For a moment of intense terror she paused upon the giddy pinnacle, as if in contemplation of her own sublimity, then trembled and tottered, and—came down.
Few authors write this way anymore. I feel as if readers in our time have thrown poetic prose and sophisticated description into the maelstrom, sinking it in the cavernous depths where krakens lie undisturbed. But the nineteenth century welcomed a more lyrical articulation. And its effect on the reader is profound.
Poe's tale is one of foreboding, a story in which doom becomes ever more certain in spite of swells of hope. The protagonist is propelled on a voyage of inexorable inevitability. Making the tale even more enjoyable, Poe throws out keen insights into human nature, like foam tips on the sea's deep swells.
And Poe writes in an age when readers didn't wanted deep description and psychological depth.
"Avoid modifiers," say the modern stylists. But Poe has no problem calling the terror "intense," or the pinnacle "giddy."
"Show, don't tell." Yet Poe portrays the grandeur of the ghostly vessel by humanizing it, telling us the ship ruminates on its own resplendence.
For all his divergences from modern standards of prose writing, Poe did excel in one skill much valued today: the skillful use of verbs. Strong verbs carry the action: trembled, tottered, came down.
Perhaps I am not alone in craving stories like this, tales that portray more than mere events, but which elevate our awareness of ourselves. I felt the grimness of a long struggle into inescapable hell. I saw a little down into the depths of my own psyche, the dull horror that sometimes accompanies our cosmic anxieties.
And yet I know these are merely words on a page, and not even that many words. With such concision Poe has given me a mirror to look in.
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