Supervisor -BOLD TEXT
 Night Watchmen - PLAIN TEXT

Welcome to celebrate creativity and the hall of imagination– This is the second episode regarding Edgar Allan Poe for the month of October. And the proceeding episode, the night watchmen had been called to the office of the supervisor for the wax museum. We begin with the night watchmen speaking–

Sir, are you calling me in here because I did something wrong?

No. In fact, I called you here because I need your help.

He stood and walked toward the tall wooden crate.

We are about to open our October exhibition.

He brushed a little packing dust from the lid.

Edgar Allan Poe will be its central figure.

Edgar Allan Poe.

Poet. Critic. Editor. Author of tales of terror, mystery, guilt, madness, premature burial, and several other subjects the gift shop believes will look attractive on coffee mugs.

I know who he is.

The question is whether he knows who he is.

I do not understand.

You know the museum’s rule. A figure awakens with the knowledge and memories available during that person’s earthly life. Nothing more.

Yes. They know what happened to them. They do not automatically know what happened after them.

Precisely. Edgar Allan Poe died in 1849. He knew poverty. He knew grief. He knew harsh criticism and professional rivalry. He knew moments of recognition, certainly—but not the magnitude of what came afterward

His fame.

His tremendous fame.

The supervisor opened a folder on his desk. Inside were photographs of Poe memorials, book covers in many languages, classrooms, theatrical posters, films, recordings, and crowds gathered around places connected with Poe’s life.

Today his stories are read around the world. His poems are recited by schoolchildren and celebrated actors. Writers of mystery and horror trace part of their inheritance to him. Musicians, painters, filmmakers, and performers continue to reinterpret his work. There are museums devoted to him, societies devoted to studying him, and admirers who travel great distances to stand where he once stood.

And he knows none of it.

Not yet.

Then why not show him the folder?

Because evidence and understanding are not the same thing.

He handed me one of the photographs. It showed people gathered at Poe’s grave.

Imagine dying with deep uncertainty about the value of your work. Then imagine awakening and being told that your face is recognized throughout the world. Some people would be delighted. Some would be suspicious. Some would think they were being mocked.

And Poe might think all three before breakfast.

That is my concern.

He returned to his chair.

Poe understood deception. He wrote about unreliable minds, hidden motives, and appearances that could not be trusted. If we greet him with applause and immediately announce that he has become immortal, he may assume he has awakened inside somebody else’s Nightmare.

Maybe his own.

Exactly.

For a moment, neither of us spoke.

On the wall, the clock kept ticking. In front of me stood a crate containing the likeness of one of the most famous writers who ever lived. But when that figure opened his eyes, he would not know he was famous.

He would still carry the wounds of the man who had died.

What do you want me to do?

Break it to him gently.

How gently?

Gently enough that he believes you.

That is not an instruction. That is a prayer.

Then you had better begin praying.

I stood and paced toward the museum model.

Perhaps I could start with *The Raven*.

How?

I could tell him people still read it.

They did in his lifetime.

Then I could tell him they still read it more than a century and a half later.

That is better.

Maybe I could let him hear someone recite it.

Not immediately. Let him first hear the news in a human voice. Machinery from the future may overwhelm him. And remember to talk with him about his early years.

All right. I begin small. One memory survived. One poem survived. Then another. Then the stories.

Do not make it sound accidental.

No. I tell him his work did not merely survive in a locked cabinet. It traveled.

Good.

It crossed oceans. It crossed languages. It entered classrooms and theaters and homes. People who could not pronounce the name of the city where he was born still learned the name Edgar Allan Poe.

Very good.

But I should not begin by listing honors, should I?

Why not?

Because fame is a number. A person can hear that a million strangers know his name and still wonder whether any one of them understood a single word.

The supervisor looked at me for a long moment.

Mr. Bartley, That is why we hired you.

I turned the photograph over in my hand.

Then perhaps I should not tell him first that he became famous. Perhaps I should tell him that he found readers.

Go on.

I could say, “Mr. Poe, people you never had the chance to meet have sat alone at night and heard their own sorrow in your poems. People frightened by the darker rooms of the human mind have entered those rooms through your stories and discovered they were not alone. Writers took the path you opened and carried it farther. You were heard.”

Yes. Mr. Bartley

Then, after he believes that, I can tell him just how many people heard him.

Exactly.

And if he does not believe me?

Do not argue. Ask him what proof he would accept.

Books printed after his death?

We have them.

Translations?

We have those too.

Photographs of memorials, museums, and performances?

All available.

What about the football team?

Not on the first night.

Probably wise.

And do not tell him everything at once. Fame has its own weight. Let him lift it gradually.

That sentence stayed with me.

Fame has its own weight.

Sir, what about music?

Yes, Mr. Bartley–remember that Music has charms to soothe a savage breast.

And sir, that gives me an idea!

Join Celebrate Creativity as the whole of imagination begins an examination of Edgar Allan Poe– Episodes that you will not want to miss! This has been George Bartley and thank you for listening.