March 2011

-By Allan Poe Berenice

Today, as this raining, it's a dark day and very sad story I'd like to show, well one of my favorites, Berenice by Edgar Alla Poe: D Hope you like bloggers: D

Wendy Whisper

The misfortune is diverse. Misfortune on earth is multiform. Deployed on the wide horizon as the rainbow, its hues are as varied as this and also so different and so intimately linked. Deployed on the wide horizon as the rainbow! How is it that from beauty I have derived a type of ugliness, of the covenant of peace, a simile of sorrow? But just as in ethics, evil is a consequence of the property and, in fact, joy is born grief. Either the memory of past bliss is the anguish of today, or the agonies which are have their origin in the ecstasies which might have been.

My name is Egaeus; not mention my name. However, in my country there is no more venerable towers that my melancholy and gray inheritance. Our line has been called a race of visionaries, and many surprising details in the character of the family mansion in the cool main hall, in the hangings of the bedrooms, in the reliefs of some buttresses in the armory, but especially in the gallery of antique paintings in the style of the library and, finally, in the very peculiar nature of his books, there are more than enough elements to justify this belief.

The memories of my earliest years are connected with this chamber and its volume, which I will say no. My mother died there. I was born there. But it is simply idle to say that I had not lived before, that the soul has no previous existence. Do you deny? Not discuss the point. I I'm convinced, but not trying to convince. There are, however, a remembrance of aerial forms of spiritual eyes and expressive, musical sounds, but sad, a memory that will not be excluded, a memory like a shadow, vague, variable, indefinite, uncertain, and also as a shadow unable to get rid of it while the sun shines on my right.

born in that room. The sudden awakening of the long night of what seemed, but was not, the non-existence, to regions of fairies, a palace of imagination, into the wild dominions of monastic thought and erudition, it is not uncommon to look at my around with eyes wide and burning, which I loitered away my childhood books, and dissipated my youth in reverie, but it is rare that the years passed and the zenith of manhood found me still in the house of my parents, yea, it's amazing the paralysis that subjugated the sources of my life amazing total investment was in the nature of my thoughts more common. Earthly realities affected me as visions, and as visions only, while the wild ideas in the world of dreams became, in contrast, graze my everyday existence, but really in my sole and absolute existence.

Berenice and I were cousins \u200b\u200band grew up together in the paternal inheritance. But grew differently: I ill, wrapped in melancholy, she agile, graceful, full of strength, hers the ramble on the hill mine the studies of the cloister I living within my own and given body and soul the intense and painful meditation she roaming carelessly through life without thinking of the shadows of the road or in flight hours silent black wings. Berenice! I call your name ... Berenice! And from the gray ruins of memory a thousand tumultuous recollections are startled at the sound. Ah, now your image comes vividly before me, like the early days of his joy and his happiness! Ah, splendid, yet fantastic beauty! Oh, sylph amid the shrubberies of Arnheim! Oh, Naiad among its fountains! And then, then all is mystery and terror, and a story that should not be reported. The disease, a fatal disease-fell on her as the sirocco, and while I watched, the spirit of change swept, penetrate their minds, their habits and character, and in the most subtle and terrible to disturb their identity. Ay! The destroyer came and went, and the victim, where was I? I did not know or at least no longer as Berenice.

Among the numerous diseases caused by the first and fatal, causing an awful revolution in the moral and physical being of my cousin, should be mentioned as the most distressing and obstinate a kind of epilepsy that not infrequently ended in catalepsy, been very similar to the effective solution of which his way to recover was, in many cases, abrupt. Meanwhile, my own illness, as I have said I should not give it another name, "my own illness, I say, grew rapidly, assuming, finally a monomaniac character of a remarkable new species, which gained increasing force and finally got on me an incomprehensible ascendancy. This monomania, if I call it, consisted of irritability morbid those properties of the mind that science termed the attentive. It's more than likely not understand me, but I fear, indeed, there is no possible way to provide current intelligence of the reader an adequate idea of \u200b\u200bthat nervous intensity of interest in my case the powers of meditation (not to technical terms) acted and plunged in the contemplation of objects in the universe, even the most common. Reflecting

long hours, tireless, with attention riveted to some frivolous, apart from a book or in the topography, spending most of a summer day lost in a strange shadow falling aslant upon the tapestry or upon the door, get lost for a whole night watching the steady flame of a lamp or the embers of the fire; dream whole days over the perfume of a flower, repeat monotonously some common word until the sound, through the work of frequent repetition, ceased to convey any idea in mind, losing all sense of motion or physical existence thanks to a stubborn and absolute quiet, long long, these were some of the extravagances common and least pernicious induced a state of mental faculties, not only, of course, but capable of challenging any analysis or explanation.

not misunderstand me. The undue, earnest, and morbid attention thus excited by objects trivial in themselves should not be confused with the tendency to meditation, common to all men, and that is especially true in the persons of ardent imagination. Nor was, as might be supposed at first, an acute or an exaggeration of such propensity, but primarily and essentially distinct and different. In one case, the dreamer, or enthusiast, interested in an object usually not frivolous, loses sight gradually in a multitude of deductions and suggestions from him, until, at the end of a dream often filled with luxury The incitamentum or first cause of his musings disappears into complete oblivion. In my case, the primary object was invariably frivolous, although assuming, through the medium of my distempered vision, a reflected importance, unreal. Few deductions, if it appeared any, were made, and those few stubbornly returned to the original object as a center. The meditations were never pleasurable, and after the dream, the first cause, far from being out of sight, had attained that supernaturally exaggerated interest which was the dominant feature of evil. In a word, the more mental faculties were exercised in my case, as I have said, the attention, while the dreamer are the speculation.

My books, at that time, if not actually served to irritate the disorder, participated fully, as will be understood by their imaginative and inconsequential nature of the peculiar characteristics of the disorder itself. I can remember, among others, the treaty of Italian noble Coelius Secundus Curio De regni dei Beati Amplitudine the great work of St. Augustine City of God, and Tertullian, De Carne Christi , whose paradoxical statement: Mortuus est Dei filius; credibility ineptum quia est est: et sepultus resurrexit; certum est est quia impossibilia , took my full time for many weeks of laborious and unnecessary investigation.

will be seen therefore that, shaken from its balance only by trivial things, my reason ocean ridge resembled that spoken of by Ptolemy Hephaestion, which steadily resisting the attacks of human violence and the fierce fury of water and winds, but trembled at the touch of the flower called Asphodel. And even for a careless observer might seem beyond doubt that the alteration produced in the moral condition of Berenice by his unhappy condition would give me many objects for the exercise of that intense and abnormal meditation whose nature has cost me some work to explain, in so one such was the case. In the intervals lucid me wrong, I felt sorry for their trouble, and very moved by the utter ruin of his beautiful and gentle life, never stopped to ponder frequently and bitterly upon the wonder means by which he had come to so sudden a revolution and strange. But these reflections did not share the idiosyncrasy of my disease, and were similar to those in similar circumstances could arise in ordinary men. True to his own character, my disorder is enjoyed in the less significant changes, but more startling, operated in the physical frame of Berenice, in the singular and hideous distortion of personal identity.

In the days brightest of her unparalleled beauty, certainly not loved. In the strange anomaly of my existence, feelings with me, had never been the heart and the passions always were of intelligence. Through the gray dawn, in the shadows of the forest interlaced at noon and in the silence of my library at night, his image had floated before my eyes and I had seen, not as a Berenice living, breathing, but as Berenice a dream, not as an inhabitant of the earth, earthy, but as the abstraction, not as something to admire, but to analyze, not as an object of love, but as the subject of speculation as abstruse as disjointed. And now, now trembled in his presence and turned pale when he approached, however, bitterly lamenting its decline and ruin, I remembered that I had loved long time, and in a bad time, I talked about marriage.

And finally approached our wedding date when a winter afternoon, in one of those unseasonably warm, calm and misty are the nurse of the beautiful Halcyon, "I sat, thinking only in inside the library cabinet. But looking up saw before me, to Berenice.

Was my vivid imagination, the influence of the atmosphere hazy, uncertain light, twilight of the chamber, or gray dresses around her figure, which gave an outline so vacillating and indistinct? Can not say. Not uttered a word and I for the world would have been able to utter a syllable. An icy chill through my body, I pressed a sense of intolerable anxiety, a consuming curiosity pervaded my soul and sinking back in his seat, stood for a moment breathless, motionless, staring at him. Ay! Its emaciation was excessive, and not a vestige of primitive being stuck from one contour line. Burning my eyes fell at last on his face.

The forehead was high, very pale, singularly placid; and that once out of jet hair fell partially over it by shading the hollow temples with innumerable ringlets, now a bright yellow, their fantastic character who completely disagreed with the dominant melancholy of his face. His eyes had no life or brightness and seemingly pupil, and I shrank involuntarily from their glassy stare to see the lips thin and shrunken. They parted, and a smile of peculiar meaning, the teeth of the changed Berenice disclosed themselves slowly to my eyes. I wish I had never seen or, after seeing them would have died!

The stroke of a closing door and I was distracted, looked up and saw that my cousin had left the room. But the messy room of my mind, alas, had not come or depart the white and ghastly spectrum of the teeth. Not a point on its surface, not a shade on the enamel, or a notch in the edge there in that fleeting smile that is not burned into my memory. Then I saw more clearly than a moment before. Teeth! Teeth! Were here and there and everywhere, visible and palpable, to me, long, narrow, very white, with pale lips writhing about them, as at the time they had begun to relax. Then came the full fury of my monomania, and struggled in vain against its strange and irresistible influence. Among the many objects in the outside world had no thoughts but for the teeth. The longed with a frenzied desire. All other matters and all different interests were absorbed in a single contemplation. They, they were the only ones present to the mental eye, and in their sole individuality, became the essence of my intellectual life. I watched all the lights. I did take all attitudes. Examined their characteristics. Studied their peculiarities. I pondered upon their conformation. I thought about changing their nature. I shuddered to assign in imagination a sensitive and sentient power, and even without the help of the lips, a capability moral expression. It has been well said that Mlle Sallé étaient tous ses pas des sentiments , and Berenice I thought very seriously that toutes ses dents étaient des idées. Des idées! Ah, this was the foolish thought that destroyed me! Des idées! Ah, so it was that I coveted them so madly! I felt that their possession could restore peace, return to reason.

And the evening closed in upon me, and darkness came, and tarried, and the new day dawned, and the mists of a second night were now gathering and I was still sitting in that room alone; and I sat buried in meditation, and the ghost of the teeth maintained its terrible ascendancy as, with the clearly more vivid and more frightening, it floated about amid the changing lights and shadows of the room. Finally broke into my dreams a cry as of horror and dismay, and then, after a pause, the sound of troubled voices, intermingled with deaf wailing with pain and sorrow. I rose from my seat and, opening wide a door of the library in the lobby saw a maid in tears, who told me that Berenice was gone. He had had a fit of epilepsy in the early morning, and now, at nightfall, the tomb was ready for its occupant and finished funeral arrangements.

I found myself sitting in the library and back alone. It seemed he had just awakened from a confused and exciting dream. I knew it was midnight and that since the setting of the sun Berenice had been interred. But the melancholy interim period was not real knowledge, or at least defined. However, its memory was full of horror, horror more horrible from the vague, and terror more terrible from ambiguity. It was a terrible page in the history of my existence, written all with dark memories, frightening, incomprehensible. I struggled to decipher them, but in vain, while time and again as the spirit of a sound absent un agudo y penetrante grito de mujer parecía sonar en mis oídos. Yo había hecho algo. ¿Qué era? Me lo pregunté a mí mismo en voz alta, y los susurrantes ecos del aposento me respondieron: ¿Qué era?

En la mesa, a mi lado, ardía una lámpara, y había junto a ella una cajita. No tenía nada de notable, y la había visto a menudo, pues era propiedad del médico de la familia. Pero, ¿cómo había llegado allí, a mi mesa, y por qué me estremecí al mirarla? Eran cosas que no merecían ser tenidas en cuenta, y mis ojos cayeron, al fin, en las abiertas páginas de un libro y en una frase subrayaba: Dicebant mihi sodales if sepulchrum amicae visitarem, meas curates aliquantulum Levato fore. Why, then, to read I bristled hair and blood froze in my veins?

Then came a slight knock on the door of the library, pale as an inhabitant of the tomb, a servant came in on tiptoe. His looks were a violent terror and spoke in a trembling voice, hoarse, choked. Say what? I heard some broken sentences. He spoke of a wild cry disturbing the silence of the night, the gathering together to find the source of sound, and his voice took on an eerie tone, clear, when I spoke, whispering, violated a tomb of disfigured corpse, without a shroud and still breathing, still palpitating, still alive.

pointed my clothes, they were muddy, clotted blood. I said nothing, he took me gently by the hand, had spots of human nails. He directed my attention to an object that was against the wall, I looked for a few minutes: it was a spade. With a shriek I jumped to the table and I seized the box. But I could not open it, and in my tremor it slipped from his hand, and fell heavily, and shattered, and of them, banging, shot some dental instruments, mixed with thirty-two small objects, white, marfilinos, which spilled across the floor.

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