morrow—and yet it can hardly be more than 190 or 200
miles.
THE M AN WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE
191
Jan. 2.
I have passed this day in a species of ecstasy that I find it
impossible to describe. My passion for solitude could scarcely
have been more thoroughly gratified. I do not say satisfied;
for I believe I should never be satiated with such delight
as I have experienced today. . . .
The wind lulled after daybreak, and by the afternoon the
sea had gone down materially. . . . Nothing to be seen
with the telescope even, but ocean and sky, with an occa-
sional gull.
Jan. 3.
A dead calm all day. Toward evening, the sea looked very
much like glass. A few seaweeds came in sight; but besides
them absolutely nothing all day—not even the slightest speck
of cloud. . . . Occupied myself in exploring the light-
house. . . . It is a very lofty one—as I find to my cost when
I have to ascend its interminable stairs—not quite 160 feet,
I should say, from the low-water mark to the top of the lan-
tern. From the bottom inside the shaft, however, the dis-
tance to the summit is 180 feet at least: thus the floor is
twenty feet below the surface of the sea, even at low
tide. . . .
It seems to me that the hollow interior at the bottom
should have been filled in with solid masonry. Undoubtedly
the whole would have been thus rendered more safe: but
what am I thinking about? A structure such as this is safe
enough under any circumstances. I should feel myself se-
cure in it during the fiercest hurricane that ever raged—
and yet I have heard seamen say that, occasionally, with a
wind at southwest, the sea has been known to run higher
here than anywhere, with the single exception of the west-
era opening of the Straits of Magellan.
No mere sea, though, could accomplish anything with
I 9 2
THE M AN WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE
this solid iron-riveted wall—which, at fifty feet from high-
water mark, is four feet thick, if one inch. The basis on
which the structure rests seems to me to be chalk. . . .
Jan. 4.
I am now prepared to resume work on my book, having
spent this day in familiarizing myself with a regular routine.
My actual duties will be, I perceive, absurdly simple—the
light requires little tending beyond a periodic replenish-
ment of the oil for the six-wick burner. As to my own needs,
they are easily satisfied, and the exertion of an occasional
trip down the stairs is all I must anticipate.
At the base of the stairs is the entrance room; beneath
that is twenty feet of empty shaft. Above the entrance room,
at the next turn of the circular iron staircase, is my store-
room, which contains the casks of fresh water and the food
supplies, plus linens and other daily needs. Above that—
again another spiral of those interminable stairs 1— is the
oil room, completely filled with the tanks from which I must
feed the wicks. Fortunately, I perceive that I can limit my
descent to the storeroom to once a week if I choose, for it is
possible for me to carry sufficient provisions in one load to
supply both myself and Neptune for such a period. As to the
oil supply, I need only to bring up two drums every three
days and thus ensure a constant illumination. If I choose, I
can place a dozen or more spare drums on the platform
near the light and thus provide for several weeks to come.
So it is that in my daily existence I can limit my move-
ments to the upper half of the lighthouse; that is to say,
the three spirals opening on the topmost three levels. The
lowest is my “living room”—and it is here, of course, that
Neptune is confined the greater part of the day; here, too,
that I plan to write at a desk near the wall slit that affords a
view of the sea without. The second-highest level is my bed-
room and kitchen combined. Here the weekly rations of
THE M AN WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE
1 9 3
food and water are contained in cupboards for that pur-
oil that lights the beacon above. The topmost level is the
service room giving access to the light itself and to the plat-
form surrounding it. Since the light is fixed, and its re-
Hectors set, there is no need for me ever to ascend to the
platform save when replenishing the oil supply or making a
repair or adjustment as per the written instructions—a cir-
cumstance which may well never arise during my stay here.
Already I have carried enough oil, water, and provender
to the upper levels to last me for an entire month—I need
stir from my two rooms only to replenish the wicks.
For the rest, I am free! utterly free—my time is my own,
and in this lofty realm I rule as king. Although Neptune is my
only living subject, I can well imagine that I am sovereign
o’er all I see—ocean below and stars above. I am master of
the sun that rises in rubicund radiance from the sea at
dawn, emperor of wind and monarch of the gale, sultan
of the waves that sport or roar in roiling torrents about the
base of my palace pinnacle. I command the moon in the
heavens, and the very ebb and flow of the tide does homage
to my reign.
But enough of fancies—DeGrat warned me to refrain
from morbid or from grandiose speculation—now I shall take
up in all earnestness the task that lies before me. Yet this
night, as I sit before the window in the starlight, the tides
sweeping against these lofty walls can only echo my exulta-
tion; I am free—and, at last, alone!
Jan. 11.
A week has passed since my last entry in this diary, and
as I read it over, I can scarce comprehend that it was I who
penned those words.
Something has happened—the nature of which lies un-
fathomed. I have worked, eaten, slept, replenished the wicks
1 9 4
THE M AN W*10 CALLED HIMSELF POE
twice. My outward existence has been placid. I can ascribe
the alteration in my feelings to nought but some inner
alchemy; enough to say that a disturbing change has taken
place.
Alone! I, who breathed the word as if it were some mystic
incantation bestowing peace, have come—I realize it now—
to loathe the very sound of the syllables. And the ghastliness
of meaning I know full well.
It is a dismaying, it is a dreadful thing, to be alone. Truly
alone, as I am, with only Neptune to exist beside me and
by his breathing presence remind me that I am not the sole
inhabitant of a blind and senseless universe. The sun and
stars that wheel overhead in their endless cycle seem to
rush across the horizon unheeding—and, of late, unheeded,
for I cannot fix my mind upon them with normal constancy.
The sea that swirls or ripples below me is nought but a
purposeless chaos of utter emptiness.
I thought myself to be a man of singular self-sufficiency,
beyond the petty needs of a boring and banal society. How
wrong I was!—for I find myself longing for the sight of
another face, the sound of another voice, the touch of other
hands whether they offer caresses or blows. Anything, any-
thing for reassurement that my dreams are indeed false and
that I am not, actually, alone.
And yet I am. I am, and I will be. The world is two hun-
dred miles away; I will not know it again for an entire
year. And it in turn—but no more! I cannot put down my
thoughts while in the grip of this morbid mood.
Jan. 13.
Two more days—two more centuries!—have passed. Can it
be less than two weeks since I was immured in this prison
tower? I mount the turret of my dungeon and gaze at the
horizon; I am not hemmed in by bars of steel but by columns
and pillars and webs of wild and raging water. The sea has
THE M AN WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE
1 9 5
changed; gray skies have wrought a wizardry so that I
stand surrounded by a tum ult that threatens to become a
tempest.
I turn away, for I can bear no more, and descend to my
room. I seek to write—the book is bravely begun, but of
late I can bring myself to do nothing constructive or crea-
tive—and in a moment I fling aside my pen and rise to pace,
to endlessly pace the narrow, circular confines of my tower
of torment.
Wild words, these? And yet I am not alone in my afflic-
tion—Neptune, Neptune the loyal, the calm, the placid feels
it too.
Perhaps it is but the approach of the storm that agitates
him so—for Nature bears closer kinship with the beast.
He stays constantly at my side, whining now, and the
muffled roaring of the waves without our prison causes him
to tremble. There is a chill in the air that our stove cannot
dissipate, but it is not cold that oppresses him. . . .
I have just mounted to the platform and gazed out at the
spectacle of gathering storm. The waves are fantastically
high; they sweep against the lighthouse in titanic tumult.
These solid walls of stone shudder rhythmically with each
onslaught. The churning sea is gray no longer—the water
is black, black as basalt and as heavy. The sky’s hue has
deepened so that at the moment no horizon is visible. I
am surrounded by a billowing blackness thundering against
me. . . .
Back below now, as lightning flickers. The storm will
break soon, and Neptune howls piteously. I stroke his
quivering flanks, but the poor animal shrinks away. It seems
that he fears even my presence; can it be that my own
features betray an equal agitation? I do not know—I only
feel that I am helpless, trapped here and awaiting the mercy
of the storm. I cannot write much longer.
And yet I will set down a further statement. I must, if
only to prove to myself that reason again prevails. In writ
1 9 6
THE M AN WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE
ing of my venture up to the platform—my viewing of the
sea and sky—I omitted to mention the meaning of a single
moment. There came upon me, as I gazed down at the black
and boiling madness of the waters below, a wild and willful
craving to become one with it. But why should I disguise
the naked truth?—I felt an insane impulse to hurl myself
into the seal
It has passed now; passed, I pray, forever. I did not yield
to this perverse prompting and I am back here in my quar-
ters, writing calmly once again. Yet the fact remains—the
hideous urge to destroy myself came suddenly, and with
the force of one of those monstrous waves.
And w hat—I force myself to realize—was the meaning of
my demented desire? It was that I sought escape, escape
from loneliness. It was as if by mingling with the sea
and the storm I would no longer be alone.
But I defy the elements. I defy the powers of the earth
and of the heavens. Alone I am, alone I must be—and come
what may, I shall survive 1 My laughter rises above all your
thunder 1
So—ye spirits of the storm—blow, howl, rage, hurl your
watery weight against my fortress—I am greater than you
in all your powers. But waitl Neptune . . . something has
happened to the creature—I must attend him.
Jan. 16.
The storm is abated. I am back at my desk now, alone—
truly alone. I have locked poor Neptune in the storeroom
below; the unfortunate beast seems driven out of his wits
by the forces of the storm. When last I wrote he was
worked into a frenzy, whining and pawing and wheeling in
circles. He was incapable of responding to my commands
and I had no choice but to drag him down the stairs by the
scruff of his neck and incarcerate him in the storeroom
where he could not come to harm. I own that concern for
THE M A N WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE
I 9 7
my safety was involved—the possibility of being imprisoned
in this lighthouse with a mad dog must be avoided.
His howls, throughout the storm, were pitiable indeed,
but now he is silent. W hen last I ventured to gaze into the
room I perceived him sleeping, and I trust that rest and
calm will restore him to my full companionship as before.
Companionship!
How shall I describe the horrors of the storm I faced
aloneP
In this diary entry I have prefaced a date —January 16—
but that is merely a guess. The storm has swept away all
track of time. Did it last a day, two days, three—as I now
surmise—a week, or a century? I do not know.
I know only an endless raging of waters that threatened,
time and again, to engulf the very pinnacle of the light-
house. I know only an eternity of ebony, an aeon of billow-
ing black composed of sea and sky commingled. I only know
that there were times when my own voice outroared the
storm—but how can I convey the cause of that? There was
a time, perhaps a full day, perhaps much longer, when I
could not bear to rise from my couch but lay with my face
buried in the pillows, weeping like a child. But mine were
not the pure tears of childhood innocence—call them, rather,
the tears of Lucifer upon the realization of his eternal fall
from grace. It seemed to me that I was truly the victim of an
endless damnation; condemned forever to remain a prisoner
in a world of thunderous chaos.
There is no need to write of the fancies and fantasies
which assailed me through those unhallowed hours. At times
I felt that the lighthouse was giving way and that I would
be swept into the sea. At times I knew myself to be a victim
of a colossal plot—I cursed DeGrát for sending me, know-
ingly, to my doom. At times ( and these were the worst mo-
ments of all) I felt the full force of loneliness, crashing
d
own upon me in waves higher than those wrought by
water.
1 9 8
THE M AN WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE
But all has passed, and the sea—and myself—are calm
again. A peculiar calmness, this; as I gaze out upon the
water there are certain phenomena I was not aware of until
this very moment.
Before setting down my observations, let me reassure my-
self that I am, indeed, quite calm; no trace of my former
tremors or agitation yet remains. The transient madness in-
duced by the storm has departed and my brain is free of
phantasms—indeed, my perceptive faculties seem to be
sharpened to an unusual acuity.
It is almost as though I find myself in possession of an addi-
tional sense, an ability to analyze and penetrate beyond
former limitations superimposed by Nature.
The water on which I gaze is placid once more. The sky
is only lightly leaden in hue. But wait—low on the horizon
creeps a sudden flame! It is the sun, the Arctic sun in sullen
splendor, emerging momentarily from the pall to incarna-
dine the ocean. Sun and sky, sea and air about me, turn to
blood.
Can it be I who but a moment ago wrote of returned, re-
gained sanity? I, who have just shrieked aloud, “Alone!”—
and half-rising from my chair, heard the muffled booming
echo reverberate through the lonely lighthouse, its sepul-
chral accent intoning “Alone!” in answer? It may be that
I am, despite all resolution, going mad; if so, I pray the
end comes soon.
Jan. 18.
There will be no end! I have conceived a notion, a theory
which my heightened faculties soon will test. I shall embark
upon an experiment. . . .
Jan. 26.
A week has ]passed here in my solitary prison. Solitary?—
THE M AN WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE
I 9 9
perhaps, but not for long. The experiment is proceeding.
I must set down what has occurred.
The sound of the echo set me to thinking. One sends out
one’s voice and it comes back. One sends out one’s thoughts
and—can it be that there is a response? Sound, as we know,
travels in waves and patterns. The emanations of the brain,
perhaps, travel similarly. And they are not confined by
physical laws of time, space, or duration.
Can one’s thoughts produce a reply that materializes, just