Eleni Chrysostomaki
Φωτογραφία από το Wikimedia Commons
Being my personal favourite writer, after an exercise in class, I felt obliged to review this extraordinary man named Edgar Allan Poe. In a short life of just 40 years (1809-1849), he managed to be one of the most innovative writers, not only of his time but of modern literature in general. His earnest attempts in being a writer began after his brother’s death.
To begin with, he has been called the “mad genius”, mainly due to his introducing the investigative novel; and his mad investigative skills. They called him the “tormented artist”. That would be an expected title of course because his life struggles and tragedies weren’t a few. Adopted by the Allan family, he lost his brother and his wife died of tuberculosis, and in his career he struggles to be a professional writer, factors which have all contributed to his drinking problem and tragic figure in general. Lastly, some went as far as to call him an exploiter of his personal struggles; but what poet is not? Even if we tried, we would not find one writer or poet who is not driven, stigmatized and characterized by his personal inner fights. They say that tragedy is the foundation of art.
His main theme, death; was a great part not only of his works but of his life as we mentioned earlier. Most of his fiction works are Gothic; not the modern trend you might have presumed, but a kind of dark romanticism, or simply part of the Romantic Movement.
He considered himself different; and he was. He thought that even from his childhood, he has not been as others were and all he loved he loved alone (from Alone, one of his poems). This particular poem has got me thinking: sometimes we feel the same way; out of tune with the rest of the world, out cast, demons. It is either from our personal life struggles, difficulties and pain that these feelings might derive. Some of us get over them quickly, some take time, some never recover from a deep tragedy, and some don’t live long enough to tell the tale.
This brings me back to our beloved Mr. Poe. He was found in the streets of Baltimore delirious, in great distress and in need of immediate assistance according to the man who found him. Being half conscious, Poe never got round to explain how he came to be in this dire position, and, oddly enough he was wearing clothes that weren’t his own. So, did he actually die of delirium tremens, heart disease, epilepsy, syphilis, cholera or rabies? Was he killed for political gain by some party? We might never know, because his death as much as his literature “victims” deaths, remains a mystery; that is what I call tragic irony. His death certificate and medical records have been lost. So, whether he died of his own volition by being a drunk or was killed or by a disease, he surely didn’t live to tell the tale of recovery from tragedy. This brings me back to misfortune. Except for the untimely and tragic death of Poe, we have to consider the other options. Quick rehabilitation to normality is due to a small misfortune, and the longer it gets to recover, the more serious it is; is it not? This creates a question mark on whether or not he would have remained a great artist if he died ten years later than he did. Would the marks of losing loved ones have stopped affecting his writing? Would it evolve or would it fester? This, we’ll never know, only speculate.
“Men have called me mad; but the question is not yet settled, whether madness is or not the loftiest intelligence-whether much that is glorious- whether all that is profound-does not spring from disease of thought- from moods of mind exalted at the expense of the general intellect” He said in “Eleonora”. In his case it was intelligence that prevailed over madness. He practically invented the investigative novel as I mentioned before, but not only that. He reinvented science fiction, by writing for emerging technologies such as hot air balloons in “The Balloon-Hoax”.
He wished he could write as mysteriously as cats, and I believe he achieved it. These were the humble thoughts of a big fan; of the ingenious Edgar A. Poe. Lord help our poor souls, as were his last words.
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