as one’s voice produces an echo? An echo is a product of a
certain vacuum. A thought . . .
Concentration is the key. I have been concentrating. My
supplies are replenished, and Neptune—visited during my
venture below—seems rational enough, although he shrinks
away when I approach him. I have left him below and spent
the past week here. Concentration, I repeat, is the key to
my experiment.
Concentration, by its very nature, is a difficult task: I
addressed myself to it with no little trepidation. Strive but
to remain seated quietly with a mind “empty” of all thought,
and one finds in the space of a very few minutes that the
errant body is engaged in all manner of distracting move-
ment—foot tapping, finger twisting, facial grimacing.
This I managed to overcome after a m atter of many hours
—my first three days were virtually exhausted in an effort
to rid myself of nervous agitation and assume the inner and
outer tranquillity of the Indian fakir. Then came the task of
“filling” the empty consciousness—filling it completely with
one intense and concentrated effort of will.
W hat echo would I bring forth from nothingness? W hat
companionship would I seek here in my loneliness? W hat
was the sign or symbol I desired? W hat symbolized to me
the whole absent world of life and fight?
DeGrát would laugh me to scorn if he but knew the con-
cept that I chose. Yet I, the cynical, the jaded, the decadent,
searched my soul, plumbed my longing, and found that
2 0 0
TOE M A N WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE
which I most desired—a simple sign, a token of all the earth
removed: a fresh and growing flower, a rose!
Yes, a simple rose is what I have sought—a rose, torn from
its living stem, perfumed with the sweet incarnation of life
itself. Seated here before the window I have dreamed, I
have mused, I have then concentrated with every fiber of
my being upon a rose.
My mind was filled with redness—not the redness of the
sun upon the sea, or the redness of blood, but the rich and
radiant redness of the rose. My soul was suffused with the
scent of a rose: as I brought my faculties to bear exclusively
upon the image, these walls fell away, the walls of my very
flesh fell away, and I seemed to merge in the texture, the
odor, the color, the actual essence of a rose.
Shall I write of this, the seventh day, when seated at the
window as the sun emerged from the sea, I felt the com-
manding of my consciousness? Shall I write of rising, de-
scending the stairs, opening the iron door at the base of the
lighthouse and peering out at the billows that swirled at
my very feet? Shall I write of stooping, of grasping, of
holding?
Shall I write that I have indeed descended those iron stairs
and returned here with my wave-borne trophy— that this
very day, from waters two hundred miles distant from any
shore, I have reached down and plucked a fresh rose?
Jan. 28.
It has not withered! I keep it before me constantly in a vase
on this table, and it is a priceless ruby plucked from dreams.
It is real—as real as the howls of poor Neptune, who senses
that something odd is afoot. His frantic barking does not
disturb me; nothing disturbs me, for I am master of a power
greater than earth or space or time. And I shall use this
power, now, to bring me the final boon. Here in my tower
I have become quite the philosopher: I have learned my
THE M A N WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE
2 0 1
lesson well and realize that I do not desire wealth, or fame,
or the trinkets of society. My need is simply this—Compan-
ionship. And now, with the power that is mine to control, I
shall have it!
Soon, quite soon, I shall no longer be alone!
Jan. 30.
The storm has returned, but I pay it no heed; nor do I mark
the howlings of Neptune, although the beast is now liter-
ally dashing himself against the door of the storeroom. One
might fancy that his efforts are responsible for the shudder-
ing of the very lighthouse itself, but no; it is the fury of the
northern gale. I pay it no heed, as I say, but I fully realize
that this storm surpasses in extent and intensity anything
I could imagine as witness to its predecessor.
Yet it is unimportant; even though the light above me
flickers and threatens to be extinguished by the sheer veloc-
ity of wind that seeps through these stout walls; even though
the ocean sweeps against the foundations with a force that
makes solid stone seem flimsy as straw; even though the
sky is a single black roaring mouth that yawns low upon
the horizon to engulf me.
These things I sense but dimly, as I address myself to the
appointed task. I pause now only for food and a brief res-
pite—and scribble down these words to mark the progress
of resolution toward an inevitable goal.
For the past several days I have bent my faculties to my
will, concentrating utterly and to the uttermost upon the
summoning of a Companion.
This Companion will be—I confess it!—a woman; a
woman far surpassing the limitations of common mortality.
For she is, and must be fashioned, of dreams and longing,
of desire and delight beyond the bounds of flesh.
She is the woman of whom I have always dreamed, the
One I have sought in vain through what I once presumed,
202
THE M A N WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE
in my ignorance, was the world of reality. It seems to me
now that I have always known her, that my soul has con-
tained her presence forever. I can visualize her perfectly—
I know her hair, each strand more precious than a misers
gold; the riches of her ivory and alabaster brow, the perfec-
tion of her face and form are etched forever in my con-
sciousness. DeGrât would scoff that she is but the figment
of a dream—but DeGrát did not see the rose.
The rose—I hesitate to speak of it—has gone. It was the
rose which I set before me when first I composed myself to
this new effort of will. I gazed at it intently until vision faded,
senses stilled, and I lost myself in the attem pt of conjuring
up my vision of a Companion.
Hours later, the sound of rising waters from without
aroused me. I gazed about, my eyes sought the reassurance
of the rose and rested only upon a foulness. Where the rose
had risen proudly in its vase, red crest ram pant upon a living
stem, I now perceived only a noxious, utterly detestable
strand of ichorous decay. No rose this, but only seaweed;
rotted, noisome, and putrescent. I flung it away, but for
long moments I could not banish a wild presentiment—was
it true that I had deceived myself? Was it a weed, and only
a weed I plucked from the ocean's breast? Did the force of
my thought momentarily invest it with the attributes of a
rose? Would anything I called up from the depths—the
depths of sea or the depths of consciousness—be truly real?
The blessed image of the Companion came to soothe these
fevered speculations, and I knew myself saved. There was
a rose; perhaps my thought had created it and nourished it
—only when my entire concentration turned to other things
did it depart, or resume another shape. And with my Com-
panion, there will be no need for focusing my faculties
elsewhere. She, and she alone, will be the recipient of every-
thing my mind, my heart, my soul possesses. If will, if
sentiment, if love are needed to preserve her, these things
THE M AN WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE
2 0 3
she shall have in entirety. So there is nothing to fear. Noth-
ing to fear. . . .
Once again now I shall lay my pen aside and return to the
great task—the task of “creation,” if you will—and I shall
not fail. The fear (I admit it!) of loneliness is enough to
drive me forward to unimaginable brinks. She, and she
alone, can save me, shall save me, must save mel I can see
her now—the golden glitter of her—and my consciousness
calls to her to rise, to appear before me in radiant reality.
Somewhere upon these storm-tossed seas she exists, I know
it—and wherever she may be, my call will come to her and
she will respond.
Jan. 31.
The command came at midnight. Roused from the depths
of the most profound innermost communion by a thunder-
clap, I rose as though in the grip of somnambulistic com-
pulsion and moved down the spiral stairs.
The lantern I bore trembled in my hand; its light wavered
in the wind, and the very iron treads beneath my feet shook
with the furious force of the storm. The booming of the
waves as they struck the lighthouse walls seemed to place
me within the center of a maelstrom of ear-shattering
sound, yet over the demoniacal din I could detect the fren-
zied howls of poor Neptune as I passed the door behind
which he was confined. The door shook with the combined
force of the wind and of his still desperate efforts to free
himself—but I hastened on my way, descending to the iron
door at the base of the lighthouse.
To open it required the use of both hands, and I set the
lantern down at one side. To open it, moreover, required
the summoning of a resolution I scarcely possessed—for be-
yond that door was the force and fury of the wildest storm
that ever shrieked across these seething seas. A sudden
2 0 4
t h e m a n w h o c a l l e d HIMSELF POE
wave might dash me from the doorway, or, conversely,
enter and inundate the lighthouse itself.
But consciousness prevailed; consciousness drove me for־
ward.
I knew, I thrilled to the certainty that she was without
the iron portal—I unbolted the door with the urgency of
one who rushes into the arms of his beloved.
The door swung open—blew open—roared open—and the
storm burst upon me; a ravening monster of black-mouthed
waves capped with white fangs. The sea and sky surged
forward as if to attack, and I stood enveloped in chaos. A
flash of lightning revealed the immensity of utter night־
mare.
I saw it not, for the same flash illumined the form, the
lineaments of she whom I sought.
Lightning and lantern were unneeeded—her golden glory
outshone all as she stood there, pale and trembling, a god־
dess arisen from the depths of the sea!
Hallucination, vision, apparition? My trembling fingers
sought, and found, their answer. Her flesh was real—cold
as the icy waters from whence she came, but palpable and
permanent. I thought of the storm, of doomed ships and
drowning men, of a girl cast upon the waters and struggling
toward the succor of the lighthouse beacon. I thought of a
thousand explanations, a thousand miracles, a thousand rid־
dies or reasons beyond rationality. Yet only one thing m at־
tered—my Companion was here, and I had but to step
forward and take her in my arms.
No word was spoken, nor could one be heard in all that
inferno. No word was needed, for she smiled. Pale lips
parted as I held out my arms, and she moved closer. Pale lips
parted—and I saw the pointed teeth, set in rows like those
of a shark. Her eyes, fishlike and staring, swam closer. As I
recoiled, her arms came up to cling, and they were cold as
the waters beneath, cold as the storm, cold as death.
In one monstrous moment I knew, knew with uttermost
THE M A N WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE
2 0 5
certainty, that the power of my will had indeed summoned,
the call of my consciousness had been answered. But the
answer came not from the living, for nothing lived in this
storm. I had sent my will out over the waters, but the will
penetrates all dimensions, and my answer had come from
below the waters. She was from below, where the drowned
dead lie dreaming, and I had awakened her and clothed
her with a horrid life. A life that thirsted, and must
drink. . . .
I think I shrieked, then, but I heard no sound. Certainly,
I did not hear the howls from Neptune as the beast, burst
from his prison, bounded down the stairs and flung himself
upon the creature.
His furry form bore her back and obscured my vision; in
an instant she was falling backward, away, into the sea that
spawned her. Then, and only then, did I catch a glimpse
of the final moment of animation in that which my con-
sciousness had summoned. Lightning seared the sight in-
exorably upon my soul—the sight of the ultimate blasphemy
I had created in my pride. The rose had wilted. . . .
The rose had wilted and become seaweed. And now, the
golden one was gone and in its place was the bloated,
swollen obscenity of a thing long-drowned and dead, risen
from the slime and to that slime returning.
Only a moment, and then the waves overwhelmed it,
bore it back into the blackness. Only a moment, and the
door was slammed shut. Only a moment, and I raced up
the iron stairs, Neptune yammering at my heels. Only a
moment, and I reached the safety of this sanctuary.
Safety? There is no safety in the universe for me, no
safety in a consciousness that could create such horror. And
there is no safety here—the wrath of the waves increases
with every moment, the anger of the sea and its creatures
rises to an inevitable crescendo.
Mad or sane, it does not matter, for the end is the same
2 0 6
THE M AN WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE
in either case. I know now that the lighthouse will shatter
and fall. I am already shattered, and must fall with it.
There is time only to gather these notes, strap them se-
curely in a cylinder and attach it to Neptune’s collar. It
may be that he can swim, or cling to a fragment of debri
s.
It may be that a ship, passing by this toppling beacon, may
stay and search the waters for a sign—and thus find and
rescue the gallant beast.
That ship shall not find me. I go with the lighthouse and
go willingly, down to the dark depths. Perhaps—is it but
perverted poetry?—I shall join my Companion there for-
ever. Perhaps . . .
The lighthouse is trembling. The beacon flickers above
my head and I hear the rush of waters in their final
onslaught. There is—yes—a wave, bearing down upon me.
It is higher than the tower, it blots out the sky itself, every־
thing. . . .
THE ATLANTIS
Scholars c o n ce d e th at there m ay very w e ll ex ist a num ber o f E d g
A llan P oe item s p u b lish e d anon ym ously or under a p seu d on ym in fo
g o tte n and ob scu re papers or p eriod icals. N e w ad dition s to th e w or
o f P o e are gen era lly bits and p ieces o f literary criticism or incons
q u en tia l p o e tic d o g g ere l th at are finally v a lid a ted as b e in g from t
p en .
A m on g th e m o st in terestin g o f th e p ossib ilities th at scholars ha'׳
rop ed off for perusal is a seven ty-th ou san d -w ord U to p ia titled “T 1
A tlan tis״ w h ich ap p eared in a m on th ly p eriod ical, The American M
seum of Science, Literature and the Arts, p u b lish ed in Baltim ore,
th e issues o f S ep tem b er 1 8 3 8 to June 1 8 3 9 in clu sive. T h e fu ll title
th e p ie c e is “T h e A tlantis. A Southern W orld ,—or a W o n d erfu l C o
tin en t,—d iscovered in th e great Southern O cean , and su p p o sed to 1
th e A tlantis o f Plato, or th e Terra A ustralis In co g n ita o f D r. Sw i
during a v o y a g e co n d u cted b y A lon zo P in zon , C om m ander o f tl
A m erican M etal Ship A strea.״
D e sp ite its len g th , th e w ork w as n ever co m p leted , probably b
cause the m a g a z in e cea sed p u b lica tio n w ith th e June 1 8 3 9 num b(
Or co n ce iv a b ly it w as a ctu ally in ten d e d to b e a p erm an ent feature,
b e u sed as a v e h ic le for p rom u lgatin g the author's v ie w s on scienc
p h ilo so p h y , p olitics, custom s, religion , cu lts, and w h a tev e r else car
in to his m in d.
C hapter 12 o f Arthur H o b so n Q uinn's Edgar Allan Poe is devot<
to item iz in g th e intern al e v id e n c e th a t prom pts scholars to b e lie
The Man Who Called Himself Poe Page 26
