story uses a narrator who you might call an outsider question the nature of reality by presenting events through the lens of an unreliable, narrator who does not realize he is unreliable.

Mr. Bartley - that is a most interesting observation.  In “The Tell Tale Heart” I used the outsider narrator to delve into the darker aspects of the human mind, exploring obsession, paranoia, and the consequences of social isolation.  And by crafting a narrator who is fundamentally an outsider, I created a character whose actions and perceptions drive the story's psychological horror while simultaneously exploring deeper themes about human nature and society. I believe that the narrator's outsider status is not just a character trait, but a crucial element that shapes the entire narrative structure and thematic core

Mr. Poe - In conclusion,  I find it most interesting you never provide a name, age, or clear background for the narrator, enhancing the sense that he exists outside of societal norms and identities.  And by committing murder, the narrator places himself outside the bounds of moral and legal society, solidifying his status as an outsider.  The narrator's skewed perspective and questionable reliability in telling his own story further emphasize his position as an outsider, even to the reader. The narrator's outsider status allowed you to critique societal norms and the thin line between sanity and madness.

Thank you Mr. Bartley - I have greatly enjoyed the observations from today, but I must say farewell.

Farewell, Mr. Bartley

Goodbye, Mr. Poe

Join Celebrate Poe for Episode 292 - A Decided Loss
Sources include: perplexity.ai, Edgar Allan Poe: A Critical Biography by Arthur Hobson Quinn, The Poe Log: A Documentary Life of Edgar Allan Poe by Dwight R. Thomas and David K. Jackson, and the Baltimore Edgar Allan Poe website.

Thank you for listening to Celebrate Poe.