The Philosophy of Composition

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by Edgar Allan Poe




  The Philosophy of Composition

  Edgar Allan Poe

  THE PHILOSOPHY OF COMPOSITION

  (1846)

  Charles Dickens, in a note now lying before me, alluding to an examination I once made of the

  mechanism of "Barnaby Rudge," says- "By the way, are you aware that Godwin wrote his 'Caleb

  Williams' backwards? He first involved his hero in a web of difficulties, forming the second

  volume, and then, for the first, cast about him for some mode of accounting for what had been

  done."

  I cannot think this the precise mode of procedure on the part of Godwin- and indeed what he

  himself acknowledges, is not altogether in accordance with Mr. Dickens' idea- but the author of

  "Caleb Williams" was too good an artist not to perceive the advantage derivable from at least a

  somewhat similar process. Nothing is more clear than that every plot, worth the name, must be

  elaborated to its denouement before anything be attempted with the pen. It is only with the

  denouement constantly in view that we can give a plot its indispensable air of consequence, or

  causation, by making the incidents, and especially the tone at all points, tend to the development

  of the intention.

  There is a radical error, I think, in the usual mode of constructing a story. Either history affords a

  thesis- or one is suggested by an incident of the day- or, at best, the author sets himself to work

  in the combination of striking events to form merely the basis of his narrative-designing,

  generally, to fill in with description, dialogue, or autorial comment, whatever crevices of fact, or

  action, may, from page to page, render themselves apparent.

  I prefer commencing with the consideration of an effect. Keeping originality always in view- for

  he is false to himself who ventures to dispense with so obvious and so easily attainable a source

  of interest- I say to myself, in the first place, "Of the innumerable effects, or impressions, of

  which the heart, the intellect, or (more generally) the soul is susceptible, what one shall I, on the

  present occasion, select?" Having chosen a novel, first, and secondly a vivid effect, I consider

  whether it can be best wrought by incident or tone- whether by ordinary incidents and peculiar

  tone, or the converse, or by peculiarity both of incident and tone- afterward looking about me (or

  rather within) for such combinations of event, or tone, as shall best aid me in the construction of

  the effect.

  I have often thought how interesting a magazine paper might be written by any author who

  would- that is to say, who could- detail, step by step, the processes by which any one of his

  compositions attained its ultimate point of completion. Why such a paper has never been given to

  the world, I am much at a loss to say- but, perhaps, the autorial vanity has had more to do with

  the omission than any one other cause. Most writers- poets in especial- prefer having it

  understood that they compose by a species of fine frenzy- an ecstatic intuition- and would

  positively shudder at letting the public take a peep behind the scenes, at the elaborate and

  vacillating crudities of thought- at the true purposes seized only at the last moment- at the

  innumerable glimpses of idea that arrived not at the maturity of full view- at the fully-matured

  fancies discarded in despair as unmanageable- at the cautious selections and rejections- at the

  painful erasures and interpolations- in a word, at the wheels and pinions- the tackle for scene-

  shifting- the step-ladders, and demon-traps- the cock's feathers, the red paint and the black

  patches, which, in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, constitute the properties of the literary

  histrio.

  I am aware, on the other hand, that the case is by no means common, in which an author is at all

  in condition to retrace the steps by which his conclusions have been attained. In general,

  suggestions, having arisen pell-mell are pursued and forgotten in a similar manner.

  For my own part, I have neither sympathy with the repugnance alluded to, nor, at any time, the

  least difficulty in recalling to mind the progressive steps of any of my compositions, and, since

  the interest of an analysis or reconstruction, such as I have considered a desideratum, is quite

  independent of any real or fancied interest in the thing analysed, it will not be regarded as a

  breach of decorum on my part to show the modus operandi by which some one of my own works

  was put together. I select 'The Raven' as most generally known. It is my design to render it

  manifest that no one point in its composition is referable either to accident or intuition- that the

  work proceeded step by step, to its completion, with the precision and rigid consequence of a

  mathematical problem.

  Let us dismiss, as irrelevant to the poem, per se, the circumstance- or say the necessity- which, in

  the first place, gave rise to the intention of composing a poem that should suit at once the popular

  and the critical taste.

  We commence, then, with this intention.

  The initial consideration was that of extent. If any literary work is too long to be read at one

  sitting, we must be content to dispense with the immensely important effect derivable from unity

  of impression- for, if two sittings be required, the affairs of the world interfere, and everything

  like totality is at once destroyed. But since, ceteris paribus, no poet can afford to dispense with

  anything that may advance his design, it but remains to be seen whether there is, in extent, any

  advantage to counterbalance the loss of unity which attends it. Here I say no, at once. What we

  term a long poem is, in fact, merely a succession of brief ones- that is to say, of brief poetical

  effects. It is needless to demonstrate that a poem is such only inasmuch as it intensely excites, by

  elevating the soul; and all intense excitements are, through a psychal necessity, brief. For this

  reason, at least, one-half of the "Paradise Lost" is essentially prose- a succession of poetical

  excitements interspersed, inevitably, with corresponding depressions- the whole being deprived,

  through the extremeness of its length, of the vastly important artistic element, totality, or unity of

  effect.

  It appears evident, then, that there is a distinct limit, as regards length, to all works of literary art-

  the limit of a single sitting- and that, although in certain classes of prose composition, such as

  "Robinson Crusoe" (demanding no unity), this limit may be advantageously overpassed, it can

  never properly be overpassed in a poem. Within this limit, the extent of a poem may be made to

  bear mathematical relation to its merit- in other words, to the excitement or elevation-again, in

  other words, to the degree of the true poetical effect which it is capable of inducing; for it is clear

  that the brevity must be in direct ratio of the intensity of the intended effect- this, with one

  proviso- that a certain degree of duration is absolutely requisite for the production of any effect

  at all.

  Holding in view these considerations, as well as that degree of excitement which I deemed not

  above the popular, wh
ile not below the critical taste, I reached at once what I conceived the

  proper length for my intended poem- a length of about one hundred lines. It is, in fact, a hundred

  and eight.

  My next thought concerned the choice of an impression, or effect, to be conveyed: and here I

  may as well observe that throughout the construction, I kept steadily in view the design of

  rendering the work universally appreciable. I should be carried too far out of my immediate topic

  were I to demonstrate a point upon which I have repeatedly insisted, and which, with the

  poetical, stands not in the slightest need of demonstration- the point, I mean, that Beauty is the

  sole legitimate province of the poem. A few words, however, in elucidation of my real meaning,

  which some of my friends have evinced a disposition to misrepresent. That pleasure which is at

  once the most intense, the most elevating, and the most pure is, I believe, found in the

  contemplation of the beautiful. When, indeed, men speak of Beauty, they mean, precisely, not a

  quality, as is supposed, but an effect- they refer, in short, just to that intense and pure elevation of

  soul- not of intellect, or of heart- upon which I have commented, and which is experienced in

  consequence of contemplating the "beautiful." Now I designate Beauty as the province of the

  poem, merely because it is an obvious rule of Art that effects should be made to spring from

  direct causes- that objects should be attained through means best adapted for their attainment- no

  one as yet having been weak enough to deny that the peculiar elevation alluded to is most readily

  attained in the poem. Now the object Truth, or the satisfaction of the intellect, and the object

  Passion, or the excitement of the heart, are, although attainable to a certain extent in poetry, far

  more readily attainable in prose. Truth, in fact, demands a precision, and Passion, a homeliness

  (the truly passionate will comprehend me), which are absolutely antagonistic to that Beauty

  which, I maintain, is the excitement or pleasurable elevation of the soul. It by no means follows,

  from anything here said, that passion, or even truth, may not be introduced, and even profitably

  introduced, into a poem for they may serve in elucidation, or aid the general effect, as do

  discords in music, by contrast- but the true artist will always contrive, first, to tone them into

  proper subservience to the predominant aim, and, secondly, to enveil them, as far as possible, in

  that Beauty which is the atmosphere and the essence of the poem.

  Regarding, then, Beauty as my province, my next question referred to the tone of its highest

  manifestation- and all experience has shown that this tone is one of sadness. Beauty of whatever

  kind in its supreme development invariably excites the sensitive soul to tears. Melancholy is thus

  the most legitimate of all the poetical tones.

  The length, the province, and the tone, being thus determined, I betook myself to ordinary

  induction, with the view of obtaining some artistic piquancy which might serve me as a key-note

  in the construction of the poem- some pivot upon which the whole structure might turn. In

  carefully thinking over all the usual artistic effects- or more properly points, in the theatrical

  sense- I did not fail to perceive immediately that no one had been so universally employed as

  that of the refrain. The universality of its employment sufficed to assure me of its intrinsic value,

  and spared me the necessity of submitting it to analysis. I considered it, however, with regard to

  its susceptibility of improvement, and soon saw it to be in a primitive condition. As commonly

  used, the refrain, or burden, not only is limited to lyric verse, but depends for its impression upon

  the force of monotone- both in sound and thought. The pleasure is deduced solely from the sense

  of identity- of repetition. I resolved to diversify, and so heighten the effect, by adhering in

  general to the monotone of sound, while I continually varied that of thought: that is to say, I

  determined to produce continuously novel effects, by the variation of the application of the

  refrain- the refrain itself remaining for the most part, unvaried.

  These points being settled, I next bethought me of the nature of my refrain. Since its application

  was to be repeatedly varied it was clear that the refrain itself must be brief, for there would have

  been an insurmountable difficulty in frequent variations of application in any sentence of length.

  In proportion to the brevity of the sentence would, of course, be the facility of the variation. This

  led me at once to a single word as the best refrain.

  The question now arose as to the character of the word. Having made up my mind to a refrain,

  the division of the poem into stanzas was of course a corollary, the refrain forming the close to

  each stanza. That such a close, to have force, must be sonorous and susceptible of protracted

  emphasis, admitted no doubt, and these considerations inevitably led me to the long o as the

  most sonorous vowel in connection with r as the most producible consonant.

  The sound of the refrain being thus determined, it became necessary to select a word embodying

  this sound, and at the same time in the fullest possible keeping with that melancholy which I had

  pre-determined as the tone of the poem. In such a search it would have been absolutely

  impossible to overlook the word "Nevermore." In fact it was the very first which presented itself.

  The next desideratum was a pretext for the continuous use of the one word "nevermore." In

  observing the difficulty which I had at once found in inventing a sufficiently plausible reason for

  its continuous repetition, I did not fail to perceive that this difficulty arose solely from the

  preassumption that the word was to be so continuously or monotonously spoken by a human

  being- I did not fail to perceive, in short, that the difficulty lay in the reconciliation of this

  monotony with the exercise of reason on the part of the creature repeating the word. Here, then,

  immediately arose the idea of a non-reasoning creature capable of speech, and very naturally, a

  parrot, in the first instance, suggested itself, but was superseded forthwith by a Raven as equally

  capable of speech, and infinitely more in keeping with the intended tone.

  I had now gone so far as the conception of a Raven, the bird of ill-omen, monotonously repeating

  the one word "Nevermore" at the conclusion of each stanza in a poem of melancholy tone, and in

  length about one hundred lines. Now, never losing sight of the object- supremeness or perfection

  at all points, I asked myself- "Of all melancholy topics what, according to the universal

  understanding of mankind, is the most melancholy?" Death, was the obvious reply. "And when,"

  I said, "is this most melancholy of topics most poetical?" From what I have already explained at

  some length the answer here also is obvious- "When it most closely allies itself to Beauty: the

  death then of a beautiful woman is unquestionably the most poetical topic in the world, and

  equally is it beyond doubt that the lips best suited for such topic are those of a bereaved lover."

  I had now to combine the two ideas of a lover lamenting his deceased mistress and a Raven

  continuously repeating the word "Nevermore." I had to combine these, bearing in mind my

  design of varying at every turn the application of the word repeated, but the only intelligible

  mode
of such combination is that of imagining the Raven employing the word in answer to the

  queries of the lover. And here it was that I saw at once the opportunity afforded for the effect on

  which I had been depending, that is to say, the effect of the variation of application. I saw that I

  could make the first query propounded by the lover- the first query to which the Raven should

  reply "Nevermore"- that I could make this first query a commonplace one, the second less so, the

  third still less, and so on, until at length the lover, startled from his original nonchalance by the

  melancholy character of the word itself, by its frequent repetition, and by a consideration of the

  ominous reputation of the fowl that uttered it, is at length excited to superstition, and wildly

  propounds queries of a far different character- queries whose solution he has passionately at

  heart- propounds them half in superstition and half in that species of despair which delights in

  self-torture- propounds them not altogether because he believes in the prophetic or demoniac

  character of the bird (which reason assures him is merely repeating a lesson learned by rote), but

  because he experiences a frenzied pleasure in so modelling his questions as to receive from the

  expected "Nevermore" the most delicious because the most intolerable of sorrows. Perceiving

  the opportunity thus afforded me, or, more strictly, thus forced upon me in the progress of the

  construction, I first established in my mind the climax or concluding query- that query to which

  "Nevermore" should be in the last place an answer- that query in reply to which this word

  "Nevermore" should involve the utmost conceivable amount of sorrow and despair.

  Here then the poem may be said to have had its beginning- at the end where all works of art

  should begin- for it was here at this point of my preconsiderations that I first put pen to paper in

  the composition of the stanza:

  "Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! prophet still if bird or devil!

  By that Heaven that bends above us- by that God we both adore,

  Tell this soul with sorrow laden, if, within the distant Aidenn,

  It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore-

  Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."

 

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