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Joel Clark
Professor Hilgers
English 102
16 December 2007
Edgar Allen Poe:

“’The Raven’ has had a great run…but I wrote it for the express purpose of running-just as I did the ‘Gold Bug’…the bird beat the bug, though, all hollow”, Poe wrote in a letter to his close friend, F. W. Thomas, on May 4, 1845. Edgar Allen Poe writing career was of that purpose, “running.” Poe was born in Boston the 19th of January 1809. The Poe pedigree can be traced to north Ireland, were General David Poe, Edgar’s grandfather took leave to settle down in Augusta, Georgia. Poe’s father, David Poe was a traveling actor who married Elizabeth Arnold, who happens to be a talented actor, singer, and dancer. David abandoned Elizabeth, leaving her to fend for the children. David leaves the family never to be seen again. Poe wasn’t yet three years old when his mother suffered from exposure endured during travel. She died in a theatrical rooming house in Richmond, Virginia. The children were then separated into different families; John Allan and his wife had taken in Edgar. They had the wealth to fund Poe’s education.
Poe started his study at the Manor House School at Stoke Newington, then classical education in Scotland, and final destination the University of Virginia. 1827, his academic career ended; he fell into debt gambling and dropped out. He had
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managed to publish a forty-page booklet entitled “Tamerlane and Other Poems by Bostonian” in Boston by the age of eighteen. The same year he enlists to the army as a private under the name Edgar A. Perry. The army records a description of Poe’s appearance. “He gave his occupation of as that of a clerk, his age as twenty-two; the record as existing in army documents describes his height as five feet, eight inches, his eyes grey, his hair brown and his complexion fair.” It has been claimed by phrenologists that a line dividing his face perpendicularly separated very dissimilar halves, as if each expressed a different side of his nature. His army life would later shape charters within his writing. Honorably discharged, his service in the army ended in 1828. Poe later entered into the academy at West Point. This was a means of living for Poe, one that was a poet prison for him. Poe had intentions to leave and then one day the axe just fell. 1831, Poe was court martialed and expelled from the academy only serving a little over one year.
Poe fell on some hard times after he left West Point. Though his reputation for his poems grew, he was financially unstable. He could no longer depend on his foster father’s help. When John Allen died with his large fortune not a cent was to go to Poe. Poe had a weakness for alcohol, at times excessively binge drinking. He was able to have Carey & Lea agree publish a book for him, and also was able to submit tales to various magazines. Poe married his cousin Virginia Clemm who was only fourteen at the time. Poe then did literary work for “The Southern Literary Messenger” at Richmond. He had megar salaries, but managed to support his wife and her mother Poe called Muddy. Poe

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would fall into episodes of great depression were at times would write to his friend Kennedy in search of hope. “I am wretched and know not why. Console me-for you can. But let it be quickly-or it will be late. Write me immediately. Convince me that it is worth one’s while that it is necessary to live, and you will prove yourself indeed my friend. Persuade me to do what is right.” Poe left “The Messenger” in 1836 to find work else were. He went to New York, there he lived in a small home and wrote “The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym”. Poe moved again in search of work to Philadelphia, as a editor for an “Gentleman’s Magazine.” He stayed in Philadelphia for six years. There he shared a small brick tenement with Virginia in which she grew out a garden for the home. Poe built up an impressive writing career with several published works and recognition from critics. Poe continued to edit for the “Granham’s magazine” in 1841 when George R. Granham had bought out Burton, Poe’s former boss for the rights to the magazine. He resigned from the magazine in April 1843. Poe had ambitions to start a magazine of is own some day. He aimed on calling the magazine “The Stylus.” In April 1844 his wife had ruptured a blood vessel and became very ill, he took his wife and her mother to New York for the second time. Here he almost persuaded Dr. T. H. Chivers, a fellow poet to help fund the magazine project. Unfortunately, Poe was never able to get the magazine up and running and fell into old temptations.
Poe’s was engaged in criticisms amongst other poets. He took himself as a serious critic, often giving severe remarks in his criticism. He published “The Raven” in 1845 and it was an immediate success. Even so, he had made enemies with his strong opinions and resentful nature towards society. “So verbal and so purely selfish that he
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can no longer have any sympathy with him”, proclaimed Charles F. Briggs in reaction to Poe’s published criticisms. Critics took shots at him by pointing out his faults with drinking. In 1846, Poe was receiving vicious insults from critics when “The Cask of Amontillado” was published, and had no doubt been a way of venting frustration. Poe made vows to give up alcohol for good, as a promise to his close friends. He remained focused on his writing including revising earlier poems for final adjustments to the end of his career.
January 13th, 1847 Poe’s beloved wife Virginia dies. Poe begins to slow down. He has great sorrow in his heart for the loss of his wife. He begins to move around between different places and reunites some old friendships. He finds romantic interest in some new women. Nothing that amounts to the role the Virginia had filled in his life. Poe makes his way to Baltimore; there he is found by Joseph walker to be described strangely dressed and semiconscious. The cause for Poe’s ailment is argued from intoxication to a form of rabies. Poe was then driven to the hospital of Washington medical college; there he died on October 7th, 1849. His dieing words were “Lord help my poor soul.”
The means for Poe to write was something that he was compelled to do. He found times of depression in his life that all have felt at one point or another, but not to the length Poe knew. His poems often reflected his sense of discontentment towards society. His writings were an means of expression that he kept up since his first published works at the age of eight-teen to his death at forty. His works became

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increasingly refined as he held his writing to a very high standard. “The Raven” was Poe’s great success translated into every major language and was renown as a great piece
of literature. The poem appeals to a large group of readers who share empathy for Poe’s artistic expression. The subject of mortality is often addressed in Poe’s writings. “The Raven” tells of a man stricken by grief over a lost love named Lenore. Poe’s writing has an intensity that seems come from the soul. The declining health of Virginia must have affected Poe as he wrote “The Raven.” The poems sense of sorrow must have been came from fears that he would lose his beloved wife Victoria. This bad dream came true two years later. The demon bird that speaks nevermore was to be a raven, as the theme of mortality and the existence of a soul.
“…And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted evermore.”
Poe’ friend Henry B Hirst happened to own a tamed raven which Poe would studied a good extent. He told Hirts “That bird [a raven], that imp bird pursues me, mentally, perpetually; I cannot rid myself of its presence;…I hear its croak as I used to hear it at Stoke Newington, the flap of its wings in my ear.” Driven into the depths of despair the narrator interrogates the raven in alternative manor then peace and tranquility. His questions resonating from his inner soul. A sense of torment can be interpreted in the poem as tapping at the chamber door. There are many ways of criticisms that can be formulated, but on what grounds? The piece of literature should be held up to the principles of art. The expressive as well as compositional forms of expression. Poe has

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been called “the greatest artist of death” as his story telling for horror was renown. His writing can be criticized on merit of soul, art, composition, and his fancy of imagination
that was uniquely Poe’s style. The frightening story of a raven’s presence on the grief stricken narrator.
“…Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore”. “The Raven” embodies Poe life as the express purpose of running. Locking a part of his self in his writing Poe managed to be one of the most influential poets of the 1900’s and has continued to be read as a sincere writer with a heavy heart.

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Work Cited
Dole, Nathan Hakell. The Complete Works of Edgar Allan Poe. 1 vols. (biography) New York: Werner Company, 1908.
Dole, Nathan Hakell. The Complete Works of Edgar Allan Poe. 7 vols. (criticisms) New York: Werner Company, 1908.
Dole, Nathan Hakell. The Complete Works of Edgar Allan Poe. 8 vols. (criticisms) New York: Werner Company, 1908.
Dole, Nathan Hakell. The Complete Works of Edgar Allan Poe. 9 vols. (criticisms) New York: Werner Company, 1908.
Mabbott, Thomas Ollive, ed. Collected Works of Edgar Allan Poe. 1 vols. Cambridge: Harvard University Printing Office, 1969.
Benitez, R. Michael, Dr. “Poe’s Death Is Rewritten as Case of Rabies, Not Telltale Alchohol.” The New York Times 15 Sept. 1996.
< http://www.online-literature.com/poe/>. 2007.

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13

Focused in the cockpit Snake sits in his chair on the way to alpha omega space station. Geni walks up behind him and presses her small soft and firm boobs on the back of Snake’s head and doesn’t say anything while Snake looks out the space shield. They stay like this for what they wish for eternity, but the silence is broken when Mudd enters the cockpit. “How’s this one going to go you think?” he says. “Where closing in to their sector now. Looks like their giving us a green light to dock,” Snake says. The com flashes and a voice is transmitted, “proceed to docking by escort.” Two armed crafts with pulse cannons on each side of their saucers began to meet in formation on either side of the carrier vessel of our heroes. They dock and then Snake says, “I go alone.” “Come on man, what the fuck?” Mudd replies. Geni says, “This is typical of Snake, this is how he likes to do business.” Armed guards escort Snake as soon as he exits the ship as he is scanned for weapons by passing through x-rays. “All you’ll find is my dick hanging halfway down my thigh.” No one seemed amused. He mutters, “tough crowd.” The guards and people at the terminals all seemed to be human and at every door there were two armed guards. The station itself was a geometric mesh of cubular shapes imposed in a way to resemble a tetrahedron of sorts. “I am going to see the emperor, yes?” The guards did not answer. They transversed different platforms and shafts observing the the technological splendor of the station. They entered an elevator and were going to what must or seemed the way to the pire, minaret sort of the peak the station. As the two doors opened the two guards remained in the elevator then after a few seconds Snake waked out and two more guards in full red armor and capes were aside the scaffold in some nightmare of exposed heights. Then a voice, “guards leave us.” As the guards exited Snake walked past them narrowly brushing shoulders. Up a great set of stairs was a man in a darkened blue cloak. “I’ve been expecting you, Snake.” “Well what is it I’m supposed to explain here,” Snake says as he reaches the top. “You mistake me. I do not care about your little dash through station 45. I care about the so called ecosystem cosmology of space. Every ecosystem has wealth and a balance must be struck. You have been mining and supplying trade for us for years and yet you haven’t even understood what we are using these resources for. Those who understand that souls have been trapped in some of these crystals have not been a concern to you?“ “In fact yes my crew has had an incident with this.” “So you know what we do now?“ “Of all the things that can come of these resorses the last thing I excepted was this kind of phenomenon.” Snake said. After the disclosure of their studies the emperor said. “There is an ancient race we can gain knowledge of for some backwards freak accident the species mutated to mineral crystals, maybe as they transitioned into another dimension. You will report to me now on of your excursions and will be an outside consultant.”

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A slow mental suicide, the way of the universe. Snake’s shot out to the kaper belt is put on hold. They chart a course to our favorite corporate space station, Barron station designated alpha omega. Rumors are that the emperor himself may be there currently. “They know we’re coming, I hope the beefed up security will not intimidate us, shields up!“ Mudd responds to Snake,”We don’t have shields.” “I know I just wanted to say that. I hope negotiations go well.”

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Shaking asses for the masses. The thing on the mind was becoming half altered for Snake. “There is more to this I know, but can’t recall,” he says. Not to get to close to the flow of mind and emotions both Mudd and Snake exchange bits of information to each other. “I’ve been here a long time,” Mudd says. “Call for Geni.” Snake goes to the corridor openings to make his way to the front end of the ship. The next 6 months results in the crew not finding anything as far as mineral acquisitions, only the need to decide to call it in regards to resupply themselves at this point. They wanted to make way where they could hall in remote sectors wealth, but were just wasting their time. So the time was just a waste then? Certainly yes, unequivocally so. On the way back to a outpost station they as a group wringing their hands to failure to deep space. Mudd uttered to Geni, “It’s like we scratched on the 8 ball.”

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“Ok, we are being hunted, yes,” Snake says to Mudd. “We must first think of Geni’s safety because we love her so much and I can’t live without her.” “You’re acting like a pussy, it’s hilarious.””Nuh-ah, she really likes me… she just expresses it in a way that makes no sense.””Ok thanks for clearing that up. Any way the nano dust passes in farts so we should be good in a couple days. Hopefully you can keep up some rouse to keep Geni away while we ‘yoga clense’ our selves from another errand meat modem of our thought waves if it makes any sense why us what so ever.”

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Curse of a Bitter Heart: Dedicated to DDaron

To be a creature is to have a receptive heart, one should act accordingly. The act of eating ones heart is a symbol for an unpleasant living. “The Heart” written by Stephen Crane tells of a creature, bestial, and naked that feeds on his own heart. The narrator asks the creature “Is it good, friend?” in which he reply’s, “It is bitter—bitter, but I like it because it is bitter, and because it is my heart.” The interest of the poem lies with the mystery of this creature’s existence. This creature’s remorseless life can easily be imagined as frightening. The fact of having managed to sustain living is the most basic level of survival. The bitter taste of his heart indicates that his heart is receptive to feelings of anger and resentment. Perhaps his primal mind is at odds with his sensitive heart. Can this creature be human? The act of eating ones heart is unheard of; but similar rituals are known, such as Indian warriors eating the hearts of their defeated enemies. These dubious rituals are forms of expression aimed to communicate to receptive beings. The poem stands as a powerful allegory for the significance of balance.
The motto ignorance is bliss comes to mind when pondering the life of an impulsive creature that lives without remorse or pity. Surely no one could escape the consequences of their actions. It’s been said that one cannot know true success without

ever experiencing failure. One can believe that the creature knows this to be true. Imagine the bitter existence of living in the vast desert, a slave to lonesome comforts. The most basic feeling of fear most have ultimately gripped at the creature. In reaction to his distressing disposition the creature makes what can be described as an expression of resentment; resentment towards his vulnerable side. He cuts out the source of his distress allowing him to move past it. Then he eats his heart in hopes that it will be the final step to concur his weakness. What sensation he must of felt as his heart was digested. Funneling down his heart through his throat causing his muscles to swell and retract. Realizing what he has done he seems to have a moment of clarity; he understands the consequence of his action. Devouring the sensitivities of his human feelings the creature somehow manages to be receptive to the loss. The remnants of his devoured heart must of lead him to believe that he had failed to improve his disposition. The last moments as human before he turns completely beast realizes his heart was what gave him his identity.
All creatures must have the aptitude to survive the forces that threaten ones health. The human creature, most complex , endures the greatest difficulty. No ailment can match a resentful heart that broods misery and darkness. A bitter taste is usually perceived to be unpleasant, yet the creature claims to like it. Yes, a human is a creature, one with the capacity for both good and evil. To love, hate, to be compassionate, to fear, to be receptive to emotions is what makes us human. The creature in “The Heart” is bestial, lacking normal human feelings of pity or remorse. His motivation for eating his heart is unclear, maybe a means of comfort, an impulse of a

carnivore engaging his teeth. Whatever the purpose, the action serves as an expression to his life in the desert. To express the feeling he had was means for him to like the bitter taste as his last means to convey himself to his surroundings. The creature had acted in accordance to his lamenting heart and would learn that a balance between suffering and desire would serve him better than overindulging in one side of his nature.
“The Heart” induces the reader into a dreamy imagery of a creature’s dwellings in the desert. The vision renders a primal creature unnatural ability to devour his sensitivity in the form of flesh. At the peek of the creatures suffering and desire he utters simple words in reflection to his state of being. In digesting Stephen Cranes poem one is forced to know introversion in ones own life to sympathize with the creature. In which case you are left only to say, “…Because it is my heart.”

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“So what does this stuff do,” Snake asks Mudd. “An enchantment, straight to the brain I’m afraid. They say this dust is manufactured underneath the finger nails of some real bad people.” The two become high not knowing what to do with themselves. Snake walks to the nearest com and speaks, “Um Geni we got a situation here. Stay out of the cargo room we have some particulates that are in the room. “Well they have a way to talk into our minds now, that’s great, pure manipulation.” “That’s what it is, we will be playing the game whether we want to or not.” Geni replies on the com, “well please check in, OK?” To high to know what is going on Snake walks around in circles mumbling, “crap, shit, fuck, ass. crap-fuck, shit-shit, fuck-whoa, ass-whoa… no um fuck-ass, ass whoa. Yes yes I’m piss! Mudd nods in agreement and says,”You’re dead.” meanwhile Geni notices as she walks through the commons room the screen now was showing a picture of an 8 ball like in billiards. She says, “How do you explain that, I’m the only boss here now I feel like a pontsy asshole.”

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“So I know you don’t like talking about it, but should we be worried about the next would be count abyss,” Snake says to Mudd. “I would be more worried that Dub had friends.” “Yeah maybe so.” The two figure the gold plac will be more important then just it’s weight. “Let’s remove the plac from the rock,” Snake says as he pokes around the storage cubbies and caged supplies on the wall. After cracking the rock with a hydraulic charged spike they found a cavity in the middle of the rock in the shape of a perfect cube. “How is that even possible,” Snake says to Mudd. “That was a solid piece of rock.” “I guess it’s what’s on the inside that counts.” “You mean to say we just opened up something into the air?” “I would say so, nano dust I bet. Witches.”