Edgar Allan Poe: Ligeia

Portrait of Edgar Allan Poe by Alejandro Cabeza

AND the will therein lieth, which dieth not. Who knoweth the mysteries of the will, with its vigor? For God is but a great will pervading all things by nature of its intentness. Man doth not yield himself to the angels, nor unto death utterly, save only through the weakness of his feeble will.

Joseph Glanvill.

I CANNOT, for my soul, remember how, when, or even precisely where, I first became acquainted with the lady Ligeia. Long years have since elapsed, and my memory is feeble through much suffering. Or, perhaps, I cannot now bring these points to mind, because, in truth, the character of my beloved, her rare learning, her singular yet placid cast of beauty, and the thrilling and enthralling eloquence of her low musical language, made their way into my heart by paces so steadily and stealthily progressive that they have been unnoticed and unknown. Yet I believe that I met her first and most frequently in some large, old, decaying city near the Rhine. Of her family — I have surely heard her speak. That it is of a remotely ancient date cannot be doubted. Ligeia! Ligeia! Buried in studies of a nature more than all else adapted to deaden impressions of the outward world, it is by that sweet word alone — by Ligeia — that I bring before mine eyes in fancy the image of her who is no more. And now, while I write, a recollection flashes upon me that I have never known the paternal name of her who was my friend and my betrothed, and who became the partner of my studies, and finally the wife of my bosom. Was it a playful charge on the part of my Ligeia? or was it a test of my strength of affection, that I should institute no inquiries upon this point? or was it rather a caprice of my own — a ­[page 454:] wildly romantic offering on the shrine of the most passionate devotion? I but indistinctly recall the fact itself — what wonder that I have utterly forgotten the circumstances which originated or attended it? And, indeed, if ever that spirit which is entitled Romance — if ever she, the wan and the misty-winged Ashtophet of idolatrous Egypt, presided, as they tell, over marriages ill-omened, then most surely she presided over mine.

There is one dear topic, however, on which my memory fails me not. It is the person of Ligeia. In stature she was tall, somewhat slender, and, in her latter days, even emaciated. I would in vain attempt to portray the majesty, the quiet ease, of her demeanor, or the incomprehensible lightness and elasticity of her footfall. She came and departed as a shadow. I was never made aware of her entrance into my closed study save by the dear music of her low sweet voice, as she placed her marble hand upon my shoulder. In beauty of face no maiden ever equalled her. It was the radiance of an opium-dream — an airy and spirit-lifting vision more wildly divine than the phantasies which hovered about the slumbering souls of the daughters of Delos. Yet her features were not of that regular mould which we have been falsely taught to worship in the classical labors of the heathen. “There is no exquisite beauty,” says Bacon, Lord Verulam, speaking truly of all the forms and genera of beauty, without some strangeness in the proportion.” Yet, although I saw that the features of Ligeia were not of a classic regularity — although I perceived that her loveliness was indeed “exquisite,” and felt that there was much of “strangeness” pervading it, yet I have tried in vain to detect the irregularity and to trace home my own perception of “the strange.” I examined the contour of the lofty and pale forehead — it was faultless — how cold indeed that word when applied to a majesty so divine! — the skin rivalling the purest ivory, the commanding extent and repose, the gentle prominence of the regions above the temples; and then the raven-black, the glossy, the luxuriant and naturally-curling tresses, setting forth the full force of the Homeric epithet, “hyacinthine!” I looked at the delicate outlines of the nose — and nowhere but in the graceful medallions of the Hebrews had I beheld a similar perfection. There were the same luxurious smoothness of surface, ­[page 455:] the same scarcely perceptible tendency to the aquiline, the same harmoniously curved nostrils speaking the free spirit. I regarded the sweet mouth. Here was indeed the triumph of all things heavenly — the magnificent turn of the short upper lip — the soft, voluptuous slumber of the under — the dimples which sported, and the color which spoke — the teeth glancing back, with a brilliancy almost startling, every ray of the holy light which fell upon them in her serene and placid, yet most exultingly radiant of all smiles. I scrutinized the formation of the chin — and here, too, I found the gentleness of breadth, the softness and the majesty, the fullness and the spirituality, of the Greek — the contour which the god Apollo revealed but in a dream, to Cleomenes, the son of the Athenian. And then I peered into the large eyes of Ligeia.

Leopoldo María Panero: Presentimiento de la locura

«Yapesar de todo su corazón

no ha de confesar jamás que lo desgarra

esa oseara enfermedad que pone sitio a su vida.»

Shakespeare, All is well that welí ends

Aunque, como alguien dijo, no hay nadie que logre, a lo lar-o de su vida, saber quién es, puedo decir de mí un nombre, Arístides Briant, y mis tentativas infructuosas por hacer que este tu­viera algún sentido, dos libros de poemas enredados y amargos, ; ritos al dictado de la Philosophy of Composition de Poe, y un pequeño volumen de ensayos al que titulé Los lobos devoran al rey muerto, entendiendo que ese «rey muerto» era la cultura y también yo mismo. Ninguno de ellos recibió el favor de una crítica o de un comentario, y no conozco el rostro de aquellos que los leyeron. Aquellos escritos fueron mi único esfuerzo, porque tenía necesidad de trabajar, dado que había heredado de mi pad­re una pequeña fortuna, suficiente, sin embargo, para mantener una antigua y enorme casa también procedente de mi familia, en las afueras de la ciudad, e incluso un pequeño y gracioso automóvil Hispano-Suiza que, aunque frecuentemente averiado, como solía ocurrirles entonces a todos los automóviles, me permitía algunas pequeñas excursiones en compañía de mi mujer. Porque debo también hacer mención de otro fracaso, mi matrimonio.

Cuando una vida fracasa y el matrimonio, que se quiso la reemplazara, fracasa también, entonces se necesitan hijos. Pero lo supe tarde, cuando el alcohol un alcohol que en principio no fue desesperado, sino alegre, ni pensativo, sino sin conciencia- había vuelto aquello imposible. No fue esa naturalmente la primera ni la única catástrofe que la bebida invitó a mi existencia –porque hubo de ser lo que me hiciera perder a mi mujer. Hasta que la perdí, la amé como a la medicina de un vacío o de una falta; cuando ya la hube perdido, y dejó de amarme, y co­menzó a desear lo que no podía ofrecerle -un hijo-, entonces yo también dejé de quererla -porque el amor es un negocio, un pac­to- y comencé también a desear al hijo imposible. A no ser que como Cristina -tal era el nombre de mi esposa- me pedía, me desintoxicara en un sanatorio, posibilidad aborrecible, dejando aparte el hecho de que ahora, cuando más me lo exigían las cir­cunstancias, me sentía totalmente incapaz de dejar de beber (mi mujer decía a este propósito que el término «imposible» era siempre demasiado fácil en mi boca).

¿Por qué, y con tanto cuidado, nos destruimos? Al principio uno no se lo pregunta, pero cuando llega realmente la hora de hacerlo, es porque no hay respuesta.

Orson Scott Card: Baby’s blood

The baby’s blood type? Human, mostly.

Max Aub: La uña

El cementerio está cerca. La uña del meñique derecho de Pedro Pérez, enterrado ayer, empezó a crecer tan pronto como colocaron la losa. Como el féretro era de mala calidad (pidieron el ataúd más barato) la garfa no tuvo dificultad para despuntar deslizándose hacia la pared de la casa. Allí serpenteó hasta la ventana del dormitorio, se metió entre el montante y la peana, resbaló por el suelo escondiéndose tras la cómoda hasta el recodo de la pared para seguir tras la mesilla de noche y subir por la orilla del cabecero de la cama. Casi de un salto atravesó la garganta de Lucía, que ni ¡ay! dijo, para tirarse hacia la de Miguel, traspasándola.

Fue lo menos que pudo hacer el difunto: también es cuerno la uña.

Auguste Villiers de L'Isle-Adam: Sombre récit, conteur plus sombre

À Monsieur Coquelin cadet.

Ut declaratio fiat.

J’étais invité, ce soir-là, très officiellement, à faire partie d’un souper d’auteurs dramatiques, réunis pour fêter le succès d’un confrère. C’était chez B***, le restaurateur en vogue chez les gens de plume.

Le souper fut d’abord naturellement triste.

Toutefois, après avoir sablé quelques rasades de vieux Léoville, la conversation s’anima. D’autant mieux qu’elle roulait sur les duels incessants qui défrayaient un grand nombre de conversations parisiennes vers cette époque. Chacun se remémorait, avec la désinvolture obligée, d’avoir agité flamberge et cherchait à insinuer, négligemment, de vagues idées d’intimidation sous couleur de théories savantes et de clins d’yeux entendus au sujet de l’escrime et du tir. Le plus naïf, un peu gris, semblait s’absorber dans la combinaison d’un coup de croisé de seconde qu’il imitait, au-dessus de son assiette, avec sa fourchette et son couteau.

Tout à coup, l’un des convives, M. D*** (homme rompu aux ficelles du théâtre, une sommité quant à la charpente de toutes les situations dramatiques, celui, enfin, de tous qui a le mieux prouvé s’entendre à "enlever un succès"), s’écria :

- Ah ! que diriez-vous, messieurs, s’il vous était arrivé mon aventure de l’autre jour ?

- C’est vrai ! répondirent les convives. Tu étais le second de ce M. de Saint-Sever ?

- Voyons ! si tu nous racontais - mais là, franchement ! - comme cela s’est passé ?

- Je veux bien, répondit D***, quoique j’aie le cœur serré, encore, en y pensant.

Après quelques silencieuses bouffées de cigarette, D*** commença en ces termes (Je lui laisse, strictement, la parole) :

- La quinzaine dernière, un lundi, dès sept heures du matin, je fus réveillé par un coup de sonnette : je crus même que c’était Peragallo. On me remit une carte ; je lus : Raoul de Saint-Sever. - C’était le nom de mon meilleur camarade de collège. Nous ne nous étions pas vus depuis dix ans.

Dino Buzzati: L'assalto al grande convoglio

Arrestato in una via del paese e condannato soltanto per contrabbando - poiché non lo avevano riconosciuto - Gaspare Planetta, il capo brigante, rimase tre anni in prigione.

Ne venne fuori cambiato. La malattia lo aveva consunto, gli era cresciuta la barba, sembrava piuttosto un vecchietto che non il famoso capo brigante, il miglior schioppo conosciuto, che non sapeva sbagliare un colpo.

Allora, con le sue robe in un sacco, si mise in cammino per Monte Fumo, che era stato il suo regno, dove erano rimasti i compagni. Era una domenica di giugno quando si addentrò per la valle in fondo alla quale c'era la loro casa. I sentieri del bosco non erano mutati: qua una radice affiorante, là un caratteristico sasso ch'egli ricordava bene. Tutto come prima.

Siccome era festa, i briganti si erano riuniti alla casa. Avvicinandosi, Planetta udì voci e risate. Contrariamente all'uso dei suoi tempi, la porta era chiusa.

Batté due tre volte. Dentro si fece silenzio. Poi domandarono: «Chi è?».

«Vengo dalla città» egli rispose «vengo da parte di Planetta.»

Voleva fare una sorpresa, ma invece quando gli aprirono e gli si fecero incontro, Gaspare Planetta si accorse subito che non l'avevano riconosciuto. Solo il vecchio cane della compagnia, lo scheletrico Tromba, gli saltò addosso con guaiti di gioia.

Da principio i suoi vecchi compagni, Cosimo, Marco, Felpa ed anche tre quattro facce nuove gli si strinsero attorno, chiedendo notizie di Planetta. Lui raccontò di avere conosciuto il capo brigante in prigione; disse che Planetta sarebbe stato liberato fra un mese e intanto aveva mandato lui lassù per sapere come andavano le cose. Dopo poco però i briganti si disinteressarono del nuovo venuto e trovarono pretesti per lasciarlo. Solo Cosimo rimase a parlare con lui, pur non riconoscendolo.

«E al suo ritorno cosa intende fare?» chiedeva accennando al vecchio capo, in carcere.

«Cosa intende fare?» fece Planetta «forse che non può tornare qui?»

«Ah, sì, sì, io non dico niente. Pensavo per lui, pensavo. Le cose qui sono cambiate. E lui vorrà comandare ancora si capisce, ma non so...»

«Non sai che cosa?»

Armando José Sequera: Opus 8

Júrenos que, si despierta, no se la va a llevar —pedía de rodillas uno de los enanitos al Príncipe, mientras éste contemplaba el hermoso cuerpo en el sarcófago de cristal—. Mire que, desde que se durmió, no tenemos quién nos lave la ropa, nos la planche, nos limpie la casa y nos cocine.

Ray Bradbury: The Dead Man

'THAT'S the man, right over there,' said Mrs. Ribmoll, nodding across the street. 'See thatman perched on the tar barrel afront Mr. Jenkens's store? Well, that's him. They call him OddMartin.

''The one that says he's dead?' cried Arthur.Mrs.

Ribmoll nodded. 'Crazy as a weasel down a chimney. Carries on firm about howhe's been dead since the Flood and nobody appreciates it.

''I see him sitting there every day,' cried Arthur.

'Oh, yes, he sits there, he does. Sits there and stares at nothing. I say it's a crying shamethey don't throw him in jail!'

Arthur made a face at the man. 'Yah!'

'Never mind, he won't notice you. Most uncivil man I ever seen. Nothing pleases him.'She yanked Arthur's arm. 'Come on, sonny, we got shopping to do.'

They walked on up the street past the barber shop. In the window, after they'd gone by,stood Mr. Simpson, snipping his blue shears and chewing his tasteless gum. He squintedthoughtfully out through the fly-specked glass, looking at the man sitting over there on the tarbarrel. 'I figure the best thing could happen to Odd Martin would be to get married,' he figured. Hiseyes glinted slyly. Over his shoulder he looked at his manicurist, Miss Weldon, who was busyburnishing the scraggly fingernails of a farmer named Gilpatrick. Miss Weldon, at this suggestion,did not look up. She had heard it often. They were always ragging her about Odd Martin.

Mr. Simpson walked back and started work on Gilpatrick's dusty hair again. Gilpatrick laughed softly. 'What woman would marry Odd? Sometimes I almost believe he is dead. He's gotan awful odour to him.'

Miss Weldon looked up at Mr. Gilpatrick's face and carefully cut his finger with one of her little scalpels. 'Gol darn it!' He jumped. 'Watch what you're doin', woman!'

Miss Weldon looked at him with calm little blue eyes in a small white face. Her hair wasmouse-brown; she wore no makeup and talked to no one most of the time.

Iván Teruel: Descubrimiento

La perra se caga en el pasillo de abajo. Mi mujer grita desquiciada. Y el niño hace rato que berrea. Yo empiezo a sentir un picor agudo en el ojo izquierdo. Baja hijo de puta, baja o coge a tu hijo. El picor se intensifica. Te juro que subo a por el niño y me largo. Me rasco con insistencia. Te vas a quedar ahí pudriéndote con tus historias. El picor se expande. Oigo portazos y voces como en letanía. Comienzo a hurgar con ímpetu. Imagino mi mano como la pala de una excavadora. Las voces vuelven. Me arranco el ojo. El picor no desaparece. Percibo unos pasos subiendo las escaleras. Meto el índice y el anular en mi nueva oquedad. El niño parece que ya no llora. Tanteo con las yemas pero no sé qué busco. Los pasos ahora bajan las escaleras. El picor es terco. Una puerta se abre. Palpo una orografía de recovecos húmedos. La misma puerta se cierra. Llego a una región blanda y viscosa. Un motor arranca. Toco una pequeña protuberancia. El picor desaparece. Y por fin irrumpe el silencio. Creo que descubro algo maravilloso.

José Eduardo Agualusa: O homem da luz

Nicolau Alicerces Peshkov tinha uma ca­beça enorme, ou talvez o corpo fosse mirrado para ela, o certo é que parecia colocada por en­gano num físico alheio. O cabelo, o que restava, era daninho e ruivo e o rosto coberto de sardas. O nome improvável, a fisionomia ainda mais extraordinária, tudo isso se devia à passagem pelas terras altas do Huambo de um russo extraviado, um russo branco, que nos seus delírios alcoóli­cos se vangloriava de ter servido Nicolau II como oficial de cavalaria. Além do nome e das sardas Nicolau Alicerces Peshkov herdara do pai a paixão pelo cinema e uma velha máquina de pro­jectar. Foi precisamente o nome, as sardas, a máquina de projectar, digamos pois, a herança russa, que quase o levou a enfrentar um pelotão de fuzilamento.

Antes disso havia passado dois dias e uma noite escondido dentro de uma caixa de peixe se­co. Acordara sobressaltado com o latido dos ti­ros. Não sabia onde estava. Isso acontecia-lhe sempre. Sentou-se na cama e procurou lembrar-se, enquanto o tiroteio crescia lá fora: chegara ao entardecer, pedalando na sua velha bicicleta, alu­gara um quarto na pensão de um português, des­pedira o miúdo James, que tinha família na vila, e fora-se deitar. O quarto era pequeno. Uma cama de ferro com uma tábua por cima e sem colchão. Um lençol, limpo mas muito usado, puído, a cobrir a tábua. Um penico de esmalte. Nas pare­des alguém pintara um anjo azul. Era um bom desenho, aquele. O anjo olhava-o de frente, olha­va para alguma coisa que não estava ali, com o mesmo alheamento luminoso e sem esperança de Marlene Dietrich.

Nicolau Alicerces Peshkov, a quem os mucubais chamavam o Homem da Luz, abriu a janela do seu quarto para se inteirar das razões da guerra. Espreitou para fora e viu que ao longo de toda a rua se agitava uma turba armada, mili­tares alguns, a maioria jovens civis com fitinhas vermelhas amarradas na cabeça. Um dos jovens apontou-o aos gritos e logo outro fez fogo na sua direcção. Nicolau ainda não sabia que guerra era aquela mas compreendeu que, qualquer que fosse, estava do lado errado — ele era o índio, ali, e não tinha sequer um javite (machadinha) para se defender. Saiu do quarto, em cuecas, en­trou pela cozinha, abriu uma porta e encontro um quintalão estreito, fechado ao fundo por um alto muro de adobe. Conseguiu saltar o muro, trepando por uma mangueira esquá­lida, que crescia ao lado, e achou-se num outro quintal, este mais ancho, mais desamparado, junto a uma barraca de pau a pique que parecia servir de arrecadação. Pensou em James Dean. O que faria o garoto naquela situação? Certa­mente saberia o que fazer, James era um espe­cialista em fugas. Viu um tanque de lavar roupa, com água até cima, coberto por uma lona. James Dean entraria para dentro do tanque, e ficaria ali, o tempo que fosse necessário, à espera que lhe nascessem escamas. Ele, porém, não cabia naquela prisão. O corpo até se encaixava mas não a cabeça. Estava neste desespero, podia ou­vir a turba a aproximar-se, quando deu com a caixa de peixe. O cheiro era pavoroso, um odor forte a mares putrefactos, mas tinha o espaço exacto para um homem agachado. Assim me­teu-se dentro da caixa e aguardou.

Raúl Brasca: Triangulo criminal

Vayamos por partes, comisario: de los tres que estábamos en el boliche, usted, yo y el "occiso", como gusta llamarlo —todos muy borrachos, para qué lo vamos a negar— yo no soy el que escapó con el cuchillo chorreando sangre. Mi puñal está limpito como puede apreciar; y además estoy aquí sin que nadie haya tenido que traerme, ya que nunca me fui. El que huyó fue el "occiso" que, por la forma como corría, de muerto tiene bien poco. Y como él está vivo, queda claro que yo no lo maté. Al revés, si me atengo al ardor que siento aquí abajo, fue él quien me mató. Ahora bien, puesto que usted me está interrogando y yo, muerto como estoy, puedo responderle, tendrá que reconocer que el "occiso" no sólo me mató a mí, también lo mató a usted.

Edith Wharton: Afterward

I

"Oh, there is one, of course, but you'll never know it."

The assertion, laughingly flung out six months earlier in a bright June garden, came back to Mary Boyne with a sharp perception of its latent significance as she stood, in the December dusk, waiting for the lamps to be brought into the library.

The words had been spoken by their friend Alida Stair, as they sat at tea on her lawn at Pangbourne, in reference to the very house of which the library in question was the central, the pivotal "feature." Mary Boyne and her husband, in quest of a country place in one of the southern or southwestern counties, had, on their arrival in England, carried their problem straight to Alida Stair, who had successfully solved it in her own case; but it was not until they had rejected, almost capriciously, several practical and judicious suggestions that she threw it out: "Well, there's Lyng, in Dorsetshire. It belongs to Hugo's cousins, and you can get it for a song."

The reasons she gave for its being obtainable on these terms -- its remoteness from a station, its lack of electric light, hot-water pipes, and other vulgar necessities -- were exactly those pleading in its favor with two romantic Americans perversely in search of the economic drawbacks which were associated, in their tradition, with unusual architectural felicities.

"I should never believe I was living in an old house unless I was thoroughly uncomfortable," Ned Boyne, the more extravagant of the two, had jocosely insisted; "the least hint of 'convenience' would make me think it had been bought out of an exhibition, with the pieces numbered, and set up again." And they had proceeded to enumerate, with humorous precision, their various suspicions and exactions, refusing to believe that the house their cousin recommended was really Tudor till they learned it had no heating system, or that the village church was literally in the grounds till she assured them of the deplorable uncertainty of the watersupply.

"It's too uncomfortable to be true!" Edward Boyne had continued to exult as the avowal of each disadvantage was successively wrung from her; but he had cut short his rhapsody to ask, with a sudden relapse to distrust: "And the ghost? You've been concealing from us the fact that there is no ghost!"

Ramón Gómez de la Serna: El desterrado

¿A qué le podían condenar después de todo? A destierro. Valiente cosa. Cumpliría la pena alegremente en un país extranjero en que viviría una nueva vida y recordaría con un largo placer su ciudad y su vida pasada.

En efecto, la sentencia fue el destierro. ¡Pero qué destierro! El tribunal, amigo de aquel hombre autoritario y de inmenso poder a quien él había insultado, queriendo venderle el favor, y ya que no podía sentenciarle a muerte, le desterró a más kilómetros que los que tiene el mundo recorrido en redondo, aunque se encoja, para alargar más la medida, el diámetro que pasa por las más altas montañas. ¿Qué quería hacer con él el tribunal, sentenciándole a un destierro que no podía cumplir?

¡Ah! El tribunal, para agasajar al poderoso ofendido, había encontrado la fórmula de castigarle a muerte, por un delito que no podía merecer esa pena de ningún modo. Había encontrado la manera de ahorcar a aquel hombre, porque no habiendo extensión bastante a lo largo de este mundo para que cumpliese el sentenciado su destierro, habría que enviarle al otro para que ganase distancia.

Y le ahorcaron.

Peter Watts: A Niche

When the lights go out in Beebe Station, you can hear the metal groan. Lenie Clarke lies on her bunk, listening. Overhead, past pipes and wires and eggshell plating, three kilometers of black ocean try to crush her. She feels the Rift underneath, tearing open the seabed with strength enough to move a continent. She lies there in that fragile refuge and she hears Beebe's armor shifting by microns, hears its seams creak not quite below the threshold of human hearing. God is a sadist on the Juan de Fuca Rift, and His name is Physics.

How did they talk me into this? she wonders. Why did I come down here? But she already knows the answer.

She hears Ballard moving out in the corridor. Clarke envies Ballard. Ballard never screws up, always seems to have her life under control. She almost seems happy down here. Clarke rolls off her bunk and fumbles for a switch. Her cubby floods with dismal light. Pipes and access panels crowd the wall beside her; aesthetics run a distant second to functionality when you're three thousand meters down. She turns and catches sight of a slick black amphibian in the bulkhead mirror. It still happens, occasionally. She can sometimes forget what they've done to her.

It takes a conscious effort to feel the machines lurking where her left lung used to be. She's so acclimated to the chronic ache in her chest, to that subtle inertia of plastic and metal as she moves, that she's scarcely aware of them any more. She can still feel the memory of what it was to be fully human, and mistake that ghost for honest sensation.

Such respites never last. There are mirrors everywhere in Beebe; they're supposed to increase the apparent size of one's personal space. Sometimes Clarke shuts her eyes to hide from the reflections forever being thrown back at her. It doesn't help. She clenches her lids and feels the corneal caps beneath them, covering

her eyes like smooth white cataracts.

She climbs out of her cubby and moves along the corridor to the lounge. Ballard is waiting there, dressed in a diveskin and the usual air of confidence.

Ballard stands up. "Ready to go?"