The narrator describes how he came to kill an old man he lived with out of a strange obsession with the man's pale blue eye. He details how over a week's time he carefully planned and carried out opening the man's door and shining a light on his eye each night. On the eighth night when the man awoke, the narrator killed him but took great care to dismember and hide the body. When the police come to investigate after a neighbor reported screams, the narrator fools them into believing the old man is away from home. However, the beating of the old man's heart hidden below can still be heard, revealing the narrator's crime.
DIRECTIONS1. Read the short story.2. SummarizeExplain DaliaCulbertson719
DIRECTIONS:
1. Read the short story.
2. Summarize/Explain what happened in the story.
3. Describe (in 1-2 paragraphs) why you think it is the narrator "broke" and told the truth/confessed.
4. Explain why you do or do not believe people inherently WANT to be honest. (Use this story as the main reasoning for your argument.)
The story can also be read here: xroads.virginia.edu/~hyper/poe/telltale.html
THE TELL-TALE HEART
by Edgar Allan Poe
1843
TRUE! --nervous --very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why will you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses --not destroyed --not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell. How, then, am I mad? Hearken! and observe how healthily --how calmly I can 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! He had the eye of a vulture --a pale blue eye, with a film over it. Whenever it 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 know nothing. But you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded --with what caution --with what foresight --with what dissimulation I went to work! I was never kinder to the old man than during the whole week before I killed him. And every night, about 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, that no light shone 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 upon his bed. Ha! 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 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 into the chamber, and spoke courageously to him, calling him by name in a hearty tone, and inquiring how he has 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 w ...
Essay InstructionsEssay #1 is a Subjective Literary Analysis o.docxbridgelandying
Essay Instructions
Essay #1 is a Subjective Literary Analysis of Edgar Allan Poe's short story, "The Tell-Tale Heart". This short story belongs to the horror/mystery genre of fiction. It was written in 1843, and it tells of a man's obsession with an old man, in particular, the old man's eye.
It is a short story filled with symbolism and psychological drama, so after you have read the text, you will compose a 5-8 paragraph essay (Introduction-Body-Conclusion) analyzing and explaining if, in fact, the narrator's actions are those of a madman or a sane man who knows how to play a madman. You decide.
Your essay is NOT a summary; in fact, none of your writing for this course is a summary. I do not expect you to re-tell the story (plot).
Your essays are designed to present your opinion(s) on the literature and encourage the reader (me) to understand your opinions, criticisms, observations, and analyses.
Your essays will involve "explication" which is essentially the "taking apart" of the reading selection and referencing specific lines/sentences and paragraphs to support your stance/thesis.
The Tell-Tale Heart
Poe, Edgar Allan
About Poe:
Edgar Allan Poe was an American poet, short story writer, playwright, editor, critic, essayist and one of the leaders of the American Romantic Movement. Best known for his tales of the macabre and mystery, Poe was one of the early American practitioners of the short story and a pro- genitor of detective fiction and crime fiction. He is also credited with contributing to the emergent science fiction genre. Poe died at the age of 40. The cause of his death is undetermined and has been attributed to al- cohol, drugs, cholera, rabies, suicide (although likely to be mistaken with his suicide attempt in the previous year), tuberculosis, heart disease, brain congestion and other agents. Source: Wikipedia
TRUE! – nervous – very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why will you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses – not destroyed – not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell. How, then, am I mad? Hearken! and observe how health- ily – how calmly I can 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! He had the eye of a vulture –a pale blue eye, with a film over it. Whenever it 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 know nothing. But you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded –with what caution –with what foresight –with ...
DIRECTIONS1. Read the short story.2. SummarizeExplain DaliaCulbertson719
DIRECTIONS:
1. Read the short story.
2. Summarize/Explain what happened in the story.
3. Describe (in 1-2 paragraphs) why you think it is the narrator "broke" and told the truth/confessed.
4. Explain why you do or do not believe people inherently WANT to be honest. (Use this story as the main reasoning for your argument.)
The story can also be read here: xroads.virginia.edu/~hyper/poe/telltale.html
THE TELL-TALE HEART
by Edgar Allan Poe
1843
TRUE! --nervous --very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why will you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses --not destroyed --not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell. How, then, am I mad? Hearken! and observe how healthily --how calmly I can 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! He had the eye of a vulture --a pale blue eye, with a film over it. Whenever it 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 know nothing. But you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded --with what caution --with what foresight --with what dissimulation I went to work! I was never kinder to the old man than during the whole week before I killed him. And every night, about 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, that no light shone 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 upon his bed. Ha! 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 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 into the chamber, and spoke courageously to him, calling him by name in a hearty tone, and inquiring how he has 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 w ...
Essay InstructionsEssay #1 is a Subjective Literary Analysis o.docxbridgelandying
Essay Instructions
Essay #1 is a Subjective Literary Analysis of Edgar Allan Poe's short story, "The Tell-Tale Heart". This short story belongs to the horror/mystery genre of fiction. It was written in 1843, and it tells of a man's obsession with an old man, in particular, the old man's eye.
It is a short story filled with symbolism and psychological drama, so after you have read the text, you will compose a 5-8 paragraph essay (Introduction-Body-Conclusion) analyzing and explaining if, in fact, the narrator's actions are those of a madman or a sane man who knows how to play a madman. You decide.
Your essay is NOT a summary; in fact, none of your writing for this course is a summary. I do not expect you to re-tell the story (plot).
Your essays are designed to present your opinion(s) on the literature and encourage the reader (me) to understand your opinions, criticisms, observations, and analyses.
Your essays will involve "explication" which is essentially the "taking apart" of the reading selection and referencing specific lines/sentences and paragraphs to support your stance/thesis.
The Tell-Tale Heart
Poe, Edgar Allan
About Poe:
Edgar Allan Poe was an American poet, short story writer, playwright, editor, critic, essayist and one of the leaders of the American Romantic Movement. Best known for his tales of the macabre and mystery, Poe was one of the early American practitioners of the short story and a pro- genitor of detective fiction and crime fiction. He is also credited with contributing to the emergent science fiction genre. Poe died at the age of 40. The cause of his death is undetermined and has been attributed to al- cohol, drugs, cholera, rabies, suicide (although likely to be mistaken with his suicide attempt in the previous year), tuberculosis, heart disease, brain congestion and other agents. Source: Wikipedia
TRUE! – nervous – very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why will you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses – not destroyed – not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell. How, then, am I mad? Hearken! and observe how health- ily – how calmly I can 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! He had the eye of a vulture –a pale blue eye, with a film over it. Whenever it 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 know nothing. But you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded –with what caution –with what foresight –with ...
The Hand of Fate number 8. Oh what a dime once bought. From the silver age of comic books. Some old fashioned vintage entertainment. Good news is this one is free. Gloucester, Virginia Links and News, GVLN, website. Visit us for more.
1 Poe, Edgar Allan. The Cask of Amontillado.” The Proj.docxjeremylockett77
1
Poe, Edgar Allan. “The Cask of Amontillado.” The Project Gutenberg EBook.
6 Jun 2010. Web. 1 Jan 2013.
The thousand injuries of Fortunato I had borne as I best could, but when he ventured upon insult,
I vowed revenge. You, who so well know the nature of my soul, will not suppose, however, that
I gave utterance to a threat. At length I would be avenged; this was a point definitely settled—but
the very definitiveness with which it was resolved, precluded the idea of risk. I must not only
punish, but punish with impunity. A wrong is unredressed when retribution overtakes its
redresser. It is equally unredressed when the avenger fails to make himself felt as such to him
who has done the wrong.
It must be understood that neither by word nor deed had I given Fortunato cause to doubt
my good will. I continued, as was my wont, to smile in his face, and he did not perceive that my
smile now was at the thought of his immolation.
He had a weak point—this Fortunato—although in other regards he was a man to be
respected and even feared. He prided himself on his connoisseurship in wine. Few Italians have
the true virtuoso spirit. For the most part their enthusiasm is adopted to suit the time and
opportunity—to practise imposture upon the British and Austrian millionaires. In painting and
gemmary, Fortunato, like his countrymen, was a quack—but in the matter of old wines he was
sincere. In this respect I did not differ from him materially: I was skillful in the Italian vintages
myself, and bought largely whenever I could.
It was about dusk, one evening during the supreme madness of the carnival season, that I
encountered my friend. He accosted me with excessive warmth, for he had been drinking much.
The man wore motley. He had on a tight-fitting parti-striped dress, and his head was surmounted
by the conical cap and bells. I was so pleased to see him, that I thought I should never have done
wringing his hand.
I said to him—"My dear Fortunato, you are luckily met. How remarkably well you are
looking to-day! But I have received a pipe of what passes for Amontillado, and I have my
doubts."
"How?" said he. "Amontillado? A pipe? Impossible! And in the middle of the carnival!"
"I have my doubts," I replied; "and I was silly enough to pay the full Amontillado price
without consulting you in the matter. You were not to be found, and I was fearful of losing a
bargain."
"Amontillado!"
"I have my doubts."
"Amontillado!"
"And I must satisfy them."
2
"Amontillado!"
"As you are engaged, I am on my way to Luchesi. If any one has a critical turn, it is he. He
will tell me—"
"Luchesi cannot tell Amontillado from Sherry."
"And yet some fools will have it that his taste is a match for your own."
"Come, let us go."
"Whither?"
"To your vaults."
"My friend, no; I will not impose upon your good nature. I perceive you have an
engagement. Luchesi—"
"I have no engagemen ...
Dubliners is a collection of fifteen short stories by James Joyce, first published in 1914.[1] They form a naturalistic depiction of Irish middle class life in and around Dublin in the early years of the 20th century.
The stories were written when Irish nationalism was at its peak, and a search for a national identity and purpose was raging; at a crossroads of history and culture, Ireland was jolted by various converging ideas and influences. They centre on Joyce's idea of an epiphany: a moment where a character experiences a life-changing self-understanding or illumination. Many of the characters in Dubliners later appear in minor roles in Joyce's novel Ulysses.[2] The initial stories in the collection are narrated by child protagonists, and as the stories continue, they deal with the lives and concerns of progressively older people. This is in line with Joyce's tripartite division of the collection into childhood, adolescence and maturity.
1. THE TELL-TALE HEART
by Edgar Allan Poe
1843
TRUE! --nervous --very, very dreadfully nervous I had
been and am; but why will you say that I am mad? The
disease had sharpened my senses --not destroyed --not
dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I
heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many
things in hell. How, then, am I mad? Hearken! and observe
how healthily --how calmly I can 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! He had the eye of a vulture --a pale blue
eye, with a film over it. Whenever it 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 know
nothing. But you should have seen me. You should have
seen how wisely I proceeded --with what caution --with
what foresight --with what dissimulation I went to work! I
was never kinder to the old man than during the whole
week before I killed him. And every night, about 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, that no light
shone 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
upon his bed. Ha! 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 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 into
the chamber, and spoke courageously to him, calling him
by name in a hearty tone, and inquiring how he has 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. A watch's minute hand moves more
quickly than did mine. 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 fairly chuckled at the idea;
and perhaps he heard me; for he moved on the bed
suddenly, as if startled. 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 fear
of robbers,) and so I knew that he could not see the opening
of the door, and I kept pushing it on 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 have done, night after night, hearkening to the death
watches in the wall.
Presently I heard a slight groan, and I knew 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 has welled up from my own bosom,
deepening, with its 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 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 which
has made a single chirp." Yes, he had been trying to
comfort himself with these suppositions: but he had found
all in vain. All in vain; because Death, in approaching him
had stalked with his black shadow before him, and
enveloped the victim. And 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 --a very,
very little crevice in the lantern. So I opened it --you cannot
imagine how stealthily, stealthily --until, at length a simple
dim ray, like the thread of the spider, shot from out the
crevice and fell full 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 a dull
blue, with a hideous veil over it that chilled the very
marrow in my bones; but I could see nothing else of the old
man's face or person: for I had directed the ray as if by
instinct, precisely upon the damned spot.
And have I not told you that what you mistake for madness
is but over-acuteness of the sense? --now, I say, there came
to my ears a low, dull, quick sound, such as a watch makes
when enveloped in cotton. I knew that sound well, too. It
2. was the beating of the old man's heart. It increased my fury,
as the beating of a drum stimulates the soldier into courage.
But even yet I refrained and kept still. I scarcely breathed. I
held the lantern motionless. I tried how steadily I could
maintain the ray upon the eve. Meantime the hellish 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 have told you that I am
nervous: so I am. And now at 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 must burst.
And now a new anxiety seized me --the sound would be
heard by a neighbour! The old man's hour had come! With
a loud yell, I threw open the lantern and leaped into the
room. He shrieked once --once only. In an instant I dragged
him to the floor, and pulled the heavy bed over him. I then
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 ceased. The old man was dead. I removed
the bed and examined the corpse. Yes, he 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 eve would trouble me no more.
If still you 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, and I worked hastily, but in
silence. First of all I dismembered the corpse. I cut off the
head and the arms and the legs.
I then took up three planks from the flooring of the
chamber, and deposited all between the scantlings. I then
replaced the boards so cleverly, so cunningly, that no
human eye --not even his --could have detected any thing
wrong. There was nothing to wash out --no stain of any
kind --no blood-spot whatever. I had been too wary for that.
A tub had caught all --ha! ha!
When I had made an end of these labors, it was four o'clock
--still dark as midnight. As the bell sounded the hour, there
came a knocking at the street door. 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 neighbour 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 gentlemen
welcome. The shriek, I said, was my 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.
I led them, at length, to his chamber. I showed them his
treasures, 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 felt myself getting pale and wished them gone. My
head ached, and I fancied a ringing in my ears: but still they
sat and still chatted. The ringing became more distinct: --It
continued and became more distinct: I talked more freely to
get rid of the feeling: but it continued and gained
definiteness --until, at length, I found that the noise was not
within my ears.
No doubt I now 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 --much such a sound as a watch makes when
enveloped in cotton. I gasped for breath --and yet the
officers heard it not. I talked more quickly --more
vehemently; but the noise steadily increased. I arose and
argued about trifles, in a high key and with violent
gesticulations; but the noise steadily increased. Why would
they not be gone? 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? I foamed --I raved --I swore! I swung the chair upon
which I had been sitting, and grated it upon the boards, but
the noise arose over all and continually increased. It grew
louder --louder --louder! And still the men chatted
pleasantly, and smiled. Was it possible they heard not?
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. But anything was better than
this agony! Anything was more tolerable than this derision!
I could bear those hypocritical smiles no longer! I felt that I
must scream or die! and now --again! --hark! louder!
louder! louder! louder!
"Villains!" I shrieked, "dissemble no more! I admit the
deed! --tear up the planks! here, here! --It is the beating of
his hideous heart!"
-THE END-