Globalization Poverty Development Sustainability
It seems to me that imagination and reasoning have reached magnificent heights with some writers, especially poets. Among them, I strongly believe, the highest ever was Edgar Allan Poe. With Baudelaire I state that "le poete est souverainement intelligent, qu'il est l'intelligence par excellence, -et que l'imagination est la plus scientifique des facultes, parce que seule elle comprend l'analogie universelle...". One of those poets was Edgar Allan Poe. I reproduce here "The Works of Edgar Allan Poe" as a gesture against what Baudelaire called "la ferocite de l'hypocrisie bourgeoise", and what I personally call mediocrity, imbecility, and comprehensive intellectual dishonesty, all of which is presented as "realistic thinking". And, as we know, contemporary development studies are full of  "realistic thinking". So, let us learn something from Edgar Allan Poe!.  (Róbinson Rojas)
The Project Gutenberg Etext of The Works of Edgar Allan Poe V. 1
Volume 1 of the Raven Edition  #6 in our series by Edgar Allan Poe

Volume IV   Contents
The Devil in the Belfry
X-ing a Paragrab
The System of Doctor Tarr and Professor Fether
The Literary Life of Thingum Bob, Esq.
How to Write a Blackwood article
A Predicament
The Angel of the Odd
Mellonia Tauta
The Duc de l'Omlette
The Oblong Box
Loss of Breath
The Man That Was Used Up
The Business Man
The Landscape Garden
Maelzel's Chess-Player
The Power of Words
The Colloquy of Monas and Una
The Conversation of Eiros and Charmion
Shadow.--A Parable                              BACK TO MAIN INDEX
"In the name of the Prophet -- figs !!"
          _ Cry of the Turkish fig-peddler_.
I PRESUME everybody has heard of me. My name is the Signora Psyche
Zenobia. This I know to be a fact. Nobody but my enemies ever calls
me Suky Snobbs. I have been assured that Suky is but a vulgar
corruption of Psyche, which is good Greek, and means "the soul"
(that's me, I'm all soul) and sometimes "a butterfly," which latter
meaning undoubtedly alludes to my appearance in my new crimson satin
dress, with the sky-blue Arabian mantelet, and the trimmings of green
agraffas, and the seven flounces of orange-colored auriculas. As for
Snobbs -- any person who should look at me would be instantly aware
that my name wasn't Snobbs. Miss Tabitha Turnip propagated that
report through sheer envy. Tabitha Turnip indeed! Oh the little
wretch! But what can we expect from a turnip? Wonder if she remembers
the old adage about "blood out of a turnip," &c.? [Mem. put her in
mind of it the first opportunity.] [Mem. again -- pull her nose.]
Where was I? Ah! I have been assured that Snobbs is a mere corruption
of Zenobia, and that Zenobia was a queen -- (So am I. Dr. Moneypenny
always calls me the Queen of the Hearts) -- and that Zenobia, as well
as Psyche, is good Greek, and that my father was "a Greek," and that
consequently I have a right to our patronymic, which is Zenobia and
not by any means Snobbs. Nobody but Tabitha Turnip calls me Suky
Snobbs. I am the Signora Psyche Zenobia.
As I said before, everybody has heard of me. I am that very Signora
Psyche Zenobia, so justly celebrated as corresponding secretary to
the "Philadelphia, Regular, Exchange, Tea, Total, Young, Belles,
Lettres, Universal, Experimental, Bibliographical, Association, To,
Civilize, Humanity." Dr. Moneypenny made the title for us, and says
he chose it because it sounded big like an empty rum-puncheon. (A
vulgar man that sometimes -- but he's deep.) We all sign the initials
of the society after our names, in the fashion of the R. S. A., Royal
Society of Arts -- the S. D. U. K., Society for the Diffusion of
Useful Knowledge, &c, &c. Dr. Moneypenny says that S. stands for
stale, and that D. U. K. spells duck, (but it don't,) that S. D. U.
K. stands for Stale Duck and not for Lord Brougham's society -- but
then Dr. Moneypenny is such a queer man that I am never sure when he
is telling me the truth. At any rate we always add to our names the
initials P. R. E. T. T. Y. B. L. U. E. B. A. T. C. H. -- that is to
say, Philadelphia, Regular, Exchange, Tea, Total, Young, Belles,
Lettres, Universal, Experimental, Bibliographical, Association, To,
Civilize, Humanity -- one letter for each word, which is a decided
improvement upon Lord Brougham. Dr. Moneypenny will have it that our
initials give our true character -- but for my life I can't see what
he means.
Notwithstanding the good offices of the Doctor, and the strenuous
exertions of the association to get itself into notice, it met with
no very great success until I joined it. The truth is, the members
indulged in too flippant a tone of discussion. The papers read every
Saturday evening were characterized less by depth than buffoonery.
They were all whipped syllabub. There was no investigation of first
causes, first principles. There was no investigation of any thing at
all. There was no attention paid to that great point, the "fitness of
things." In short there was no fine writing like this. It was all low
-- very! No profundity, no reading, no metaphysics -- nothing which
the learned call spirituality, and which the unlearned choose to
stigmatize as cant. [Dr. M. says I ought to spell "cant" with a
capital K -- but I know better.]
When I joined the society it was my endeavor to introduce a better
style of thinking and writing, and all the world knows how well I
have succeeded. We get up as good papers now in the P. R. E. T. T. Y.
B. L. U. E. B. A. T. C. H. as any to be found even in Blackwood. I
say, Blackwood, because I have been assured that the finest writing,
upon every subject, is to be discovered in the pages of that justly
celebrated Magazine. We now take it for our model upon all themes,
and are getting into rapid notice accordingly. And, after all, it's
not so very difficult a matter to compose an article of the genuine
Blackwood stamp, if one only goes properly about it. Of course I
don't speak of the political articles. Everybody knows how they are
managed, since Dr. Moneypenny explained it. Mr. Blackwood has a pair
of tailor's-shears, and three apprentices who stand by him for
orders. One hands him the "Times," another the "Examiner" and a third
a "Culley's New Compendium of Slang-Whang." Mr. B. merely cuts out
and intersperses. It is soon done -- nothing but "Examiner,"
"Slang-Whang," and "Times" -- then "Times," "Slang-Whang," and
"Examiner" -- and then "Times," "Examiner," and "Slang-Whang."
But the chief merit of the Magazine lies in its miscellaneous
articles; and the best of these come under the head of what Dr.
Moneypenny calls the bizarreries (whatever that may mean) and what
everybody else calls the intensities. This is a species of writing
which I have long known how to appreciate, although it is only since
my late visit to Mr. Blackwood (deputed by the society) that I have
been made aware of the exact method of composition. This method is
very simple, but not so much so as the politics. Upon my calling at
Mr. B.'s, and making known to him the wishes of the society, he
received me with great civility, took me into his study, and gave me
a clear explanation of the whole process.
"My dear madam," said he, evidently struck with my majestic
appearance, for I had on the crimson satin, with the green agraffas,
and orange-colored auriclas. "My dear madam," said he, "sit down. The
matter stands thus: In the first place your writer of intensities
must have very black ink, and a very big pen, with a very blunt nib.
And, mark me, Miss Psyche Zenobia!" he continued, after a pause, with
the most expressive energy and solemnity of manner, "mark me! -- that
pen -- must -- never be mended! Herein, madam, lies the secret, the
soul, of intensity. I assume upon myself to say, that no individual,
of however great genius ever wrote with a good pen -- understand me,
-- a good article. You may take, it for granted, that when manuscript
can be read it is never worth reading. This is a leading principle in
our faith, to which if you cannot readily assent, our conference is
at an end."
He paused. But, of course, as I had no wish to put an end to the
conference, I assented to a proposition so very obvious, and one,
too, of whose truth I had all along been sufficiently aware. He
seemed pleased, and went on with his instructions.
"It may appear invidious in me, Miss Psyche Zenobia, to refer you to
any article, or set of articles, in the way of model or study, yet
perhaps I may as well call your attention to a few cases. Let me see.
There was 'The Dead Alive,' a capital thing! -- the record of a
gentleman's sensations when entombed before the breath was out of his
body -- full of tastes, terror, sentiment, metaphysics, and
erudition. You would have sworn that the writer had been born and
brought up in a coffin. Then we had the 'Confessions of an
Opium-eater' -- fine, very fine! -- glorious imagination -- deep
philosophy acute speculation -- plenty of fire and fury, and a good
spicing of the decidedly unintelligible. That was a nice bit of
flummery, and went down the throats of the people delightfully. They
would have it that Coleridge wrote the paper -- but not so. It was
composed by my pet baboon, Juniper, over a rummer of Hollands and
water, 'hot, without sugar.'" [This I could scarcely have believed
had it been anybody but Mr. Blackwood, who assured me of it.] "Then
there was 'The Involuntary Experimentalist,' all about a gentleman
who got baked in an oven, and came out alive and well, although
certainly done to a turn. And then there was 'The Diary of a Late
Physician,' where the merit lay in good rant, and indifferent Greek
-- both of them taking things with the public. And then there was
'The Man in the Bell,' a paper by-the-by, Miss Zenobia, which I
cannot sufficiently recommend to your attention. It is the history of
a young person who goes to sleep under the clapper of a church bell,
and is awakened by its tolling for a funeral. The sound drives him
mad, and, accordingly, pulling out his tablets, he gives a record of
his sensations. Sensations are the great things after all. Should you
ever be drowned or hung, be sure and make a note of your sensations
-- they will be worth to you ten guineas a sheet. If you wish to
write forcibly, Miss Zenobia, pay minute attention to the
"That I certainly will, Mr. Blackwood," said I.
"Good!" he replied. "I see you are a pupil after my own heart. But I
must put you au fait to the details necessary in composing what may
be denominated a genuine Blackwood article of the sensation stamp --
the kind which you will understand me to say I consider the best for
all purposes.
"The first thing requisite is to get yourself into such a scrape as
no one ever got into before. The oven, for instance, -- that was a
good hit. But if you have no oven or big bell, at hand, and if you
cannot conveniently tumble out of a balloon, or be swallowed up in an
earthquake, or get stuck fast in a chimney, you will have to be
contented with simply imagining some similar misadventure. I should
prefer, however, that you have the actual fact to bear you out.
Nothing so well assists the fancy, as an experimental knowledge of
the matter in hand. 'Truth is strange,' you know, 'stranger than
fiction' -- besides being more to the purpose."
Here I assured him I had an excellent pair of garters, and would go
and hang myself forthwith.
"Good!" he replied, "do so; -- although hanging is somewhat hacknied.
Perhaps you might do better. Take a dose of Brandreth's pills, and
then give us your sensations. However, my instructions will apply
equally well to any variety of misadventure, and in your way home you
may easily get knocked in the head, or run over by an omnibus, or
bitten by a mad dog, or drowned in a gutter. But to proceed.
"Having determined upon your subject, you must next consider the
tone, or manner, of your narration. There is the tone didactic, the
tone enthusiastic, the tone natural -- all common -- place enough.
But then there is the tone laconic, or curt, which has lately come
much into use. It consists in short sentences. Somehow thus: Can't be
too brief. Can't be too snappish. Always a full stop. And never a
"Then there is the tone elevated, diffusive, and interjectional. Some
of our best novelists patronize this tone. The words must be all in a
whirl, like a humming-top, and make a noise very similar, which
answers remarkably well instead of meaning. This is the best of all
possible styles where the writer is in too great a hurry to think.
"The tone metaphysical is also a good one. If you know any big words
this is your chance for them. Talk of the Ionic and Eleatic schools
-- of Archytas, Gorgias, and Alcmaeon. Say something about
objectivity and subjectivity. Be sure and abuse a man named Locke.
Turn up your nose at things in general, and when you let slip any
thing a little too absurd, you need not be at the trouble of
scratching it out, but just add a footnote and say that you are
indebted for the above profound observation to the 'Kritik der reinem
Vernunft,' or to the 'Metaphysithe Anfongsgrunde der
Noturwissenchaft.' This would look erudite and -- and -- and frank.
"There are various other tones of equal celebrity, but I shall
mention only two more -- the tone transcendental and the tone
heterogeneous. In the former the merit consists in seeing into the
nature of affairs a very great deal farther than anybody else. This
second sight is very efficient when properly managed. A little
reading of the 'Dial' will carry you a great way. Eschew, in this
case, big words; get them as small as possible, and write them upside
down. Look over Channing's poems and quote what he says about a 'fat
little man with a delusive show of Can.' Put in something about the
Supernal Oneness. Don't say a syllable about the Infernal Twoness.
Above all, study innuendo. Hint everything -- assert nothing. If you
feel inclined to say 'bread and butter,' do not by any means say it
outright. You may say any thing and every thing approaching to 'bread
and butter.' You may hint at buck-wheat cake, or you may even go so
far as to insinuate oat-meal porridge, but if bread and butter be
your real meaning, be cautious, my dear Miss Psyche, not on any
account to say 'bread and butter!'
I assured him that I should never say it again as long as I lived. He
kissed me and continued:
"As for the tone heterogeneous, it is merely a judicious mixture, in
equal proportions, of all the other tones in the world, and is
consequently made up of every thing deep, great, odd, piquant,
pertinent, and pretty.
"Let us suppose now you have determined upon your incidents and tone.
The most important portion -- in fact, the soul of the whole
business, is yet to be attended to -- I allude to the filling up. It
is not to be supposed that a lady, or gentleman either, has been
leading the life of a book worm. And yet above all things it is
necessary that your article have an air of erudition, or at least
afford evidence of extensive general reading. Now I'll put you in the
way of accomplishing this point. See here!" (pulling down some three
or four ordinary-looking volumes, and opening them at random). "By
casting your eye down almost any page of any book in the world, you
will be able to perceive at once a host of little scraps of either
learning or bel-espritism, which are the very thing for the spicing
of a Blackwood article. You might as well note down a few while I
read them to you. I shall make two divisions: first, Piquant Facts
for the Manufacture of Similes, and, second, Piquant Expressions to
be introduced as occasion may require. Write now!" -- and I wrote as
he dictated.
"PIQUANT FACTS FOR SIMILES. 'There were originally but three Muses --
Melete, Mneme, Aoede -- meditation, memory, and singing.' You may
make a good deal of that little fact if properly worked. You see it
is not generally known, and looks recherche. You must be careful and
give the thing with a downright improviso air.
"Again. 'The river Alpheus passed beneath the sea, and emerged
without injury to the purity of its waters.' Rather stale that, to be
sure, but, if properly dressed and dished up, will look quite as
fresh as ever.
"Here is something better. 'The Persian Iris appears to some persons
to possess a sweet and very powerful perfume, while to others it is
perfectly scentless.' Fine that, and very delicate! Turn it about a
little, and it will do wonders. We'll have some thing else in the
botanical line. There's nothing goes down so well, especially with
the help of a little Latin. Write!
"'The Epidendrum Flos Aeris, of Java, bears a very beautiful flower,
and will live when pulled up by the roots. The natives suspend it by
a cord from the ceiling, and enjoy its fragrance for years.' That's
capital! That will do for the similes. Now for the Piquant
"PIQUANT EXPRESSIONS. 'The Venerable Chinese novel Ju-Kiao-Li.' Good!
By introducing these few words with dexterity you will evince your
intimate acquaintance with the language and literature of the
Chinese. With the aid of this you may either get along without either
Arabic, or Sanscrit, or Chickasaw. There is no passing muster,
however, without Spanish, Italian, German, Latin, and Greek. I must
look you out a little specimen of each. Any scrap will answer,
because you must depend upon your own ingenuity to make it fit into
your article. Now write!
"'Aussi tendre que Zaire' -- as tender as Zaire-French. Alludes to
the frequent repetition of the phrase, la tendre Zaire, in the French
tragedy of that name. Properly introduced, will show not only your
knowledge of the language, but your general reading and wit. You can
say, for instance, that the chicken you were eating (write an article
about being choked to death by a chicken-bone) was not altogether
aussi tendre que Zaire. Write!
_'Van muerte tan escondida,
   Que no te sienta venir,
Porque el plazer del morir,
   No mestorne a dar la vida.'_
"That's Spanish -- from Miguel de Cervantes. 'Come quickly, O death!
but be sure and don't let me see you coming, lest the pleasure I
shall feel at your appearance should unfortunately bring me back
again to life.' This you may slip in quite a propos when you are
struggling in the last agonies with the chicken-bone. Write!
_'Il pover 'huomo che non se'n era accorto,
Andava combattendo, e era morto.'_
That's Italian, you perceive -- from Ariosto. It means that a great
hero, in the heat of combat, not perceiving that he had been fairly
killed, continued to fight valiantly, dead as he was. The application
of this to your own case is obvious -- for I trust, Miss Psyche, that
you will not neglect to kick for at least an hour and a half after
you have been choked to death by that chicken-bone. Please to write!
_'Und sterb'ich doch, no sterb'ich denn_
_Durch sie -- durch sie!'_
That's German -- from Schiller. 'And if I die, at least I die -- for
thee -- for thee!' Here it is clear that you are apostrophizing the
cause of your disaster, the chicken. Indeed what gentleman (or lady
either) of sense, wouldn't die, I should like to know, for a well
fattened capon of the right Molucca breed, stuffed with capers and
mushrooms, and served up in a salad-bowl, with orange-jellies en
mosaiques. Write! (You can get them that way at Tortoni's) -- Write,
if you please!
"Here is a nice little Latin phrase, and rare too, (one can't be too
recherche or brief in one's Latin, it's getting so common --
ignoratio elenchi. He has committed an ignoratio elenchi -- that is
to say, he has understood the words of your proposition, but not the
idea. The man was a fool, you see. Some poor fellow whom you address
while choking with that chicken-bone, and who therefore didn't
precisely understand what you were talking about. Throw the ignoratio
elenchi in his teeth, and, at once, you have him annihilated. If he
dares to reply, you can tell him from Lucan (here it is) that
speeches are mere anemonae verborum, anemone words. The anemone, with
great brilliancy, has no smell. Or, if he begins to bluster, you may
be down upon him with insomnia Jovis, reveries of Jupiter -- a phrase
which Silius Italicus (see here!) applies to thoughts pompous and
inflated. This will be sure and cut him to the heart. He can do
nothing but roll over and die. Will you be kind enough to write?
"In Greek we must have some thing pretty -- from Demosthenes, for
example. !<,D@ N,LT8 ¯"4 B"84< :"P,F,J"4
[Anerh o pheugoen kai palin makesetai] There is a tolerably good
translation of it in Hudibras
   'For he that flies may fight again,
   Which he can never do that's slain.'
In a Blackwood article nothing makes so fine a show as your Greek.
The very letters have an air of profundity about them. Only observe,
madam, the astute look of that Epsilon! That Phi ought certainly to
be a bishop! Was ever there a smarter fellow than that Omicron? Just
twig that Tau! In short, there is nothing like Greek for a genuine
sensation-paper. In the present case your application is the most
obvious thing in the world. Rap out the sentence, with a huge oath,
and by way of ultimatum at the good-for-nothing dunder-headed villain
who couldn't understand your plain English in relation to the
chicken-bone. He'll take the hint and be off, you may depend upon
These were all the instructions Mr. B. could afford me upon the topic
in question, but I felt they would be entirely sufficient. I was, at
length, able to write a genuine Blackwood article, and determined to
do it forthwith. In taking leave of me, Mr. B. made a proposition for
the purchase of the paper when written; but as he could offer me only
fifty guineas a sheet, I thought it better to let our society have
it, than sacrifice it for so paltry a sum. Notwithstanding this
niggardly spirit, however, the gentleman showed his consideration for
me in all other respects, and indeed treated me with the greatest
civility. His parting words made a deep impression upon my heart, and
I hope I shall always remember them with gratitude.
"My dear Miss Zenobia," he said, while the tears stood in his eyes,
"is there anything else I can do to promote the success of your
laudable undertaking? Let me reflect! It is just possible that you
may not be able, so soon as convenient, to -- to -- get yourself
drowned, or -- choked with a chicken-bone, or -- or hung, -- or --
bitten by a -- but stay! Now I think me of it, there are a couple of
very excellent bull-dogs in the yard -- fine fellows, I assure you --
savage, and all that -- indeed just the thing for your money --
they'll have you eaten up, auricula and all, in less than five
minutes (here's my watch!) -- and then only think of the sensations!
Here! I say -- Tom! -- Peter! -- Dick, you villain! -- let out those"
-- but as I was really in a great hurry, and had not another moment
to spare, I was reluctantly forced to expedite my departure, and
accordingly took leave at once -- somewhat more abruptly, I admit,
than strict courtesy would have otherwise allowed.
It was my primary object upon quitting Mr. Blackwood, to get into
some immediate difficulty, pursuant to his advice, and with this view
I spent the greater part of the day in wandering about Edinburgh,
seeking for desperate adventures -- adventures adequate to the
intensity of my feelings, and adapted to the vast character of the
article I intended to write. In this excursion I was attended by one
negro -- servant, Pompey, and my little lap-dog Diana, whom I had
brought with me from Philadelphia. It was not, however, until late in
the afternoon that I fully succeeded in my arduous undertaking. An
important event then happened of which the following Blackwood
article, in the tone heterogeneous, is the substance and result.
~~~ End of Text ~~~