Morella edgar allan poe full text
Morella by Edgar Allan PoeI was really quite surprised at my reaction to this. But, judging by Poe’s very high level of storytelling, this was all very basic. What I mean is that everything he attempted in here is handled better in another one of his stories. Perhaps, this was a stepping stone for some of his more refined work. This did have the same melancholy tone, though it didn’t quite have the same profound depth as, for example, Ligeia or The Black Cat.
I was under the naive assumption that all of his stories would be as good as the last. I do suppose that not even Poe could achieve the same level of mastery in all of his works. The main problem I had with this was the sheer speed in which it was told. Yes, all of his works are very short; however, the mood shifts in this changed with each paragraph. It was all too quick with none of his trademark subtlety. The story begins with the narrator explaining how dearly he loves his wife; she is beautiful and intelligent; she is his life, and he is completely dependent on her. Okay, so that’s fine. A paragraph later he is now disgusted with the very same things that he once loved about her. This is also okay. The same notion can be in the mind of the narrator of the The Black Cat. These shifts do happen over time.
Then she dies. This, once again, arouses his devotion. He is now, once again, in love with her. This time it’s her memory. He cannot even bare to speak her name in his grief. She died in childbirth where she gave birth to their daughter. The baby girl strongly resembles the mother. The narrator initially loves her, and then he sees the uncanny resemblance to his late wife. He can no longer bear to see the child; he developes hatred and disgust for her; he becomes angry. This is no less than five rapid states of emotional changes in one character within the course of a very short story.
For me it felt quick and, well, just a little bit too much. The changes were too sudden and not fully explored. It was like being told of the emotional change, like I have stated, but without actually seeing it occur. It was a case of tell rather than show. If you, again, compare this to The Black Cat it wanes in comparison. The narrative voice lacked the depth, feeling and power of his other works.
If you’ve not seen any of my other reviews for Poe before, this is not a reflection of what I think of him in general. He is a fantastic writer; however, this particular story was not as good as his more renowned ones.
Morella by Edgar Allan Poe (Audiobook) - Performed by Frank Marcopolos
Morella (short story)
HOWEVER, copyright law varies in other countries, and the work may still be under copyright in the country from which you are accessing this website. It is your responsibility to check the applicable copyright laws in your country before downloading this work. Thrown by accident into her society many years ago, my soul from our first meeting, burned with fires it had never before known; but the fires were not of Eros, and bitter and tormenting to my spirit was the gradual conviction that I could in no manner define their unusual meaning or regulate their vague intensity. Yet we met; and fate bound us together at the altar, and I never spoke of passion nor thought of love. She, however, shunned society, and, attaching herself to me alone rendered me happy. It is a happiness to wonder; it is a happiness to dream.
Itself, by itself, solely, ONE everlasting, and single. P LATO. Thrown by accident into her society many years ago, my soul, from our first meeting, burned with fires it had never before known; but the fires were not of Eros, and bitter and tormenting to my spirit was the gradual conviction that I could in no manner define their unusual meaning, or regulate their vague intensity. Yet we met; and fate bound us together at the altar; and I never spoke of passion, nor thought of love. She, however, shunned society, and, attaching herself to me alone, rendered me happy.
After they marry, she introduces him to one of her favorite activities: studying mystical writings. Poring over them, the narrator hopes to fathom their arcane meanings, but fails. It is no longer a joy to listen to her; it is a horror. However, in time, her manner oppresses him. It may be that the narrator is jealous of his wife's superior intellect. In other words, in spite of her intellectual preoccupations, she still longs for the attentions of her husband. However, aware of his discontent—aware that he now finds her repulsive—she begins to pine and suffers a decline in her health, manifested by her paleness and the prominence of veins on her forehead.