Edgar Allan Poe: The Philosophy
of Composition (1846)
C
HARLES
D
ICKENS
, 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 Wil-
liams’ 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 Wil-
liams” 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
dénouement
before any thing be attempted with the pen. It is only with the
dénoue-
ment
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 inci-
dent 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 narra-
tive–designing, generally, to fill in with description, dialogue, or au-
torial 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 impres-
sions, 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 best be wrought by incident or tone–whether by ordinary inci-
dents and peculiar tone, or the converse, or by peculiarity both of inci-
THE PHILOSOPHY OF COMPOSITION
2
dent 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 at-
tained 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 under-
stood that they compose by a species of fine frenzy–an ecstatic intui-
tion–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 unmanagea-
ble–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 the hundred, constitute the properties of the literary
his-
trio.
I am aware, on the other hand, that the case is by no means com-
mon, 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 al-
luded 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 ana-
lyzed, 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 de-
sign to render it manifest that no one point in its composition is refer-
rible either to accident or intuition–that the work proceeded, step by
3
EDGAR ALLAN POE
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 inten-
tion 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
every thing like totality is at once destroyed. But since,
ceteris paribus,
no poet can afford to dispense with
any thing
that may advance his
design, it but remains to be seen whether there is, in extent, any ad-
vantage 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 psy-
chal necessity, brief. For this reason, at least one half of the “Paradise
Lost” is essentially prose–a succession of poetical excitements inter-
spersed,
inevitably,
with corresponding depressions–the whole being
deprived, through the extremeness of its length, of the vastly im-
portant 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 “Robin-
son 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 capa-
ble 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.
THE PHILOSOPHY OF COMPOSITION
4
Holding in view these considerations, as well as that degree of ex-
citement which I deemed not above the popular, while 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 in-
sisted, 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 mis-
represent. 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, pre-
cisely, 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
Beau-
ty 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 at-
tainment–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 passion-
ate 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 any thing here said, that pas-
sion, or even truth, may not be introduced, and even profitably intro-
duced, into a poem–for they may serve in elucidation, or aid the gen-
eral effect, as do discords in music, by contrast–but the true artist will
always contrive, first, to tone them into proper subservience to the
5
EDGAR ALLAN POE
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 construc-
tion 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 im-
mediately 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 improve-
ment, 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 de-
pends for its impression upon the force of monotone–both in sound
and thought. The pleasure is deduced solely from the sense of identi-
ty–of repetition. I resolved to diversify, and so vastly heighten, the
effect, by adhering, in general, to the monotone of sound, while I con-
tinually 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
THE PHILOSOPHY OF COMPOSITION
6
protracted emphasis, admitted no doubt: and these considerations
inevitably led me to the long
o
as the most sonorous vowel, in connec-
tion with
r
as the most producible consonant.
The sound of the
refrain
being thus determined, it became neces-
sary to select a word embodying this sound, and at the same time in
the fullest possible keeping with that melancholy which I had prede-
termined 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 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 pre-assumption 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
su-
premeness
, or perfection, at all points, I asked myself–“Of all melan-
choly topics, what, according to the
universal
understanding of man-
kind, 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 de-
ceased mistress and a Raven continuously repeating the word “Never-
7
EDGAR ALLAN POE
more”–I had to combine these, bearing in mind my design of varying,
at every turn, the
application
of the word repeated; but the only intelli-
gible mode of such combination is that of imagining the Raven em-
ploying 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 appli-
cation
. I saw that I could make the first query propounded by the lov-
er–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 omi-
nous reputation of the fowl that uttered it–is at length excited to su-
perstition, 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 expe-
riences a phrenzied pleasure in so modeling his questions as to receive
from the
expected
“Nevermore” the most delicious because the most
intolerable of sorrow. Perceiving the opportunity thus afforded me–
or, more strictly, thus forced upon me in the progress of the construc-
tion–I first established in mind the climax, or concluding query–that
to which “Nevermore” should be in the last place an answer–that in
reply to which this word “Nevermore” should involve the utmost con-
ceivable amount of sorrow and despair.
Here then the poem may be said to have 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.”
Quoth the raven–“Nevermore.”
THE PHILOSOPHY OF COMPOSITION
8
I composed this stanza, at this point, first that, by establishing the
climax, I might the better vary and graduate, as regards seriousness and
importance, the preceding queries of the lover–and, secondly, that I
might definitely settle the rhythm, the metre, and the length and gen-
eral arrangement of the stanza–as well as graduate the stanzas which
were to precede, so that none of them might surpass this in rhythmical
effect. Had I been able, in the subsequent composition, to construct
more vigorous stanzas, I should, without scruple, have purposely en-
feebled them, so as not to interfere with the climacteric effect.
And here I may as well say a few words of the versification. My first
object (as usual) was originality. The extent to which this has been
neglected, in versification, is one of the most unaccountable things in
the world. Admitting that there is little possibility of variety in mere
rhythm,
it is still clear that the possible varieties of metre and stanza are
absolutely infinite–and yet,
for centuries, no man, in verse, has ever done,
or ever seemed to think of doing, an original thing.
The fact is, originality
(unless in minds of very unusual force) is by no means a matter, as
some suppose, of impulse or intuition. In general, to be found, it must
be elaborately sought, and although a positive merit of the highest
class, demands in its attainment less of invention than negation.
Of course, I pretend to no originality in either the rhythm or metre
of the “Raven.” The former is trochaic–the latter is octametre acata-
lectic, alternating with heptameter catalectic repeated in the
refrain
of
the fifth verse, and terminating with tetrameter catalectic. Less pedan-
tically–the feet employed throughout (trochees) consist of a long
syllable followed by a short: the first line of the stanza consists of eight
of these feet–the second of seven and a half (in effect two-thirds)–
the third of eight–the fourth of seven and a half–the fifth the same–
the sixth three and a half. Now, each of these lines, taken individually,
has been employed before, and what originality the “Raven” has, is in
their
combination into stanza;
nothing even remotely approaching this
combination has ever been attempted. The effect of this originality of
combination is aided by other unusual, and some altogether novel
effects, arising from an extension of the application of the principles of
rhyme and alliteration.
The next point to be considered was the mode of bringing together
the lover and the Raven–and the first branch of this consideration was
9
EDGAR ALLAN POE
the
locale
. For this the most natural suggestion might seem to be a
forest, or the fields–but it has always appeared to me that a close
cir-
cumscription of space
is absolutely necessary to the effect of insulated
incident:–it has the force of a frame to a picture. It has an indisputa-
ble moral power in keeping concentrated the attention, and, of course,
must not be confounded with mere unity of place.
I determined, then, to place the lover in his chamber–in a cham-
ber rendered sacred to him by memories of her who had frequented it.
The room is represented as richly furnished–this in mere pursuance
of the ideas I have already explained on the subject of Beauty, as the
sole true poetical thesis.
The
locale
being thus determined, I had now to introduce the
bird–and the thought of introducing him through the window, was
inevitable. The idea of making the lover suppose, in the first instance,
that the flapping of the wings of the bird against the shutter, is a “tap-
ping” at the door, originated in a wish to increase, by prolonging, the
reader’s curiosity, and in a desire to admit the incidental effect arising
from the lover’s throwing open the door, finding all dark, and thence
adopting the half-fancy that it was the spirit of his mistress that
knocked.
I made the night tempestuous, first, to account for the Raven’s
seeking admission, and secondly, for the effect of contrast with the
(physical) serenity within the chamber.
I made the bird alight on the bust of Pallas, also for the effect of
contrast between the marble and the plumage–it being understood
that the bust was absolutely
suggested
by the bird–the bust of
Pallas
being chosen, first, as most in keeping with the scholarship of the lov-
er, and, secondly, for the sonorousness of the word, Pallas, itself.
About the middle of the poem, also, I have availed myself of the
force of contrast, with a view of deepening the ultimate impression.
For example, an air of the fantastic–approaching as nearly to the ludi-
crous as was admissible–is given to the Raven’s entrance. He comes in
“with many a flirt and flutter.
Not the
least obeisance made he
–not a moment stopped or stayed he,
But with mien of lord or lady,
perched above my chamber door.
THE PHILOSOPHY OF COMPOSITION
10
In the two stanzas which follow, the design is more obviously car-
ried out:–
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling
By the
grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
“Though thy
crest be shorn and shaven
thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the nightly shore–
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
––
Much I marvelled
this ungainly fowl
to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning–little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door
–
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as “Nevermore.”
––
The effect of the
dénouement
being thus provided for, I immediate-
ly drop the fantastic for a tone of the most profound seriousness:–this
tone commencing in the stanza directly following the one last quoted,
with the line,
But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only, etc.
From this epoch the lover no longer jests–no longer sees any
thing even of the fantastic in the Raven’s demeanor. He speaks of him
as a “grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore,” and
feels the “fiery eyes” burning into his “bosom’s core.” This revolution
of thought, or fancy, on the lover’s part, is intended to induce a similar
one on the part of the reader–to bring the mind into a proper frame
for the
dénouement–
which is now brought about as rapidly and as
directly
as possible.
With the
dénouement
proper–with the Raven’s reply, “Never-
more,” to the lover’s final demand if he shall meet his mistress in an-
other world–the poem, in its obvious phase, that of a simple narra-
tive, may be said to have its completion. So far, every thing is within
the limits of the accountable–of the real. A raven, having learned by
rote the single word “Nevermore,” and having escaped from the cus-
11
EDGAR ALLAN POE
tody of its owner, is driven, at midnight, through the violence of a
storm, to seek admission at a window from which a light still gleams–
the chamber-window of a student, occupied half in poring over a vol-
ume, half in dreaming of a beloved mistress deceased. The casement
being thrown open at the fluttering of the bird’s wings, the bird itself
perches on the most convenient seat out of the immediate reach of the
student, who, amused by the incident and the oddity of the visiter’s
demeanor, demands of it, in jest and without looking for a reply, its
name. The raven addressed, answers with its customary word, “Nev-
ermore”–a word which finds immediate echo in the melancholy heart
of the student, who, giving utterance aloud to certain thoughts sug-
gested by the occasion, is again startled by the fowl’s repetition of
“Nevermore.” The student now guesses the state of the case, but is
impelled, as I have before explained, by the human thirst for self-
torture, and in part by superstition, to propound such queries to the
bird as will bring him, the lover, the most of the luxury of sorrow,
through the anticipated answer “Nevermore.” With the indulgence, to
the utmost extreme, of this self-torture, the narration, in what I have
termed its first or obvious phase, has a natural termination, and so far
there has been no overstepping of the limits of the real.
But in subjects so handled, however skilfully, or with however vivid
an array of incident, there is always a certain hardness or nakedness,
which repels the artistical eye. Two things are invariably required–
first, some amount of complexity, or more properly, adaptation; and,
secondly, some amount of suggestiveness–some undercurrent, how-
ever indefinite of meaning. It is this latter, in especial, which imparts
to a work of art so much of that
richness
(to borrow from colloquy a
forcible term) which we are too fond of confounding with
the ideal.
It
is the
excess
of the suggested meaning–it is the rendering this the up-
per instead of the undercurrent of the theme–which turns into prose
(and that of the very flattest kind) the so called poetry of the so called
transcendentalists.
Holding these opinions, I added the two concluding stanzas of the
poem–their suggestiveness being thus made to pervade all the narra-
tive which has preceded them. The under-current of meaning is ren-
dered first apparent in the lines–
THE PHILOSOPHY OF COMPOSITION
12
“Take thy beak from out
my heart,
and take thy form from off my door!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore!”
It will be observed that the words, “from out my heart,” involve the
first metaphorical expression in the poem. They, with the answer,
“Nevermore,” dispose the mind to seek a moral in all that has been
previously narrated. The reader begins now to regard the Raven as
emblematical–but it is not until the very last line of the very last stan-
za, that the intention of making him emblematical of
Mournful and
Never-ending Remembrance
is permitted distinctly to be seen:
And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting,
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
And the lamplight o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul
from out that shadow
that lies floating on the floor
be lifted–nevermore.
