Ah, The Tell-Tale Heart. I remember reading this story in 8th grade and marveling at the darkness of Poe's stories. Granted, we had also read some of his other works, including The Raven, The Black Cat, The Pit and the Pendulum, The Fall of the House of Usher, The Masque of the Red Death, and The Murders in the Rue Morgue. Along with reading Poe's life story, you can see why one would marvel at such a thing.
The Tell-Tale Heart is a story about a man bothered by an old man's "Evil Eye". The man is so bothered by the Eye that he decides to kill the man. After killing the man and hiding the body, the police show up. Investigating a scream that was reported by the neighbors, the police search the house and find nothing. The man, who claims to hear the beating old the old man's heart cannot bear it any longer and confesses to the police officers.
Beginning with the main character. . . He is the narrator and presumed to be mad, backed up by the fact that he denies he is so. He is scared by the Evil Eye, but has nothing against the man; he can only kill the man when he can see his eye. I think he is telling the truth, he really does not think he is mad and he truly believes the Eye is evil. When the police come search the house, he believes he hears the beating of the heart. I think he is still scared by the Evil Eye. He clearly has no guilt about killing the man and yet hears the heart. I think that he was truly shaken by the eye and with whatever mental illness he has, he cannot escape that fear. He is driven mad by it and tries to find excuses as he tells his audience in his story (which I believe he wrote possibly in jail sell, after going through this ordeal, to show he is not mad). He is truly an example of the dark side of Poe to marvel at.
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Sunday, May 1, 2011
Once Again
A neighborhood; another one.
Bystanders can see you are just radiating joy. . .
Another neighborhood - the forth, but the seventh move. So far, this one is different. . .
Driving down Archer Ave. you pass Damen. You continue to drive and find yourself peering out of the window. You may notice the Cermak Produce on the left and the Huck Finn family restaurant on the right. There is a new building that wasn't there a few years previously. You continue down Archer and notice the potholes and the garbage in the street. The traffic is light; its noon on a sunny Saturday afternoon. Just as you pass the New Archview resturant (obviously Americanized Greek), you make a slight right onto 35th street. You check the address and then realize its right there. You have to stop and pull to the right to park while ticking off the drivers behind you. You get out of the car and notice the old building standing proud across the street. It used to be a police station; it looks like condos now. . . You walk to the right, remember to lock the car and hop onto the sidewalk. You notice the shabby houses stacked right next to each other with no space to breath. While continuing to walk, you hear the, "doors closing" drone which can only belong to the CTA. Its the orange line, in fact. You wonder what the sound pollution might be like living next to the train; you also think of the convenience of public transportation. You walk to the first glass door to a stout, rectangular, brick building. Dialing the correct number, you put the phone to your ear and wait for an answer. "Hello?" a voice says. "I'm here," you say. With a hand on the door, you wait for the buzz of an unlocking lock. The line goes dead and you push the door open to let yourself in the small, but cozy lobby. You walk in and put the phone back in your pocket. In the next few seconds, you take in the world around you. A faux stone floor is beneath you and as you look up the modest chandelier is supplied with CFL bulbs. To your left and right are three identical mail boxes, the silver, unoriginal kind. You walk up the first, small leg of stairs and notice the color of them; a dark burgundy. They look old and redone. As you continue your climb, your steps set off the loud piercing bark of dog in the apartment on your left. It sounds like one of those small, annoying dogs. On the first landing, you see your reflection in a full length mirror and proceed up the second flight of stairs. On the second floor, you hear another dog barking. This bark is deeper, and could belong to a larger dog. The door on your right opens and a familiar face opens the door. A small dog, a dachshund, runs out and jumps on you in greeting. Of course, you knew the dog wasn't large, and of course you knew the face. In a short time, you will know all the details of your drive over. You will know every detail of this refurbished building and the streets around it. This was home, a different one, but home once again.
Bystanders can see you are just radiating joy. . .
Another neighborhood - the forth, but the seventh move. So far, this one is different. . .
Driving down Archer Ave. you pass Damen. You continue to drive and find yourself peering out of the window. You may notice the Cermak Produce on the left and the Huck Finn family restaurant on the right. There is a new building that wasn't there a few years previously. You continue down Archer and notice the potholes and the garbage in the street. The traffic is light; its noon on a sunny Saturday afternoon. Just as you pass the New Archview resturant (obviously Americanized Greek), you make a slight right onto 35th street. You check the address and then realize its right there. You have to stop and pull to the right to park while ticking off the drivers behind you. You get out of the car and notice the old building standing proud across the street. It used to be a police station; it looks like condos now. . . You walk to the right, remember to lock the car and hop onto the sidewalk. You notice the shabby houses stacked right next to each other with no space to breath. While continuing to walk, you hear the, "doors closing" drone which can only belong to the CTA. Its the orange line, in fact. You wonder what the sound pollution might be like living next to the train; you also think of the convenience of public transportation. You walk to the first glass door to a stout, rectangular, brick building. Dialing the correct number, you put the phone to your ear and wait for an answer. "Hello?" a voice says. "I'm here," you say. With a hand on the door, you wait for the buzz of an unlocking lock. The line goes dead and you push the door open to let yourself in the small, but cozy lobby. You walk in and put the phone back in your pocket. In the next few seconds, you take in the world around you. A faux stone floor is beneath you and as you look up the modest chandelier is supplied with CFL bulbs. To your left and right are three identical mail boxes, the silver, unoriginal kind. You walk up the first, small leg of stairs and notice the color of them; a dark burgundy. They look old and redone. As you continue your climb, your steps set off the loud piercing bark of dog in the apartment on your left. It sounds like one of those small, annoying dogs. On the first landing, you see your reflection in a full length mirror and proceed up the second flight of stairs. On the second floor, you hear another dog barking. This bark is deeper, and could belong to a larger dog. The door on your right opens and a familiar face opens the door. A small dog, a dachshund, runs out and jumps on you in greeting. Of course, you knew the dog wasn't large, and of course you knew the face. In a short time, you will know all the details of your drive over. You will know every detail of this refurbished building and the streets around it. This was home, a different one, but home once again.
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