The Man Who Called Himself Poe

by Sam Moskowitz

  morrow—and yet it can hardly be more than 190 or 200

  miles.

  THE M AN WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE

  191

  Jan. 2.

  I have passed this day in a species of ecstasy that I find it

  impossible to describe. My passion for solitude could scarcely

  have been more thoroughly gratified. I do not say satisfied;

  for I believe I should never be satiated with such delight

  as I have experienced today. . . .

  The wind lulled after daybreak, and by the afternoon the

  sea had gone down materially. . . . Nothing to be seen

  with the telescope even, but ocean and sky, with an occa-

  sional gull.

  Jan. 3.

  A dead calm all day. Toward evening, the sea looked very

  much like glass. A few seaweeds came in sight; but besides

  them absolutely nothing all day—not even the slightest speck

  of cloud. . . . Occupied myself in exploring the light-

  house. . . . It is a very lofty one—as I find to my cost when

  I have to ascend its interminable stairs—not quite 160 feet,

  I should say, from the low-water mark to the top of the lan-

  tern. From the bottom inside the shaft, however, the dis-

  tance to the summit is 180 feet at least: thus the floor is

  twenty feet below the surface of the sea, even at low

  tide. . . .

  It seems to me that the hollow interior at the bottom

  should have been filled in with solid masonry. Undoubtedly

  the whole would have been thus rendered more safe: but

  what am I thinking about? A structure such as this is safe

  enough under any circumstances. I should feel myself se-

  cure in it during the fiercest hurricane that ever raged—

  and yet I have heard seamen say that, occasionally, with a

  wind at southwest, the sea has been known to run higher

  here than anywhere, with the single exception of the west-

  era opening of the Straits of Magellan.

  No mere sea, though, could accomplish anything with

  I 9 2

  THE M AN WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE

  this solid iron-riveted wall—which, at fifty feet from high-

  water mark, is four feet thick, if one inch. The basis on

  which the structure rests seems to me to be chalk. . . .

  Jan. 4.

  I am now prepared to resume work on my book, having

  spent this day in familiarizing myself with a regular routine.

  My actual duties will be, I perceive, absurdly simple—the

  light requires little tending beyond a periodic replenish-

  ment of the oil for the six-wick burner. As to my own needs,

  they are easily satisfied, and the exertion of an occasional

  trip down the stairs is all I must anticipate.

  At the base of the stairs is the entrance room; beneath

  that is twenty feet of empty shaft. Above the entrance room,

  at the next turn of the circular iron staircase, is my store-

  room, which contains the casks of fresh water and the food

  supplies, plus linens and other daily needs. Above that—

  again another spiral of those interminable stairs 1— is the

  oil room, completely filled with the tanks from which I must

  feed the wicks. Fortunately, I perceive that I can limit my

  descent to the storeroom to once a week if I choose, for it is

  possible for me to carry sufficient provisions in one load to

  supply both myself and Neptune for such a period. As to the

  oil supply, I need only to bring up two drums every three

  days and thus ensure a constant illumination. If I choose, I

  can place a dozen or more spare drums on the platform

  near the light and thus provide for several weeks to come.

  So it is that in my daily existence I can limit my move-

  ments to the upper half of the lighthouse; that is to say,

  the three spirals opening on the topmost three levels. The

  lowest is my “living room”—and it is here, of course, that

  Neptune is confined the greater part of the day; here, too,

  that I plan to write at a desk near the wall slit that affords a

  view of the sea without. The second-highest level is my bed-

  room and kitchen combined. Here the weekly rations of

  THE M AN WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE

  1 9 3

  food and water are contained in cupboards for that pur-

  pose; here, too, is the ingenious stove fed by the selfsame

  oil that lights the beacon above. The topmost level is the

  service room giving access to the light itself and to the plat-

  form surrounding it. Since the light is fixed, and its re-

  Hectors set, there is no need for me ever to ascend to the

  platform save when replenishing the oil supply or making a

  repair or adjustment as per the written instructions—a cir-

  cumstance which may well never arise during my stay here.

  Already I have carried enough oil, water, and provender

  to the upper levels to last me for an entire month—I need

  stir from my two rooms only to replenish the wicks.

  For the rest, I am free! utterly free—my time is my own,

  and in this lofty realm I rule as king. Although Neptune is my

  only living subject, I can well imagine that I am sovereign

  o’er all I see—ocean below and stars above. I am master of

  the sun that rises in rubicund radiance from the sea at

  dawn, emperor of wind and monarch of the gale, sultan

  of the waves that sport or roar in roiling torrents about the

  base of my palace pinnacle. I command the moon in the

  heavens, and the very ebb and flow of the tide does homage

  to my reign.

  But enough of fancies—DeGrat warned me to refrain

  from morbid or from grandiose speculation—now I shall take

  up in all earnestness the task that lies before me. Yet this

  night, as I sit before the window in the starlight, the tides

  sweeping against these lofty walls can only echo my exulta-

  tion; I am free—and, at last, alone!

  Jan. 11.

  A week has passed since my last entry in this diary, and

  as I read it over, I can scarce comprehend that it was I who

  penned those words.

  Something has happened—the nature of which lies un-

  fathomed. I have worked, eaten, slept, replenished the wicks

  1 9 4

  THE M AN W*10 CALLED HIMSELF POE

  twice. My outward existence has been placid. I can ascribe

  the alteration in my feelings to nought but some inner

  alchemy; enough to say that a disturbing change has taken

  place.

  Alone! I, who breathed the word as if it were some mystic

  incantation bestowing peace, have come—I realize it now—

  to loathe the very sound of the syllables. And the ghastliness

  of meaning I know full well.

  It is a dismaying, it is a dreadful thing, to be alone. Truly

  alone, as I am, with only Neptune to exist beside me and

  by his breathing presence remind me that I am not the sole

  inhabitant of a blind and senseless universe. The sun and

  stars that wheel overhead in their endless cycle seem to

  rush across the horizon unheeding—and, of late, unheeded,

  for I cannot fix my mind upon them with normal constancy.

  The sea that swirls or ripples below me is nought but a

>   purposeless chaos of utter emptiness.

  I thought myself to be a man of singular self-sufficiency,

  beyond the petty needs of a boring and banal society. How

  wrong I was!—for I find myself longing for the sight of

  another face, the sound of another voice, the touch of other

  hands whether they offer caresses or blows. Anything, any-

  thing for reassurement that my dreams are indeed false and

  that I am not, actually, alone.

  And yet I am. I am, and I will be. The world is two hun-

  dred miles away; I will not know it again for an entire

  year. And it in turn—but no more! I cannot put down my

  thoughts while in the grip of this morbid mood.

  Jan. 13.

  Two more days—two more centuries!—have passed. Can it

  be less than two weeks since I was immured in this prison

  tower? I mount the turret of my dungeon and gaze at the

  horizon; I am not hemmed in by bars of steel but by columns

  and pillars and webs of wild and raging water. The sea has

  THE M AN WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE

  1 9 5

  changed; gray skies have wrought a wizardry so that I

  stand surrounded by a tum ult that threatens to become a

  tempest.

  I turn away, for I can bear no more, and descend to my

  room. I seek to write—the book is bravely begun, but of

  late I can bring myself to do nothing constructive or crea-

  tive—and in a moment I fling aside my pen and rise to pace,

  to endlessly pace the narrow, circular confines of my tower

  of torment.

  Wild words, these? And yet I am not alone in my afflic-

  tion—Neptune, Neptune the loyal, the calm, the placid feels

  it too.

  Perhaps it is but the approach of the storm that agitates

  him so—for Nature bears closer kinship with the beast.

  He stays constantly at my side, whining now, and the

  muffled roaring of the waves without our prison causes him

  to tremble. There is a chill in the air that our stove cannot

  dissipate, but it is not cold that oppresses him. . . .

  I have just mounted to the platform and gazed out at the

  spectacle of gathering storm. The waves are fantastically

  high; they sweep against the lighthouse in titanic tumult.

  These solid walls of stone shudder rhythmically with each

  onslaught. The churning sea is gray no longer—the water

  is black, black as basalt and as heavy. The sky’s hue has

  deepened so that at the moment no horizon is visible. I

  am surrounded by a billowing blackness thundering against

  me. . . .

  Back below now, as lightning flickers. The storm will

  break soon, and Neptune howls piteously. I stroke his

  quivering flanks, but the poor animal shrinks away. It seems

  that he fears even my presence; can it be that my own

  features betray an equal agitation? I do not know—I only

  feel that I am helpless, trapped here and awaiting the mercy

  of the storm. I cannot write much longer.

  And yet I will set down a further statement. I must, if

  only to prove to myself that reason again prevails. In writ­

  1 9 6

  THE M AN WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE

  ing of my venture up to the platform—my viewing of the

  sea and sky—I omitted to mention the meaning of a single

  moment. There came upon me, as I gazed down at the black

  and boiling madness of the waters below, a wild and willful

  craving to become one with it. But why should I disguise

  the naked truth?—I felt an insane impulse to hurl myself

  into the seal

  It has passed now; passed, I pray, forever. I did not yield

  to this perverse prompting and I am back here in my quar-

  ters, writing calmly once again. Yet the fact remains—the

  hideous urge to destroy myself came suddenly, and with

  the force of one of those monstrous waves.

  And w hat—I force myself to realize—was the meaning of

  my demented desire? It was that I sought escape, escape

  from loneliness. It was as if by mingling with the sea

  and the storm I would no longer be alone.

  But I defy the elements. I defy the powers of the earth

  and of the heavens. Alone I am, alone I must be—and come

  what may, I shall survive 1 My laughter rises above all your

  thunder 1

  So—ye spirits of the storm—blow, howl, rage, hurl your

  watery weight against my fortress—I am greater than you

  in all your powers. But waitl Neptune . . . something has

  happened to the creature—I must attend him.

  Jan. 16.

  The storm is abated. I am back at my desk now, alone—

  truly alone. I have locked poor Neptune in the storeroom

  below; the unfortunate beast seems driven out of his wits

  by the forces of the storm. When last I wrote he was

  worked into a frenzy, whining and pawing and wheeling in

  circles. He was incapable of responding to my commands

  and I had no choice but to drag him down the stairs by the

  scruff of his neck and incarcerate him in the storeroom

  where he could not come to harm. I own that concern for

  THE M A N WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE

  I 9 7

  my safety was involved—the possibility of being imprisoned

  in this lighthouse with a mad dog must be avoided.

  His howls, throughout the storm, were pitiable indeed,

  but now he is silent. W hen last I ventured to gaze into the

  room I perceived him sleeping, and I trust that rest and

  calm will restore him to my full companionship as before.

  Companionship!

  How shall I describe the horrors of the storm I faced

  aloneP

  In this diary entry I have prefaced a date —January 16—

  but that is merely a guess. The storm has swept away all

  track of time. Did it last a day, two days, three—as I now

  surmise—a week, or a century? I do not know.

  I know only an endless raging of waters that threatened,

  time and again, to engulf the very pinnacle of the light-

  house. I know only an eternity of ebony, an aeon of billow-

  ing black composed of sea and sky commingled. I only know

  that there were times when my own voice outroared the

  storm—but how can I convey the cause of that? There was

  a time, perhaps a full day, perhaps much longer, when I

  could not bear to rise from my couch but lay with my face

  buried in the pillows, weeping like a child. But mine were

  not the pure tears of childhood innocence—call them, rather,

  the tears of Lucifer upon the realization of his eternal fall

  from grace. It seemed to me that I was truly the victim of an

  endless damnation; condemned forever to remain a prisoner

  in a world of thunderous chaos.

  There is no need to write of the fancies and fantasies

  which assailed me through those unhallowed hours. At times

  I felt that the lighthouse was giving way and that I would

  be swept into the sea. At times I knew myself to be a victim

  of a colossal plot—I cursed DeGrát for sending me, know-

  ingly, to my doom. At times ( and these were the worst mo-

  ments of all) I felt the full force of loneliness, crashing

  d
own upon me in waves higher than those wrought by

  water.

  1 9 8

  THE M AN WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE

  But all has passed, and the sea—and myself—are calm

  again. A peculiar calmness, this; as I gaze out upon the

  water there are certain phenomena I was not aware of until

  this very moment.

  Before setting down my observations, let me reassure my-

  self that I am, indeed, quite calm; no trace of my former

  tremors or agitation yet remains. The transient madness in-

  duced by the storm has departed and my brain is free of

  phantasms—indeed, my perceptive faculties seem to be

  sharpened to an unusual acuity.

  It is almost as though I find myself in possession of an addi-

  tional sense, an ability to analyze and penetrate beyond

  former limitations superimposed by Nature.

  The water on which I gaze is placid once more. The sky

  is only lightly leaden in hue. But wait—low on the horizon

  creeps a sudden flame! It is the sun, the Arctic sun in sullen

  splendor, emerging momentarily from the pall to incarna-

  dine the ocean. Sun and sky, sea and air about me, turn to

  blood.

  Can it be I who but a moment ago wrote of returned, re-

  gained sanity? I, who have just shrieked aloud, “Alone!”—

  and half-rising from my chair, heard the muffled booming

  echo reverberate through the lonely lighthouse, its sepul-

  chral accent intoning “Alone!” in answer? It may be that

  I am, despite all resolution, going mad; if so, I pray the

  end comes soon.

  Jan. 18.

  There will be no end! I have conceived a notion, a theory

  which my heightened faculties soon will test. I shall embark

  upon an experiment. . . .

  Jan. 26.

  A week has ]passed here in my solitary prison. Solitary?—

  THE M AN WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE

  I 9 9

  perhaps, but not for long. The experiment is proceeding.

  I must set down what has occurred.

  The sound of the echo set me to thinking. One sends out

  one’s voice and it comes back. One sends out one’s thoughts

  and—can it be that there is a response? Sound, as we know,

  travels in waves and patterns. The emanations of the brain,

  perhaps, travel similarly. And they are not confined by

  physical laws of time, space, or duration.

  Can one’s thoughts produce a reply that materializes, just