Friday, September 18, 2009

The Purloined Letter

Often has it been in History, that newes is only deliver'd surreptitiously. On the sly, the News-sneak slips in thro' the window, careful to shut silently the pane, creepingly coming down the hallway & up the Stairs, till finally it has come to its summa, its master goal, its telos - that Master-Room where we keep Pride, our Secrets, our Confidence. Those snug Bedmates are alarum'd by the Intrusion of uncouth Rumour, who wears a paint'd Mask & motley Garb to disguise his hateful visage - lest Someone recognize him in his plain, beggarly form.

So does Poe deliver the story. A poor Princess has been depriv'd of her precious Letter, by an unscrupulous Minister D_____. His villainous Machinations turn upon themselves, Wheels w.in wheels, a behemoth of Scheme - quite as monstrous as that Mechanized Daimon, so treacherously provided to the Devillish Indian.

But a certain M. Dupin unlocks the Tongue of this riddling quandry - Where did the lady's letter go? Dupin uncovers a most mysterious & Cryptic Limit of Man's Ratiocination - That one can only find what one expects to see.

Hence

"...in this world of lies, Truth is forced to fly like a scared white doe in the woodlands; and only by cunning glimpses will she reveal herself, as in Shakespeare and other masters of of the great Art of Telling the Truth, - even though it be covertly and by snatches."
-H. Melville, Hawthorne & His Mosses

So modest & skittish is Truth, quite like a jeune fille, that she flits & capes thro' the verdant boughs, hops the Streams & fluid Channels, with only a whisper of Leaves. A Struggle, then, one quite opposite to the might of Hercules, subduing Anteus. Anteus must be lift'd from the Ground, that sustaining Stability that fuels his riotous muscles, and held up to the Mischievous Air. Yet only Hercules had might enough to heave Anteus up to the Sky, & crush him, mere Feet off his nourishing Soil.

Contrariwise, we seekers after Truth chase fleet Harpies with Needle-pins, hoping to stick them in our quaint Butter-Fly-Cases. Plucking & dabbling at the ether with our greazy Fingers, most oft, we succeed only in sullying the Purity of that Fair Medium - leaving a Trail of our Missteps, a genealogy of our Immorals.

And yet, in rare Seasons, those quickly chas'd from our Eyes, a Boon descends into our Path, quite unbidden, quite unforeseen. One that slits a cold Knife thro' our Veils of illusion, that so frequent dance before our eyes in profusion. Thus is the mellifluous Moon plung'd from the Sky; thus doth high-puff'd Fame whistle, deflate, & die.


A Dialogue, betwixt Rosalind & Hypatia, in Scribbles

Hypatia - This is gonna be a long year!
Rosalind - yeah, tell me about it. He's so weird. I'm afraid he's going to be a hard grader.
H. - He probably will be but hows the next class with him?
R. - It's whatever. I'm the only one in the class now. so it's a lot of down time.
H. - What? Only you! Wa happen to the PG's
R. - They are going to a study hall with their coach now. yeah, it's a little weird.
H. - I'm sorry! I bet that sucks!

[transcrib'd with faith & accuracy. apologies.]

2 comments:

Decisions and Revisions said...

Any comments on the color of your ties, or where they were purchased? Have you any thoughts on the new biographies of Dr. Johnson? Do you have any plans of reading 'The Original of Laura'?

Epaphroditus Bainton said...

The Original of Laura evaded Nabo.'s Death-bedd Commandment? 'Tis a low State, indeed, when an Authour may expect no fealty from his Sonns.

By & large my Cravats have escap'd their Notices; tho' the work of Humanistick Education has ne'er been so stymied as now - by the intestine Workings of Forms, Letters of Writ, & c. Stay alert, for new Post-mails approach.