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re la M an Poe l l A r a Edg


Jacek Piotrowski

Aside I turn to the holy, unspeakable, mysterious Night.


Afar lies the world sunk in a deep grave waste and lonely is its place. In the chords of the bosom blows a deep sadness.


I am ready to sink away in drops of dew, and mingle with the ashes. The distances of memory, the wishes of youth, the dreams of childhood,

the brief joys and vain hopes of a whole long life, arise in gray garments, like an evening vapor after the sunset. 5

What springs up all at once so sweetly boding in my heart, and stills the soft air of sadness?

Dost thou also take a pleasure in us, dark Night? What holdest thou under thy mantle, that with hidden power affects my soul? Precious balm drips from thy hand out of its bundle of poppies. Thou upliftest the heavy-laden wings of the soul. 6

Darkly and inexpressibly are we moved - joy-startled, I see a grave face that, tender and worshipful, inclines toward me, …and, amid manifold entangled locks, reveals the youthful loveliness of the Mother.

How poor and childish a thing seems to me now the Light - how joyous and welcome the departure of the day More heavenly than those glittering stars we hold the eternal eyes which the Night hath opened within us. 7

Farther they see than the palest of those countless hosts needing no aid from the light, they penetrate the depths of a loving soul - that fills a loftier region with bliss ineffable.


Glory to the queen of the world, to the great prophet of the holier worlds, to the guardian of blissful love she sends thee to me - thou tenderly beloved ‌

‌ the gracious sun of the Night, - now am I awake - for now am I thine and mine.

Thou hast made me know the Night made of me a man.


consume with spiritfire my body, that I, turned to finer air, may mingle more closely with thee, and then our bridal night endure forever.



WITH a feeling of deep yet most …

… singular affection I regarded …

… my friend Morella.


Thrown by accident ‌

into her society many years ago,


my soul, from our first meeting, burned with fires it had never before known; but the fires were not of Eros;

and bitter and tormenting to my spirit was the gradual conviction

that I could in no manner define their unusual meaning, or regulate their vague intensity.


Yet we met; and fate bound us together at the altar;

and I never spoke of passion,

nor thought of love.

She, however, shunned society, and, attaching herself to me alone, rendered me happy.

It is a happiness to wonder; — it is a happiness to dream.


Morella's erudition was profound.


As I hope to live,

her talents were of no common order — her powers of mind were gigantic.


I felt this, and, in many matters, became her pupil.

I soon, however, found that, perhaps on account of her Presburg education, she placed before me a number of those mystical writings which are usually considered the mere dross of the early German literature.

These, for what reasons I could not imagine, were her favorite and constant study,


But the principium individuationis — the notion of that identity which at death is or is not lost forever, was to me, at all times, a consideration of intense interest, not more from the mystical and exciting nature of its consequences, than from the marked and agitated manner in which Morella mentioned them.

and that in process of time they became my own should be attributed to the simple but effectual influence of habit and example. It is unnecessary to state the exact character of those disquisitions which, growing out of the volumes I have mentioned, formed, for so long a time, almost the sole conversation of Morella and myself.

My con­victions, or I forget myself, were in no manner acted upon by the ideal, nor was any tincture of the mysticism which I read to be discovered ...


and entered with an unflinching heart into the intricacies of her studies.

unless I am greatly mistaken, either in my deeds or in my thoughts. Feeling deeply persuaded of this,

I abandoned myself implicitly to the guidance of my wife,


I felt a forbidden spirit enkindling within me ‌

then, when, poring over forbidden pages,

And then —



"Morella" is a short story by 19th century American author and critic Edgar Allan Poe. These are the first 21 pages of my finished 96 pages...