Jonas Meyer

Systematical Originality: Constructing The Raven

When I first read Edgar Allan Poe�s The Raven I was overwhelmed. Not only does this poem (in the way of a ballad) narrate a very catchy story, but it also does so in a very elaborated way – every rhyme, every phrase, every word seems to be just perfect – and Poe even discovers new aesthetic ways of writing poems by integrating elements from the field of music (the chorus and a certain rhythm and melody) into his poetry.

Just to check out if such a well-composed poem could be translated into another language at all, I read a German translation by Hans Wollschläger. I was suprised that the poem still gave me the creeps, even after being translated into another language. Part of that probably has to be attributed to the refined translation skills of Wollschläger, who is also famous for having translated Joyce’ Ulysses. Still after some more research I discovered: there is more to it than meets the eye, and this becomes especially visible when you read Poe’s Philosophy of Composition – an essay about the creation of The Raven.

In this essay Poe does what few well-known authors have done before: he presents to the reader the “skeleton” of his most famous poem; he explains how The Raven was built from the bottom up.

Many critics and theorists of art believe that beauty can only be created spontaneously out of a sudden inspiration and not by constructing it systematically. A famous example is Heinrich von Kleist’s Über das Marionettentheater, an essay about how beauty can only be achieved when the consciousness of the artist is absent. Others say that works of art should reflect the state of mind and the feelings of the artist during the process of creating it. Poe, on the contrary, claims in Philosophy of Composition that if you want to create a beatiful and fascinating poem, you have to begin by deciding on the emotional effect your poem should create, followed by systematically constructing the plot “with the precision and rigid consequence of a mathematical problem”. The decisions he makes when producing literature cannot be attributed to “accident or intuition” but are conscious steps on the way to the desired and intended effect on the reader.

The process of constructing The Raven is described by Poe as the following:

He decides for a melancholic mood because in his eyes it is “the most legitimate of all the poetical tones”. Trying to be creative and original he looks for features that have not been used in poems before. The first thing that comes to his mind is the use of a refrain – a repetition of the same word over and over to express the growing melancholy with each iteration. So he has to look for a monotonous word “both in sound and thought” containing a “long o as the most sonorous vowel in connection with r as the most producible consonant”. The word he finds is, of course, “nevermore”. Consequently he has to find a reason why someone would repeat the word “nevermore” over and over again. A speaking animal is his solution to this problem, as normally speaking animals only repeat the few words which were taught to them. Deciding between a parrot and a raven, Poe chooses the later one because the black harbinger of death fits better to the melancholic mood of the poem than a colorful exotic bird. As a topic, Poe opted for “death” – the mourning of the tragic death of a beautiful woman by a lover who is left behind. Combining the “nevermore” of the raven with the man who is mourning his lost love, Poe creates a situation in which the raven’s “nevermore” at first is only an answer to simple, common questions, but as the dialog between the man and the raven reaches a climax, “the lover's final demand if he shall meet his mistress in another world” finally is denied by the raven’s “nevermore”. Poe also decides that the poem’s length should be so that one can read it “at one sitting”; he thinks it’s length should be around 100 lines (the final version has 108 lines).

When Poe writes out the poem, he does not start at the beginning but at the climax of the story. He then proceeds to construct an appropiate beginning with a plausible explanation of how the raven finds the mourning lover. Another concern is finding a shocking ending which gives the story “complexity” and “meaning”. Now he only has to fill in the gaps and the process of making The Raven comes to an end.

Concluding, Poe shows that an artist can very consciously and systematically compose his works while not making them seem artificial. In fact, he claims that the most beautiful pieces of art could only be created because of an enormous amount of thought and careful construction to reach the intended effect, while simultaneously hiding its own constructedness like a puppet master who tries to draw attention to the action of his puppets, thereby making the audience forget about the strings – about the artificiallity of the whole scene.

The Raven

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 someone 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 name Lenore,
Nameless here forevermore.

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 the darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness 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, something 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 the 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 upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as "Nevermore."

But the raven, sitting lonely on that 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 he will 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, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore
                                       Meant in croaking "Nevermore."

Thus 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 lining that the lamplight gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er
She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor.
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee -- by these angels he hath
Sent thee respite---respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, O 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 name Lenore---
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels name 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 lamplight 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!

The essay Philosophy of Composition can be found at http://www.poedecoder.com/Qrisse/works/philosophy.php