On Poe's, "William Wilson."

". . .and to the very ends of the earth I fled in vain."


To those of us brought up with Poe from an early age the name is filled with magic, the magic of a world filled with the mysterious, the profound, the tragic, and the beautiful -- all the elements of Romantic art in its quintessential form.   Sometimes we experience these elements simultaneously in Poe, sometimes not.  We love Poe because we think we understand Poe, or because we know we do not; yet at the same time he speaks to us.   He means, this, or he means that.    This story means this, or this story means that, or all of them together, or none of them together.   Again, quintessentially "Romantic." 

The darkness of Poe is much more compelling than the brightness of Wordsworth, despite the latter's more refined edge.    Poe is not refined; he is out of the earth itself, of nature, of the primal and primordial, always  flitting around the memory of a brutish past.   Yet, always present is the struggle for beauty, for justice, the attainment and love of beauty, always just beyond reach, perhaps, but there, nevertheless, and Poe loves and pursues it with all his passion.  His passion for beauty and logic do not always triumph, but the triumph of the Romantic is the fight.   And we, being romantics ourselves, identify very powerfully with that struggle and with that loss.    

Thus so complex in its essence, and such diverse elements of the human psyche so exploited,  the reading of Poe must result in a multitude of diverse interpretations of meaning.   And, more often than not, he works are completely misunderstood.    I read, with either great humor, or revulsion, reviews and analyses of his work.   It is difficult (not impossible) to find pointed and revealing criticism of Poe's work.   My attempts often fall short.   Where I believe I achieve success is not through intellectual acuity but through sheer luck and the ability of Poe to speak to me through the page and over time.  There is also my affinity for the age: the music of Chopin, Schubert, and Mendelssohn have always spoken so clearly to me, as does so much of the contemporaneous literature and philosophy.   I am of that age, it would appear.   There remains, still, so much of Poe that I do not "get."  Someday, perhaps, I will.    


But for now, there is, "William Wilson," a masterpiece of the romantic literature.  

The story involves so much.   As the music of Brahms, or Chopin, Poe's story is precisely of his time, more specifically, it speaks of the style and philosophy of his age that of Romanticism.   The artist, forced to live in a world that continually misunderstands him, and from which he continually tries to escape, but cannot.   He then turns inward, away from the masses, the audience for his art, the world of "reality," for that world has turned away from him.    The Age of Enlightenment brought audience and artist together, on equal footing, so to speak, and they were both happy and thrived there.    But with the Romantic "revolution" the artist and audience are separated, the artist forced to find inspiration from "outside," of the "world."    As I said, he turns inward and turning inward he finds the source for all that is grotesque, brutish, ugly, and beautiful, lovely and refined.   So, Poe's William Wilson takes us on such a journey, within the mind of the artist using symbols and metaphor, to "a time before time itself was born."   In other words, Poe stumbles upon the Id, the hideous, frightened, barbaric, remnant of what we all once were, ready to kill to preserve one's life. 

Poe ingeniously combines this metaphor with the age old folk belief of the "Doppelganger," the "Double," which says that we all have a double, an exact duplicate of ourselves somewhere in the world, and you must avoid this double for if you do not, you will be annihilated.   For Poe, (Wilson) that double exists in a place from which there is no escape, it lives within the mind itself.  One flees in vain.  The Doppelganger, once unleashed (or discovered), spells inevitable doom.

(I am reminded of the brilliant early science fiction film, The Forbidden Planet.  What is the Forbidden Planet, but that place hidden deep within us, our "Id," as the doctor discovers?   Do not tread there, lest you unleash, "Monsters. . .  monsters from the Id.")   

I will say no more here, I wish you to be intrigued and discover the many details in the story  on your own that I have not discussed here.  You may discover more.   But beware.   Beware!

Let me know.