Greetings and Salutations, ye rose-smelling blowfish readers of the blog,
Can you believe they gave me the old heave-ho last week for that bucket of swill? Aye, I’ll dance the horn pipe over Dave’s grave one day.
Now ye sluggards I have a special treat this Friday. So come my children of the night, and we will tour the The Cemetery in the dark. The way it is meant to be seen. When it is at its most delightful. Our guest is the man credited with invention of the detective genre. A poet, author, publisher, magazine editor, and literary critic. A man who’s very death is a mystery to most to this day. Welcome, Edgar Allen Poe.
EA: “As you know, I do not have an abundance of time. Please, let us get on with it.”
GD: “Of course Mr. Poe. I’m sure you have worms and such to attend to. Do you agree that a man is the son of his work?”
EA: “Yes I do. The reverse is also true. My work is both my creation and creator.”
GD: (Digger shudders) “If you say so. Your work represents madness, and subjects most morose in nature. What does that make you?”
EA: “A son whose life was snuffed out too soon. A son whose experiences colored his writing. An honest son, whose work reflected the mistreatment of men by those who perceived their high station granted them the right to do so. The vain and boastful Fortunato for instance. Do you not agree the world is a better place without his narcissistic ilk?”
GD: “The Cask Of Amontillado, one of my favorite tales, as it touches on the interment of the living. Fortunato was a blowhard and a braggart. However, there are those lily-livered dandies who feel Montressor’s treatment of him harsh.”
EA: “I believe the vile deserve a vile ending. What of poor Hop-Frog whose very name was taken from him? Forced to entertain the King and his advisors. Was setting them alight to brutal a punishment. I think not. In Masque of The Red Death, Prince Prospero flaunts his wealth, lords it over his realm even as his loyal subjects die in streets of the plague. Is it not poetic justice that plague, attends his most magnificent party of the season, killing all in attendance?”
GD: “Ye’ll get no argument from this quarter. The punishment should equal the injustice.”
GD: “You mentioned poetic justice. Can we talk about The Raven? What caused you to write a poem about a man mourning the loss of his love?”
EA: ‘I chose this topic because the death of a beautiful woman is unquestionably the most poetic topic in the world.”
GD: “Some think the raven represents the devil.”
EA: (A harsh laugh) “What do those fools know? The Raven symbolizes a mournful and never-ending remembrance. The death of a flower before the frost, of a love no matter how sincere the heart, that can never be received by the intended.”
GD: “What of the prophetic nature of the poem itself? Two years later you found yourself sitting in that very chamber?”
EA: (Turns his head away.) “Those were dark days to be sure.” (his brooding gaze shines in the dark) “I believe my train is boarding.”
GD: “But you yourself, called the Raven a prophet.”
EA: “I imply it may be an Angel, and a thing of evil, bird or devil, do not impose upon my good nature.”
With a rustle of dry leaves he is gone.
GD: “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean anger you. Will you come back.” (An obsidian feather drifts to rest at Diggers feet, he picks it up) “I guess this is all the answer I’ll get. That was rather abrupt, but all good things must come to a timely finish, lest they wear out their welcome.
I’ll leave you with a quotation of my choosing today. This one comes from Charles Bukowski, The People Look Like Flowers at Last
“You have to die a few times before you can really live.”
I’ll see you worm-riddled, skirt-wearers next Friday.