Chapter 1
Unreliable Narrators andâunnatural sensationsâ: Irony and Conscience in Edgar Allan Poe
Poeâs politics have been the subject of speculation and projection since Baudelaire first praised Poe for what he saw as Poeâs justified contempt for American democracy.1 Anglo-American critics have tended to agree with Baudelaireâs assessment of Poeâs politics, if not with his approval of it. Instead, Poe has generally been taken to task for being a racist and a snob. One of the most famous of these accusations was made by Ernest Marchand in âPoe as Social Criticâ (1934), where he argued that, as a self-identified Virginia gentleman, Poe was âhostileâ to âdemocracy, industrialization and reformâ (43). Poeâs critical reputation perked up considerably after WWII, thanks to waning interest in politics among literary scholars and a turn to psychological and formal analysis. Poeâs work found even more favor with Lacanians and post-structuralists, who appreciated him precisely because he seemed to have no commitments other than to his art and craftsmanship. The first sentence of âThe Man of the Crowdâ (1840) was taken as a self-reflective dictum on Poeâs entire work: âIt is well said of a certain German book that âer lasst sich nicht lesenââthat it does not permit itself to be read.â2 According to this approach, Poe had already anticipated every critical move and incorporated it into his text, thereby proleptically proving Derridaâs claim in Of Grammatology that there is nothing outside the text, that there is no hors-texte (163).
In the 1990s, however, the hors-texte returned to haunt Poe criticism, and with it came a new round of denunciations of Poeâs reactionary politics and racism.3 Toni Morrison re-launched the debate about Poeâs racial politics by arguing in Playing in the Dark (1992) that Poeâs fiction stood at the center of white American self-fashioning around the obscured figure of the African American. In 2001, J. Gerald Kennedy and Liliane Weissberg edited a volume of essays, Romancing the Shadow: Poe and Race, devoted entirely to this question. Though aiming to âunsettle traditional understandings of Poe,â most of the essays included in the volume confirmed the longstanding consensus about Poeâs racism, differing mainly in the degree to which they held Poe personally accountable for his âunconscionable opinions and valuesâ (xvi).
Currently, however, a new wave of scholarship has begun to take a closer look at Poeâs writings in their cultural context. For example, Terence Whalenâs influential monograph, Edgar Allan Poe and the Masses (1999), suggests that Poe was neither an abolitionist nor a pro-slavery Southerner but a political centrist who adopted an editorial position of what Whalen calls âaverage racismâ in order to not alienate readers who felt strongly about abolition one way or another. Along similar lines, Lesley Ginsberg has argued that âThe Black Catâ (1843) is a satire of pro-slavery rhetoric, pushing the sentimentalist argument for the affectionate relationship between master and dependent to its absurd limit by showing how easily sentimentalism can become sadism when there are no checks on a masterâs power. Analyzing the figure of the confidence man in âThe Devil in the Belfryâ (1839) and âThe Man That Was Used Upâ (1838), Clayton Marsh has recently suggested that Poe regarded the American myth of progress as âan oppressive and culturally pervasive confidence game that masked the horrors of frontier genocide and slavery beneath the speed and allure of industrial technologyâ (âStealing Timeâ 260). In fact, one could say that a new Poe has emerged from the work of scholars such as Whalen, Ginsberg, and Marsh: a historically embedded and politically nuanced Poe, a writer who worried about the human costs of technological progress and the ârush of the ageâ and who responded to the slavery dispute in a variety of complex ways. This new scholarship neither denigrates nor exalts Poe as before but, instead, evokes a literary persona that reflected the complex and often contradictory political culture of antebellum America.
I intend to flesh out this nuanced and politically responsive Poe by exploring an aspect of his work that has been nearly universally ignored: the ethical. Reading Poe in terms of the gothic facilitates this kind of focus, since certain ethical issues (such as persecution, torture, and abuse of power) are axiomatic to the gothic genre. Poe stages and thematizes the gothic issues of judgment and its limitations in ways that can be read against the backdrop of Southern slavery. Just as Joan Dyan has suggested that slavery is the horizon of meaning for the way human bodies are so easily convertible into things in Poeâs work, I will show how slavery is a potential horizon of meaning for the pervasive concern with conscience (and specifically, its failure) in several of Poeâs stories, including âThe Fall of the House of Usherâ (1839; âAmorous Bondageâ 192).
Poeâs Aestheticism
Critics have produced a notorious diversity of interpretations about the meaning of Poeâs stories. In contrast to these startling disparities, Poeâs lack of ethical and moral commitments has generally enjoyed a serene critical consensus. In 1961, Vincent Buranelli declared empically that âPoe does not touch morality,â thus summing up a commonplace of twentieth-century Poe criticism (Edgar Allan Poe 72). Poe himself was partly responsible for creating this impression, notably with essays such as âThe Rationale of Verseâ (1848) and âThe Philosophy of Compositionâ (1846), where he famously defines beauty in the following manner:
When, indeed, men speak of Beauty, they mean, precisely, not a quality, as is supposed, but an effectâthey refer, in short, just to that intense and pure elevation of soulânot of intellect, or of heartâupon which I have commented, and which is experienced in consequence of contemplating âthe beautiful.â (Essays and Reviews, henceforth abbreviated as ER, 16)
Poe insists here that art should be concerned with âeffectâ (rather than meaning, by implication) and with an âelevation of the soulâ rather than âintellectâ or âheart.â In other words, art should not be concerned with truth or morality but with a specifically aesthetic effect that Poe locates in the idea of âsoulâ and which corresponds roughly to Kantâs autonomous sphere of aesthetic judgment. In spite of Poeâs occasional jabs at Kant (or âcant,â as he liked to pun), Poeâs tripartite model of the mind is directly inspired by the German philosopherâs division of the human subject into âpure reasonâ (the intellect), âpractical reasonâ (morality or âthe heartâ), and judgment (the affective part that responds to art, beauty, and the sublime). Like Kantâs, Poeâs aestheticism is designed to clear a theoretical and cultural space for art to function free from accountability to truth, didacticism, morality, or social uplift. Also like Kantâs, Poeâs model of Pure Intellect, Moral Sense, and Taste assumes that the latter holds a privileged position with regard to the others, especially the Moral Sense. In âThe Poetic Principleâ (1850), Poe observes that there is merely a âfaintâ difference between Taste and the Moral Sense: the Moral Sense shows the âgoodâ as a duty (âConscience teaches the obligationâ) while Taste contents herself with âdisplaying [its] charmsâ (ER 76). Firmly grounded in the Common Sense School as well as German Romanticism, Poe argues in this essay that âViceâ is recognizable by its âdeformityâ and âdisproportion,â suggesting that the aesthetic was a means to recognize and appreciate the ethical.
Poeâs aestheticism was in fact far less radical and divorced from ethics than it came to be seen by twentieth-century critics, though it may have seemed quite radical in its original antebellum context. In fact, that was its whole point. Antebellum literary culture tended to reflect the middle-class values of sentimentalism and didacticism, and Poeâs position was clearly meant to define him as an oppositional figure. Aestheticism allowed him to defend the writerâs and editorâs right to pursue artistic freedom and merit, but it also gave him a recognizable public persona, something like a brand. Poeâs public identity was that of a literary provocateur, nicknamed âthe Tomahawkâ for his iconoclastic and merciless reviews. Adopting an amoral and even anti-moralist aesthetic philosophy was a canny self-marketing strategy, since being controversial was a distinct advantage in a literary culture ruled by commercial principles.4
Poeâs aestheticism, broadly defined as a concern with the technical aspects of literary effect, was also related to his status as literary professional. As a writer who depended on literary and journalistic production for his livelihood, Poe was deeply committed to promoting an understanding of writing as a vocation requiring specific skills and talents worthy of remuneration and protection by copyright laws. To this end, it was important to stress the writerâs technical qualifications and strategies in order to debunk the Romantic myth of writer as inspired genius (who, by implication, does not need to be paid for his literary effusions).
If aestheticism was a logical stance for Poe to adopt vis Ă vis the literary culture in which he found himself, it is also understandable that he exaggerated this position for the rhetorical purpose of making it clearer and more distinctive. As a result of his exaggerated and even hyperbolic arguments about the importance of the technical dimension of writing, however, critics have failed to appreciate the ethical sensibility that also informs his writing.
Poeâs insistence on the aesthetic over all other considerations has also created among readers the nagging suspicion that he is never entirely serious and so therefore is not to be taken seriously. âThe Philosophy of Compositionâ in particular, with its straight-faced assertion that poetry is no more than a matter of mathematics and stagecraft, has made readers wonder if Poeâs work is not all a joke. After all, if Poe is being serious in this essay, then we would have to accept that âThe Ravenâ and perhaps his other poems and tales are all clever market-oriented gimmicks. That said, if Poe is not being entirely serious in âThe Philosophy of Composition,â then when is he? Poe creates a kind of literary version of the Liarâs Paradox with the âPhilosophy of Composition.â As a result, critical reactions to Poe, especially by humanist critics prizing sincerity and literary seriousness, are suffused from the very start by accusations of hoaxing and charlatanism.
Unreliable Narrators
Poeâs complicated irony continues to confuse readers who want to pin down his texts. Although many studies have examined what Jonathan Elmer calls Poeâs âtonal instability,â critics whose primary concern is not his use of irony tend to ignore it entirely in order to facilitate the reading they need (Reading at the Social Limit 175). To take an example that speaks directly to my concern with Poeâs politics, âMellonta Tautaâ (1849) has often been read as a lightly veiled statement of Poeâs own anti-democratic views. Even the supposedly neutral introduction to Romancing the Shadow (ed. Kennedy and Weissberg) asserts that the story âbetrays [Poeâs] contempt for the mob and the gospel of progressâ (xiii). âMellonta Tautaâ is narrated by a woman whose notes from a balloon voyage in the year 2848 are presented by Poe as a found manuscript. Pundita, as her satirical name suggests, is a clear example of what Wayne Booth has called an âunreliable narrator.â5 While this is a term that has fallen into disuse since post-structuralism elevated the unreliability of literature and language to a general principle, it is nevertheless useful to keep this device in our critical toolbox when reading Poe. Unreliable narrators invite readersâ active participation in deciphering a narrative because they themselves misunderstand what they describe, overlook important connections, or fail to see their own or othersâ motivations.
Poe uses unreliable narrators in virtually all of his stories, and their function is always to describe but fail to recognize important elements of the story, obliging the reader to make the connections the narrator misses. In âMellonta Tauta,â the narrator describes a former nation called âAmriccaâ that the reader immediately recognizes as mid-nineteenth-century America. The narrator heaps scorn on this benighted country, especially its democracy and universal franchise. These passages are frequently quoted, as by Daniel Hoffman in 1972 or Maurice Lee in 2003, as proof of Poeâs âcombatively conservativeâ opinion that democracy was a âstupid institution.â6 Yet, using them in this way makes no more sense than quoting the narrator of âThe Tell-Tale Heartâ to prove that Poe was a murderer. Like the mad narrator of that story, Pundita reveals her unreliability early in the narrative through her emphatic assertion that âWar and Pestilenceâ are a âpositive advantage to the massâ and by writing approvingly of the fact that a man thrown overboard from the balloon is not rescued because in her âenlightened ageâ the needs of the collectivity are put before any individualâs (PT 874). No critic would suggest that Poe believed war was a positive good or that individuals should be sacrificed for the mass, so it is startling how eager critics are to believe that Punditaâs other fascistic pronouncements reflect Poeâs own views.
This type of misreading is avoidable if one understands the rhetorical importance of unreliable narrators to Poeâs textual effects. Almost every story is told by a narrator whose point of view is flawed in some way and requires the reader to complete the hermeneutic circle by making important connections for him or herself. An obvious example is âThe Tell-Tale Heart,â where the narrator betrays his insanity quite quickly. At the other end of the spectrum, the narrator of âBerenice,â though eccentric, gives the reader no serious cause to doubt the reliability of his narrative until the end, when it is revealed that Bereniceâs teeth are in his possession. Again, as in âThe Tell-Tale Heart,â his failure is the result not of deliberate deception but of temporary madness or somnambulism: he seems to not have been conscious of his acts at the time. Yet, even this ending is narrated âunreliablyâ by never using the word âteeth.â Instead, the narrator describes âthirty-two small, white, and ivory-looking substancesâ falling to the floor (PT 233). This absurdly indirect description (after all, who could recognize that there are thirty-two of anything in a single glance?), like all unreliable narration, requires the reader to produce the final meaning herself by recognizing them as teeth. This involves the reader more directly in the surprise ending and presumably creates a more powerful effect, as she must make the gruesome connections in her own mind rather than being told by the text.
While the narrator of âThe Tell-Tale Heartâ betrays his unreliability near the beginning, and the narrator of âBereniceâ reveals his only at the end, most of Poeâs unreliable narrators betray their blind or biased perspective only gradually during the course of their narration. An example of this incremental estrangement is the early mock-gothic story âMetzengersteinâ (1832). A conventional summary would describe it as revolving around a typically gothic rivalry between two aristocratic houses, haunted tapestries, an enigmatic and possibly haunted horse and ending with the violent death of the main protagonist. However, this description would completely miss the point of how the story works for a reader, namely, by a carefully choreographed estrangement from the narratorâs perceptions, which requires him to make sense of the story through inference. The readerâs active role is prepared for, as if often the case in Poeâs fiction, in the opening paragraphs. In this passage, the narrator describes what he identifies as a Hungarian superstition: the idea that human souls enter the bodies of animals under certain circumstances. The narrator naturally disavows this belief, but its presence at the opening of the story performs the rhetorical function of cueing the reader to the possibility that âmetempsychosisâ will play a part in the story that follows.
The story then begins with a description of the two rivals, old Berlifitzing and the young Metzengerstein, who has just inherited his parentsâ vast fortune and embarked on several days of debauchery to celebrate. This revelry includes not only âunheard-of atrocitiesâ towards his servants but also setting afire his neighborâs prized stables, which leads to old Berlifitzingâs death in the fire. Although the first paragraph already put the narratorâs omniscient neutrality into question, he only really betrays his unreliability in the passage where the reader learns, along with the young Metzengerstein, that the horse-loving Berlifitzing has died at exactly the same moment that a mysterious black horse appears on his property. Metzengerstein receives this news with an exaggeratedly strange reaction: âIânâdâeâeâd! ejaculated the Baron, as if slowly and deliberately impressed with the truth of some exciting ideaâ (PT 139). The narrator does not explain what the âexciting ideaâ is, but the reader has been given the tools in the opening paragraphs to make the appropriate inference. The next paragraphs are intensely ironic and deeply flattering to the reader, since they review the various hypotheses put forward by Metzengersteinâs entourage to account for his increasingly eccentric attachment to the wild horse, while the reader âknowsâ all along that Metzengerstein rides the horse constantly because he knows it possesses the soul of his enemy Berlifitzing. The reader also knows from the narratorâs passing references to the riderâs pitiable appearance that the horseâs spirit is somehow the stronger of the two, with the horse torturing the rider rather than the other way around.
The most intensely ironic moment of the narrative occurs shortly before the end of the story, when the narrator mentions that
Among all the retinue of the Baron, however, none were found to doubt the ardor of that extraordinary affection which existed on the part of the young nobleman for the fiery qualities of his horse; at least, none but an insignificant and misshapen little page, whose deformities were in everybodyâs way, and...