Sunday, May 15, 2011

Response to "The Tell-Tale Heart"

     The Tell-Tale Heart is an incredible manifestation of literary suspense and with this single aspect of disillusionment imposed upon the reader, Edgar Allan Poe creates a Gothic short story worthy of a complicated analysis. With alternate fact-based opinions, analyzers debate over the central character's sanity and verity, proclaiming the invalidity of the actual transpirations told of throughout Poe's work. However, with biased but significant evidence, the Tell-Tale Heart can be interpreted as an actual murder which happened within the story which was meticulously executed by an insane or schizophrenic individual.
     The recurring central motif featured in Edgar Allan Poe's short story is the beating of a heart. In the initial lines of the tale, the narrator clearly identifies his tribulations with anxiety. This detail leads readers to his heightened senses such as the case with his hearing, commenting he has the ability to hear occurrences in hell and heaven. Due to the narrator's acute nervousness during commonplace events, it can be assumed that his heart would beat at a much higher rate. During his malevolent stalking and eventual killing of the old man, the narrator often hears "the old man's heart beat" which loudly permeates through his chest to become an overpowering tenor. As a human heart cannot surmount such a volume, the narrator must be hearing his own heart-beat accelerating as he executes his schemes. After the man is killed, the narrator is subsequently confronted by police officers, inquiring about shrieks heard by neighbors. When nothing sinister is apparently revealed to them, the police sit by idly on the floorboards where the old man's remains were contained. Soon the narrator notices a tapping, resemblant of a heart-beat and with the polices' presence, the sounds can be seen as the narrator's heart beating more and more rapidly. His removal from his own bodily functions leads him to deduce that the old man's heart is beating under the floorboards.  

Monday, May 2, 2011

Looking Through This Kaleidescope

     January isn't December. And the place of our sun isn't the difference. Sheer kinetic energy seems to fall down in people's minds, just as the temperature does when the nights sleep deeper. The frosty passion expressed weeks ago slides into the tundra of discontent and thick wooden doors creek shut when December withdrawal sets in with snowy tempests whistling through the old-growth oaks and silver maples. But those winds soon stop blowing and I open my door to the sound of absolute nothing.
      After slumber occupies my family's night, I awake to an overcast late morning. I stumble past the foggy windows and the pure whiteness coupled with the rays of light sneaking through the clouds cause my half-open and vulnerable eyes to cringe. While my backyard bequeaths me with its new glory, I adjust to truly view the architecture of the snow upon frozen tree branches and houses with steady smoke billowing from their brick chimneys. Content with my keen observations, my thoughts diverge to my sister, sleeping with no intent in getting up any time soon. Knowing this, I still feel she should join  me in the snow. So I loudly run to her room and stand next to the side of the bed she is on.
     No use, calling her name and tapping her shoulder in swift succession causes her to only stir. I resolve to search for another to plow through the now still and pristine neighborhood because suddenly, this snowfall transforms into an undiscovered wonderland, packed with undiscovered possibilities. Before, fields of sparse grass were simply fields, jungle-gyms were attractions already visited. But now, now I imagine the fields as enormous blue glaciers I can traverse to reach the base of Vinson Massif in Antarctica or Aconcagua in the Andes. The jungle-gym now served as a training camp for our daring pursuits to scale its slippery structure and fall carelessly down into the snow if we had the guts.