literature

Beloved Immortal

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Baltimore’s scene in October resembles significantly to London, at least that’s what my partner says. Since I’ve never visited London, I’ll have to take his word. What is certain is that this scene looks like it’s been taken right out from one of his tales: damp paved streets, mobs of people coming and going in dark coats and even darker faces and the gloomy streetlights that hardly illuminate through the heavy midst of this early evening.

This whole atmosphere makes Poe look even glummer, but quite the contrary; he appears almost joyful, as much as this word can apply to a temper such as his.

- There was something you wanted to ask – he reminds me as we walk together.

It’s true, that’s why I’ve spent the last three months looking for him through all the land, but now I’m in front of him it would appear that my mind has been wiped clean.

- A couple of things, actually – I answer, although I can’t remember a single one of them.

- Ask, then.

Edgar Allan Poe isn’t particularly tall or robust, as a matter of fact he has that sickish air described so perfectly in “The Fall Of The House Of Usher”, but he knows how to impose himself.

- What brought you to Baltimore? – I say as I try to remember my questionnaire.

- Oh! I can see now that this is going to be a formal chat – says the writer, and his attention seems to fade away. He looks disappointed.

- Not at all, mister Poe. – I assure promptly – Maybe I didn’t phrase it properly: what brings a man of solitude and deep forests, such as you, to a busy city like Baltimore? Literary projects, perhaps?

- Not really. Well, at least not mine. A wealthy businessman’s wife plans to publish a book of poems and she has requested my assistance. To be fair with the lady, she couldn’t have asked for better help; to be fair with literature, those poems should never become public.

- And when can we expect new poems from you, sir?

- Soon, maybe. Once I’ve gathered enough money I can go back to my noble art of rhyme and prose. But that’s enough of idle talk; you wanted to ask me something. It must be awkward, for you seem unable to bring yourself to do it. Just spit it out, that way it should be easier.

- I have been reading some poems of yours and several tales as well. Especially those with female name “Eleonora”, “Lenore”, “Berenice”, “Annabel Lee”, “Ligeia”…

- Ah, yes! My women: all of them young, snatched from their lover’s arms by a dreadful decease. Romanticism as taught in Europe.

- And… Virginia?

He stops suddenly and looks at me with and odd expression. Then, in a blink, he starts to laugh silently and raises his head, amused.

- So, that’s it. You wanted to ask the widower about his departed wife. Did you think I’d burst into tears?

- … Is Virginia Poe all of these women?

- Try it the other way around.

- All of these women are Virginia Poe?

- Yes, in a way. Virginia has been my greater love, in this life and in the other. I’m utterly sorry for what she must have suffered by my side.

We keep walking. My partner varies his velocity following the rush of his enthusiasm and the sternness of his sadness, one after the other. I can’t stop looking at him and absorbing his words and his gestures. This man before me has caused controversy because of his horror tales, his literary critics, his fantastic worlds, because of all his work and all in his life.

His marriage with Virginia Poe, his fourteen year old cousin, was a major scandal for the traditional American society. His almost mythical problem with drinking has also provoked that some social circles in the country go to the extreme of banning his books. However, I’ve heard that, in the Old Continent, his work is admired and cause of wonder and that, as a matter of fact, the writer has been ‘adopted’ by the European romantics. To think that this pale man is talking to me, that he is about to describe me the motifs and feelings that inspired him to write the most beautiful tales and poems of this century!

Edgar Poe inhales slowly, as he orders his ideas, and with the same voice he uses for his declamations of “The Raven”, he starts a new tale:

- Eleonora is Virginia, yes. Eleonora is a child, like Virginia was when I married her. I promised her no everlasting oaths, at least not with words, but my love has proven to be as faithful as the one in the story. I’m about to marry again too and, don’t get me wrong, for I love my fiancée, but I keep feeling in the wind the sweet voice of Virginia… or Eleonora.
“Annabel Lee is Virginia as well. Wasn’t it the wind that blew out of a cloud by night, chilling and killing them both: my Virginia and Annabel Lee? What is the poem doesn’t literally say that Annabel Lee died of consumption like my wife. Poetry would not admit such a rude explanation when interpretation can grant it clear as light. Press –thank God- said nothing at the moment, but I too spent all the night-tide lying down by the side of my Virginia, my darling, my life and my bride.
“Ligeia… well, it would be my sweetest dream if Virginia could return as Ligeia did! It was endlessly commented when the tale was first published that fair Ligeia shared a good amount of features with poor Virginia. Many people thought it wasn’t nice that the lover of the tale died when my wife was still living, and it seemed to them worse that the dead from the tale came back to life while the living seemed to leave for death. They thought I was anticipating. They thought I wanted to make her immortal, even if just in paper. They thought I wanted to die with my wife… maybe they were right.

After this, follows a pause. We keep walking, a couple of walkers just like everybody else in the avenue, dark coats, scarf and gloves. I dare not break the silence. I don’t need to, for Poe retakes the relation with a less heavy voice.

- Truth is I did spend plenty of time by Virginia’s bed when I was writing. She liked to see me doing it and, to be honest, I liked the fact that she was seeing me.
“Critics said plenty of times that after I married her I didn’t write with the same quality from my first times. Some others said that I married her so that the scandal would sell my stories. Some even said I didn’t write properly until she got sick!

I can’t help to notice a bitter note in his words, like those insinuations hurt him, like the mere fact that someone even thought of that make him sick. There’s a deep pain in his dark eyes and in his mouth tight under his moustache…

We keep walking, looking nothing but the cobblestones and the filthy sleet that carpets the streets of Baltimore. He sighs quietly and, for a moment, I feel like a spy for witnessing something so intimate, for this demonstration of vulnerability in a man like Edgar Poe. Then he stops and watches me, half grinning again. As he resumes his walking, he also resumes his talking:

- So, as an answer to your question: Yes, Virginia Poe is all these women and all these women are Virginia Poe; in the same way that I’m all the lovers and all the lovers are me. I’m positively certain that this will earn me fierce critics, saying that I take advantage of pity for my wife’s death to sell my stories; I can’t hardly blame them, maybe I would think the same.
“But there is only one thing I would say in my defense: all of them, who criticize me, don’t they expend their money and energy in paintings or tombstones, so that when they’re dead something’s left to tell the world who they were and how they lived? I portray my Virginia in all of my women, I tell the world how she lived and the deep pain that overtook me when she died, expecting that future lovers can enjoy happier loves than mine.

A raven, unequivocal symbol of Edgar Poe’s, stares at us from the branches of a withered tree. We both look at it and I feel there’s nothing left to say. Poe appears to feel the same way, for he looks at me with his odd smile and his piercing, melancholic eyes and, with a gentle bow, binds good-bye and walks away.

I feel a warm wind passing me (something totally impossible in this Maryland winter) and running towards Poe. He stops and looks around. Even in the distance, I can see his sombre face while he searches for something in the dark. The same warm wind whispers again, dishevelling his dark hair, and a smile, a real smile, appears in his lips, enlightening his eyes. For a moment he seems a new man, a young man enjoying an intimate, unspeakable bliss.

A stream of cold winter air charges against us, but he seems not to notice. With the smile still in his lips, he resumes his way: another ghost fading in the midst.
I study Journalism at the Autonomous National University of Mexico (Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México, UNAM)
I wrote this imaginary interview to Edgar Allan Poe when I was in third term for my Interview class. The actual date, I don't have it, though I do know it was in 2007.

I do not own Edgar Allan Poe nor any of the tales and/or poems mentioned here.
I do own my imagination, though....
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Estudio Periodismo en la Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México, UNAM.
Escribí esta entrevista imaginaria a Edgar Allan Poe para mi curso de Entrevista. La fecha exacta no la sé, pero sé que fue en 2007.

No soy dueña de Edgar Allan Poe ni de ninguno de sus cuentos y/o poemas mencionados aquí.
Sin embargo, sí soy dueña de mi imaginación...
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iheartmoony7's avatar
that was so great, i love poe and this was one of the few things i've ever read that potrayed him as a real person and not as a total mad man and when i say i love poe i am NOT kidding. i freaking went as his wife to a halloween party, i even had a hankerchief with fake blood spots on it (you know, the whole tuberculosis thing) yeah i know sad right?