A Hysterical Reading of 'The Raven', by Edgar Allen Poe

Transcript

Oh, this might have been a bad idea. The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe. 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.

To some visitor I muttered, tapping at my chamber door, only this and nothing more. Distinctly I remembered 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 a crease 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 to some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door, some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door, that is it, 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, as I was napping, 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 that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before, but the silence was broken, and the silence gave no token, and the only word there spoken was the whispered word, Lenore, thus 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 somewhat louder than before, surely, said I, surely that is something at my window lattice, let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore, oh fuck, I said that wrong, oh fuck, let me see then, what there at it is, and this mystery explore, let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore, tis the wind, and nothing more, but a pawnee, open here I flung the shutter, then with many a flirt and flutter, as there stepped a stately raven of the faintly days of yore, not the least obeisance made he, not a minute stopped or stayed he, but with Mayan of lord or lady perched upon my chamber door, perched upon a bust of palace, just above my chamber door, perched and sat, and nothing more, than this ebony bird beguiling us, my said fancy, and a smiling, by the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, though thy crest be shorn and shaven thou, I said, heart sure no craven, ghastly grim and ancient raven, wandering from the nightly shore, tell me what thy lordly name is, on the night's plutonian shore, clothed raven, never more, oh fuck, much I travelled, thus ungainly foul to hear disclosure so plainly, though in answer this 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, was something ever more, never more, oh fuck, but the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only that one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour, nothing further than he uttered, not a feather, than 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, than the birds that never more, startled at the stillness broken by reply, so happily spoken, doubtless did I, what it mutters, is its only stock in store, caught from some unhappy master, whom unmerciful disaster followed fast, followed faster, till his songs one burden bore, till the dirges of his hope, that melancholy burden bore, of never, never more, but the raven, still beguiling all my fancy into smiling, straight I wheeled, a cushioned seat in front of my bird and bust and door, then open, a 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 never more, this I sat engaging 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, never more, 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 nepenth from the memories of Lenore, oh quaff, oh quaff, this kind Nepenthe, oh, and forgot this lost Lenore, quoth the raven, never more, prophet, said I, thing of evil, prophet still of bird or devil, whether tempest sent, or whether tempest tossed, thee here ashore, desolate, ye, undaunted, on this desert land, enchanted, on this palm, by horror haunted, tell me, truly, I am poor, answer, balm, and Gilead, tell me, tell me, I am poor, quoth the raven, never more, prophet, said I, thing of evil, prophet still of bird or devil, oh, be it by that heaven that bends above us, by that god we both adore, tell this soul with sorrow laden, if within this distant Aden, it shall clasp a sainted maiden, whom the angels call Lenore, clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels name Lenore, quoth the raven, never more, oh God, by the word I've signed a parting, bird or fiend, I shrieked, I'm starting, get thee back into the tempest, and the night's Lutonian shore, leave no black plume as token of that lie, that thy soul has spoken, nevel, leave my loneliness unbroken, quit the bust of my door, take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door, quoth the raven, never more, oh, and the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting, on the pallid bust of palace, 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 froze his shadow on the floor, and my soul from out that shadow lies, floating on the floor, shall be lifted, never more, oh, fuck me, oh, fuck, oh, .