Episode 9 - The Literary Summit - Tell Tale Poe

Welcome to our exploration of The Raven, The Tell-Tale Heart, and Annabel Lee — three of Edgar Allan Poe’s most haunting and enduring works.  In this episode, Kelley discusses the meaning while Max reads three of Poe's classics. 

In these pieces, Poe invites us to travel through the darker corners of the human mind. The Raven captures the torment of grief and obsession, as a mysterious bird becomes the voice of loss that cannot be silenced. The Tell-Tale Heart plunges into the mind of a narrator who insists on his sanity even as guilt drives him toward confession. Annabel Lee mourns a love so pure and powerful that even death cannot destroy it.

Together, these works reveal Poe’s fascination with love and loss, beauty and death, sanity and madness. He believed that great art could emerge from sorrow — that beauty and melancholy are inseparable. Through his rhythmic language, vivid imagery, and hypnotic repetition, Poe created stories and poems that feel both musical and psychological, blending emotion and intellect in ways that still unsettle readers today.

Learn more about The Spectral and Literary Summit at our website - www.spectral-summit.com.  We offer historic and literary videos and podcasts that make the past and literature come alive.  This is a production of Creative Actors Lab . Check out our Instagram page here. 

Transcript

SPEAKER_00 0:05

Hi there, my name is Kelly Cody Grimm, and welcome to the first episode of the Literary Summit. And today we're kicking it off with one of America's best known short story writers, poets. He was even actually a literary critic, and that would be Edgar Allan Poe. He was born in 1809, passed away in 1849, and in between had a lot of sadness in his life. He was orphaned at an early age. He was put into foster care. When he was 24, he married his wife, Virginia. And actually, two years before he passed away, she passed away from tuberculosis. And many people believe that one of the poems that we're going to be looking at today, The Annabelle, was written about his undeniable love for Virginia. So let's talk a little bit about Edgar Allan Poe. He is an author that I think has that universal truth that he is able to take sadness, sorrow, loss, terror, and really make it come alive for his readers. He's also one of the people that many people look at that help create detective stories in a lot of his different iterations. And so the three works that we're going to be looking at today are The Raven, Telltale Heart, and then The Annabelle, as I mentioned before. So let's go ahead and dive in. The first story is going to be read by Max Grimm, and it is called The Raven. And one of the hallmarks of the Raven is that the protagonist, the person who is talking about the raven, is that the raven symbolize his loss? Is it symbolize his guilt? So look at some of those things. Those are the things that Edgar Allan Poe really loved to weave into his work. So listen and read along or watch the video. All three are great, and we'll talk a little bit after it's over.

SPEAKER_02 2:19

The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe read by Max Grimm. Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, while I nodded, nearly napping suddenly there came a tapping, as if someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. Only this and nothing more Ah distinctly I remember it was the bleak December, and each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow vainly I had sought to borrow from my books or cease of sorrow sorrow for the lost Lenore for the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore Nameless here forevermore and the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain thrilled me, filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before, so that now, to still the beating of my heart I stood repeating 'tis some visitor entreating entrance in my chamber door, some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door only this and nothing more. Presently my soul grew stronger, hesitating then no longer. Sir, said I, or madam, truly, your forgiveness I implore, but the fact is I was napping and so gently you came rapping, and so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, that I scarce was sure I heard you. Here I opened wide the door Darkness there and nothing more. Deep into that darkness peering long I stood there wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before. But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token, and the only word there spoken was the whispered word Lenore. Then I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word Lenore merely this and nothing more. Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, soon I heard again a tapping somewhat louder than before. Surely I said surely that is something at my window, Lattice. Let me see then what thereat is and this mystery explore, let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore 'tis the wind and nothing more Open here I flung the shutter when, with many a flirt and flutter, in there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore, not the least obeisance made he not a minute stopped or stayed he but with mine of lord or lady perched above my chamber door perched upon a bust of palace, just above my chamber door, perched and sat and nothing more. Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, by the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore. Do thy crest be shorn and shaven thou, I said Art sure no craven, ghastly, grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore Tell me what thy lordly name is on the night's plutonian shore Quoth the raven, never more Much I marveled this ungainly vow to hear discourse so plainly, through its answer little meaning little relevancy bore For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being ever yet was blessed with seeing a bird above his chamber door, a bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door with such a name as nevermore? But the raven sitting lonely upon the pallid bust spoke only that one word as if his soul in that one word he did out pour nothing farther than he uttered, not a feather than he fluttered till I scarcely more than muttered Other friends have flown before, and on the morrow he will leave me as my hopes have flown before. Then the bird said Nevermore Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, doubtless said I What it utters is its only stock and store caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster followed fast and followed faster, till his songs one burden bore, till the durges of his hope that melancholy burden bore of never Nevermore But the raven, sitting lonely upon the ballad bust, spoke only that one word as if his soul in that one word he did outpour, nothing farther than he uttered, not a feather than he fluttered, till I scarcely more than muttered, Other friends have flown before, on the morrow he will leave me, and my hopes have flown before. Then the bird said Nevermore Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, doubtless, said I, what it utters is its only stock and store, caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore, till the dirge of his hope that melancholy burden bore of nevermore But the raven still beguiling my sad fancy into smiling Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of the bird and bust and door, then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yor, what this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of your meant in creaking nevermore Then I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing to the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core, this and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining on the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp light gloated o'er but whose velvet violet lining, with the lamp light gloating o'er she shall press Nevermore Then methought, the air grew denser, perfumed, from an unseen sensor swung by seraphim whose faint footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor, wretch I cried, Thy God hath lent thee, by these angels hath sent thee. Respite, respite in Nepentha from the memories of Lenor Quaf, oh quaff this kind Nepantha, and forget this lost Lenore, Quoth the Raven, nevermore Prophet said I think of evil prophet still, if bird or devil, whether tempter sent or whether tempest tossed the air ashore, desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted, on this house by horror haunted, tell me truly I implore is there Is there bombing Gilead? Tell me, tell me I implore Quoth the raven Nevermore Prophet I said thing of evil, prophet still, if bird or devil, by that heaven that bends above us, by the god we both adore, tell this soul with sorrow laden, if within the distant Aden, it shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenor, clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels name Lenor, quoth the raven, nevermore Be that word our sign of parting bird or fiend, I shrieked up starting, get thee back into the tempest and the night's plutonian shore, leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul has spoken, leave my loneliness unbroken, quit the bust above my door, take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door. Quoth the raven nevermore And the raven never flitting still is sitting, still is sitting on the pallid bust of palace just above my chamber door, and his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming, and the lamplight over him streaming throws his shadow on the floor, and my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor shall be lifted nevermore.

SPEAKER_00 11:58

So let's look at some of the things that Poe not only used in The Raven, but he will be using in his other stories. One of them is tone and mood. How does he use rhythm, repetition, and sound to create a feeling of suspense or sadness? And what words or images make the story or poem feel eerie or dreamlike? In Telltale Heart, we have what's called an unreliable narrator. And he thinks that he's sane, but he is contemplating murder. And so as we see him ravel his plot and then unravel, you'll get a little better feeling for again how his tone, how he uses unreliable narrators to really get his point across.

SPEAKER_02 12:48

The Telltale Heart by Edgar Allan Poe, read by Max Grimm. True, nervous, very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am, but why will you say that I am mad? The disease hath sharpened my senses, not destroyed, not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in heaven and on earth, I heard many things in hell. How then am I mad? Hearken and observe how healthily, how calmly I will tell you the whole story. It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain, but once conceived, it haunted me day and night. Object there was none. Passion there was none. I loved the old man. He had never wronged me. He had never given me insult. For his gold I had no desire. I think it was his eye. Yes. It was this. One of his eyes resembled that of a vulture, a pale blue eye with a film over it. Whenever I fell upon me, my blood ran cold, and so by degrees, very gradually, I made up my mind to take the life of the old man and thus rid myself of the eye forever. Now this is the point. You fancy me mad. Madmen no, nothing. But you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded, with what caution, with what foresight, with what dissemination I went to work. I was never kinder to the old man than during the whole week before I killed him, and every night around midnight, I turned the latch of his door and opened it oh so gently. And then when I had made an opening sufficient for my head, I put in a dark lantern, all closed, closed, so that no light would shine out. And then I thrust in my head. Oh you would have laughed to see how cunningly I thrust it in. I moved it slowly very, very slowly, so that I might not disturb the old man's sleep. It took me an hour to place my whole head within the opening so far that I could see him as he lay his head upon the bed. Would a madman have been so wise as this? And then when my head was well in the room I undid the lantern cautiously Oh so cautiously, cautiously for the hinges creaked. I undid it just so much that a single thin ray of light fell upon the vulture eye, and this I did for seven long nights every night just at midnight. But I found the eye always closed, and so it was impossible to do the work, for it was not the old man who vexed me but his evil eye. And every morning when the day broke I went boldly to the chamber and spoke courageously to him, calling him by name in a hearty tone and inquiring how he had passed the night. So you see he would have been a very profound old man indeed, to suspect that every night just at twelve I looked in upon him while he slept. Upon the eighth night, I was more than usually cautious in opening the door. Watch his minute hands move more quickly than mine did. Never before that night had I felt the extent of my own powers of my sagacity. I could scarcely contain my feelings of triumph to think that there I was, opening the door little by little, and he not even to dream of my secret deeds or thoughts. I barely chuckled at the idea, and perhaps he heard me for he moved on the bed suddenly as if started. Now you may think that I drew back, but no. His room was as black as pitch with the thick darkness, for the shutters were close fastened through the fear of robbers. And so I knew that he could not see the opening of the door, and I kept pushing on it steadily. Steadily. I had my head in and was about to open the lantern when my thumb slipped upon the tin fastening, and the old man sprang up in bed, crying out Who's there? I kept quite still and said nothing for a whole hour. I did not move a muscle. And in the meantime I did not hear him lie down. He was still sitting up in the bed listening just as I had done night after night, hearkening to the death watches in the wall. Presently I heard a slight groan and I knew that it was the groan of mortal terror. It was not a groan of pain or of grief, oh no. It was the low, stifled sound that arises from the bottom of the soul when overcharged with awe. I knew the sound well. Many a night. Just at midnight, when all the world slept, it had welled up from my own bosom, deepening. This dreadful echo, the terrors that distracted me. I say I knew it well. I knew what the old man felt and pitied him, although I chuckled at heart. I knew that he had been lying awake ever since the first slight noise when he had turned in the bed. His fears had been ever since growing upon him. He had been trying to fancy them causeless, but he could not. He had been saying to himself, It is nothing but the wind in the chimney, it is only a mouse crossing the floor, or it is merely a cricket with which has made a single chirp. Yes, he had been trying to comfort himself with these suppositions, but he had found it all in vain. All in vain because death in approaching him had stalked him with his black shadow before him and enveloped the victim. It was the mournful influence of the unperceived shadow that caused him to feel, although he neither saw nor heard, to feel the presence of my head within the room. When I had waited a long time very patiently without hearing him lie down, I resolved to open a little, very, very little crevice in the lantern. So I opened it. You cannot imagine how stealthily stealthily until at length a single dim ray like the thread of a spider shot from out the crevice and fell upon the vulture eye. It was open, wide, wide open, and I grew furious as I gazed upon it, I saw it with perfect distinctness, all the dull blue with a hideous veil over it, and chilled the very marrow in my bones, but I could see nothing else on the old man's face or person, for I had directed the ray as if by instinct precisely upon the damn spot. And now have I not told you that what you mistake for madness is but over acuteness of the senses? Now I I say. There came to my ears a low, dull, quick sound, such as the watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I knew that sound well too. It was the beating of the old man's heart. It increased my fury, and as the beating of the drum stimulates the soldier, it took courage. But even yet, I refrained. Still. I scarcely breathed. I held the lantern motionless. I tried how steadily I could maintain the ray upon the eye. Meantime, the selfish tattoo of the heart increased. It grew quicker and quicker and louder and louder every instant. The old man's terror must have been extreme. It grew louder. I say louder every moment. Do you mark me well? I've told you that I am nervous, so I am, and now in the dead hour of the night, amid the dreadful silence of that old house, so strange a noise as this excited me to uncontrollable terror. Yet for some minutes longer I refrained and stood still, but the beating grew louder. Louder. I thought the heart might burst. And now a new anxiety seized me. The sound would be heard by a neighbor. The old man's hour had come with a loud yell. I threw open the lantern and leaped on into the room. He shrieked once, only once. In an instant, I dragged him to the floor and pushed the heavy bed over him. Then I smiled gaily to find the deed so far done. But for many minutes, the heart beat on with a muffled sound. This, however, did not vex me. It would not be heard through the wall. At length, it it ceased. The old man was dead. I removed the bed and examined the corpse. Yes, it was stone, stone dead. I placed my hand upon the heart and held it there many minutes. There was no pulsation. He was stone dead. His eye would trouble me no more. If you still think me mad, you will think so no longer when I describe the wise precautions I took for the concealment of the body. The night waned, I worked hastily, but in silence. First of all, I dismembered the corpse, I cut off the head and the arms and legs. Then I took up three planks from the flooring of the chamber and deposited all between the scantlings. I then replaced the board so cleverly, so cunningly, that no human eye, not even his, could have detected anything wrong. There was nothing to wash out, no stain of any kind, no blood spot, whatever. I'd been too wary for that. Still dark as midnight. As the bell sounded the hour, there came a knocking at the the street door. I I went down to open it with a light heart, for what had I now to fear? There entered three men who introduced themselves with perfect suavity as officers of the police. A shriek had been heard by a neighbor during the night, suspicion of foul play had been aroused, information had been lodged at the police office, and they, the officers, had been deputed to search the premises. I smiled, for what had I to fear? I bade the gentleman welcome, the shriek I said was mine own in a dream. The old man I mentioned was absent in the country. I took my visitors all over the house, I bade them search, search well, and led them at length to his chamber. I showed them his treasure, secure, undisturbed. In the enthusiasm of my confidence, I brought chairs into the room and desired them here to rest from their fatigues, while I myself, in the wild audacity of my perfect triumph, placed my own seat upon the very spot beneath which reposed the corpse of the victim. The officers were satisfied. My manner had convinced them I was singularly at ease. They sat and while I answered cheerily, they chatted of familiar things, but ere long I I I felt myself getting pale and wished them gone. My headache, and I I fancied a ringing in my ears, but still they sat and chatted. A ringing became more distinct, it continued and became more distinct, and I talked more freely to get rid of the feeling, but it continued and I gained definitiveness until at length I found the noise was not within my ears. No doubt I grew very pale, but I talked more fluently and with a heightened voice, yet the sound increased, and what could I do? It was a low, dull, quick sound. It's much of a sound as a watch makes when it's enveloped in cotton. I I gasped for breath, and yet the officers heard it not.

SPEAKER_01 28:28

I talked more quickly, more vehemently, but the noise steadily increased. I I arose and argued about trifles in a in a high key and with violent gesticulations, but the noise steadily increased. Why would they not be gone?

SPEAKER_02 28:49

I paced the floor to and fro with heavy strides as if excited to fury by the observations of the men, but the noise steadily increased. Oh God, what could I do?

SPEAKER_01 29:02

I foamed, I raved, I swore I swung the chair upon which I had been sitting and grated upon the boards, but the noise arose all over and continually increased. It grew louder, louder, louder. Still the men chatted pleasantly and smiled. Was it possible they heard not?

SPEAKER_02 29:28

Almighty God! No! No, they heard. They suspected, they knew. They were making a mockery of my horror. This, I thought. And this I think. That anything was better than this agony. Anything was more tolerable than this derision. I could not bear those hypocritical smiles any longer. I felt that I must scream or die. And now, again, hard. Louder, louder, louder, louder.

SPEAKER_01 30:05

Villains I shriek, dissemble no more. I admit the deed.

SPEAKER_02 30:12

Tear up the plagues here, here. It is the beating of his hideous heart.

SPEAKER_00 30:21

And finally, in the Annabelle Lee, how does Poe mix love and loss together and the fact that love for him was eternal? And again, this was written two years after his own wife, Virginia, had passed away, and interestingly enough, this was published after his own death in 1849.

SPEAKER_02 30:46

It was many and many a year ago in a kingdom by the sea that a maiden lived whom you may know by the name of Annabelle Lee. And this maiden she lived with no other thought than to love and be loved by me. She was a child and I was a child in this kingdom by the sea, but we loved with a love that was more than love I and my Annabelle Lee. With a love that the winged seraps of heaven coveted her and me. And this was the reason that long ago in this kingdom by the sea a wind blew out of a cloud by night chilling my Annabelle Lee, so that her high born kinsman came and bore her away from me to shut her up in a sepulcher in a kingdom by the sea. The angels not so happy in heaven, went envying her and me. Yes, that was the reason, as all men know in this kingdom by the sea, that the wind came out of a cloud by night chilling and killing my Annabelle Lee. But our love, it was stronger by far than love of those that were older than we, of many far wiser than we, and neither the angels in heaven above nor the demons down under the sea can ever dissever my soul from the soul of the beautiful Annabelle Lee. For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams of the beautiful Annabelle Lee, and the stars never rise, but I see the bright eyes of the beautiful Annabelle Lee. And so all the night tide I lay down by the side of my darling, my darling, my life and my bride, in her sepulture by the sea, in her tomb by the side of the sea.

SPEAKER_00 32:35

So let's just kind of recap some of the themes that we've seen in each one of these pieces. Um, what are the symbols in imagery? The raven, the beating heart, and the sea all stand for something deeper. What might they represent? How do these symbols connect to the themes of love, death, and memory? And then Poe's feeling about loss in beauty. He once wrote that nothing is more poetic than the death of a young woman. And with his wife dying at the age of 27, certainly he felt that loss profoundly. The sound and structure. Notice Poe's musical use of language, the rhyme, the meter, the repetition that make his work memorable. And then how do those sound patterns affect the mood or the sense of madness or obsession? We really do get that within his pieces. So again, by linking these three works, we want you to see how Poe uses his mastery of language to bring in madness, terror, love, and obsession, and how he is able to weave that together so that we're still fascinated by it and we are still reading his work even a hundred and eighty years later.