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Cujo DeSockpuppet wrote:
will.dockery@gmail-dot-com.no-spam.invalid (Will-Dockery) wrote in
news:pLmdnQGrQu-dy3D1nZ2dnZfqn_WdnZ2d@giganews.com:
HarryLime wrote:
Will-Dockery wrote:
https://uncledougsbunkerofhorror.blogspot.com/2015/09/the-scholastic-
edgar-allan-poe-editions.html?m=1
These are the type of Edgar Allan Poe collections that were all over
Richards Junior High School in 1971.
I wasn't the only kid who read and enjoyed Edgar Allan Poe back
then, but as far as I know, I'm the only person inspired enough to
begin writing, myself.
HTH and HAND.
https://uncledougsbunkerofhorror.blogspot.com/2015/09/the-scholastic-
edgar-allan-poe-editions.html?m=1
***
Inspired to begin writing is not the same as having been influenced
by,
Influenced by means that your writing bears some degree of
resemblance to an author, or literary work, that helped to develop,
or changed, your writing style.
Herman Melville was strongly influenced by Shakespeare's "King
Lear," which he read when in the middle of writing "Moby Dick." The
Shakespeare/"Lear" influence can be readily seen in the monologues
Ahad speaks:
rCLOh, Starbuck! it is a mild, mild wind, and a mild looking sky. On
such a day"very much such a sweetness as this"I struck my first
whale"a boy-harpooneer of eighteen! Forty"forty"forty years
ago!"ago! Forty years of continual whaling! forty years of
privation, and peril, and storm-time! forty years on the pitiless
sea! for forty years has Ahab forsaken the peaceful land, for forty
years to make war on the horrors of the deep! Aye and yes, Starbuck,
out of those forty years I have not spent three ashore. When I think
of this life I have led; the desolation of solitude it has been; the
masoned, walled-town of a CaptainrCOs exclusiveness, which admits
but small entrance to any sympathy from the green country
without"oh, weariness! heaviness! Guinea-coast slavery of solitary
command!"when I think of all this; only half-suspected, not so
keenly known to me before"and how for forty years I have fed upon
dry salted fare"fit emblem of the dry nourishment of my soil!"when
the poorest landsman has had fresh fruit to his daily hand, and
broken the worldrCOs fresh bread to my mouldy crusts"away, whole
oceans away, from that young girl-wife I wedded past fifty, and
sailed for Cape Horn the next day, leaving but one dent in my
marriage pillow"wife? wife?"rather a widow with her husband alive!
Aye, I widowed that poor girl when I married her, Starbuck; and
then, the madness, the frenzy, the boiling blood and the smoking
brow, with which, for a thousand lowerings old Ahab has furiously,
foamingly chased his prey"more a demon than a man!"aye, aye! what a
forty yearsrCO fool"fool"old fool, has old Ahab been! Why this
strife of the chase? why weary, and palsy the arm at the oar, and
the iron, and the lance? how the richer or better is Ahab now?
Behold. Oh, Starbuck! is it not hard, that with this weary load I
bear, one poor leg should have been snatched from under me? Here,
brush this old hair aside; it blinds me, that I seem to weep. Locks
so grey did never grow but from out some ashes! But do I look very
old, so very, very old, Starbuck? I feel deadly faint, bowed, and
humped, as though I were Adam, staggering beneath the piled
centuries since Paradise. God! God! God!"crack my heart!"stave my
brain!"mockery! mockery! bitter, biting mockery of grey hairs, have
I lived enough joy to wear ye; and seem and feel thus intolerably
old? Close! stand close to me, Starbuck; let me look into a human
eye; it is better than to gaze into sea or sky; better than to gaze
upon God. By the green land; by the bright hearth-stone! this is the
magic glass, man; I see my wife and my child in thine eye. No, no;
stay on board, on board!"lower not when I do; when branded Ahab
gives chase to Moby Dick. That hazard shall not be thine. No, no!
not with the far away home I see in that eye!rCY
and
rCLWhat is it, what nameless, inscrutable, unearthly thing is it;
what cozening, hidden lord and master, and cruel, remorseless
emperor commands me; that against all natural lovings and longings,
I so keep pushing, and crowding, and jamming myself on all the time;
recklessly making me ready to do what in my own proper, natural
heart, I durst not so much as dare? Is Ahab, Ahab? Is it I, God, or
who, that lifts this arm? But if the great sun move not of himself;
but is as an errand-boy in heaven; nor one single star can revolve,
but by some invisible power; how then can this one small heart beat;
this one small brain think thoughts; unless God does that beating,
does that thinking, does that living, and not I. By heaven, man, we
are turned round and round in this world, like yonder windlass, and
Fate is the handspike. And all the time, lo! that smiling sky, and
this unsounded sea! Look! see yon Albicore! who put it into him to
chase and fang that flying-fish? Where do murderers go, man! WhorCOs
to doom, when the judge himself is dragged to the bar? But it is a
mild, mild wind, and a mild looking sky; and the air smells now, as
if it blew from a far-away meadow; they have been making hay
somewhere under the slopes of the Andes, Starbuck, and the mowers
are sleeping among the new-mown hay. Sleeping? Aye, toil we how we
may, we all sleep at last on the field. Sleep? Aye, and rust amid
greenness; as last yearrCOs scythes flung down, and left in the
half-cut swaths"Starbuck!rCY
This is in sharp contrast to the far less theatrical voice of the
narrator, Ishmael:
"I stuffed a shirt or two into my old carpet-bag, tucked it under my
arm, and started for Cape Horn and the Pacific. Quitting the good
city of old Manhatto, I duly arrived in New Bedford. It was a
Saturday night in December. Much was I disappointed upon learning
that the little packet for Nantucket had already sailed, and that no
way of reaching that place would offer, till the following Monday.
"As most young candidates for the pains and penalties of whaling
stop at this same New Bedford, thence to embark on their voyage, it
may as well be related that I, for one, had no idea of so doing. For
my mind was made up to sail in no other than a Nantucket craft,
because there was a fine, boisterous something about everything
connected with that famous old island, which amazingly pleased me.
Besides though New Bedford has of late been gradually monopolising
the business of whaling, and though in this matter poor old
Nantucket is now much behind her, yet Nantucket was her great
original"the Tyre of this Carthage;"the place where the first dead
American whale was stranded. Where else but from Nantucket did those
aboriginal whalemen, the Red-Men, first sally out in canoes to give
chase to the Leviathan? And where but from Nantucket, too, did that
first adventurous little sloop put forth, partly laden with imported
cobblestones"so goes the story"to throw at the whales, in order to
discover when they were nigh enough to risk a harpoon from the
bowsprit?"
Your writing, OTOH, bears no resemblance to Poe's whatsoever.
Poe wrote formal, rhymed/metered poetry. You write free verse,
usually in the form of stream of conscious thought fragments (a.k.a.
Fragmentism).
Compare a sample of Poe's verse to a sample of yours:
And now, as the night was senescent
And star-dials pointed to morn"
As the star-dials hinted of morn"
At the end of our path a liquescent
And nebulous lustre was born,
Out of which a miraculous crescent
Arose with a duplicate horn"
Astarte's bediamonded crescent
Distinct with its duplicate horn.
vs
Got the okay to stop by
I step in from another world
Bearing gifts
Smiles to mask
my smashed heart.
Memory and dreams
This may pass
But the final statement
The final f**k off gesture
To me.
This is tantamount to comparing English and Chinese -- they're
different languages which developed independently of one another,
and (apart from being forms of written and verbal communication)
have absolutely nothing in common.
Edgar Allan Poe's influence on my poetry is more tone and subject
matter than form.
The concept of Shadowville, for starters.
When Quacky has nothing substantive to say, he gets vague and gets
even more incoherent.
The Dreckweasel claiming "Shitkickerville" is influenced by Poe?
What a fucking kook!
Yes.
Cujo DeSockpuppet wrote:
will.dockery@gmail-dot-com.no-spam.invalid (Will-Dockery) wrote in news:hc-cnQM0KYWt_nD1nZ2dnZfqn_ednZ2d@giganews.com:
Cujo DeSockpuppet wrote:
will.dockery@gmail-dot-com.no-spam.invalid (Will-Dockery) wrote in
news:pLmdnQGrQu-dy3D1nZ2dnZfqn_WdnZ2d@giganews.com:
HarryLime wrote:
Will-Dockery wrote:
https://uncledougsbunkerofhorror.blogspot.com/2015/09/the-scholastic-
edgar-allan-poe-editions.html?m=1
These are the type of Edgar Allan Poe collections that were all over
Richards Junior High School in 1971.
I wasn't the only kid who read and enjoyed Edgar Allan Poe back
then, but as far as I know, I'm the only person inspired enough to
begin writing, myself.
HTH and HAND.
https://uncledougsbunkerofhorror.blogspot.com/2015/09/the-scholastic-
edgar-allan-poe-editions.html?m=1
***
Inspired to begin writing is not the same as having been influenced
by,
Influenced by means that your writing bears some degree of
resemblance to an author, or literary work, that helped to develop,
or changed, your writing style.
Herman Melville was strongly influenced by Shakespeare's "King
Lear," which he read when in the middle of writing "Moby Dick." The
Shakespeare/"Lear" influence can be readily seen in the monologues
Ahad speaks:
rCLOh, Starbuck! it is a mild, mild wind, and a mild looking sky. On
such a day"very much such a sweetness as this"I struck my first
whale"a boy-harpooneer of eighteen! Forty"forty"forty years
ago!"ago! Forty years of continual whaling! forty years of
privation, and peril, and storm-time! forty years on the pitiless
sea! for forty years has Ahab forsaken the peaceful land, for forty
years to make war on the horrors of the deep! Aye and yes, Starbuck,
out of those forty years I have not spent three ashore. When I think
of this life I have led; the desolation of solitude it has been; the
masoned, walled-town of a CaptainrCOs exclusiveness, which admits
but small entrance to any sympathy from the green country
without"oh, weariness! heaviness! Guinea-coast slavery of solitary
command!"when I think of all this; only half-suspected, not so
keenly known to me before"and how for forty years I have fed upon
dry salted fare"fit emblem of the dry nourishment of my soil!"when
the poorest landsman has had fresh fruit to his daily hand, and
broken the worldrCOs fresh bread to my mouldy crusts"away, whole
oceans away, from that young girl-wife I wedded past fifty, and
sailed for Cape Horn the next day, leaving but one dent in my
marriage pillow"wife? wife?"rather a widow with her husband alive!
Aye, I widowed that poor girl when I married her, Starbuck; and
then, the madness, the frenzy, the boiling blood and the smoking
brow, with which, for a thousand lowerings old Ahab has furiously,
foamingly chased his prey"more a demon than a man!"aye, aye! what a
forty yearsrCO fool"fool"old fool, has old Ahab been! Why this
strife of the chase? why weary, and palsy the arm at the oar, and
the iron, and the lance? how the richer or better is Ahab now?
Behold. Oh, Starbuck! is it not hard, that with this weary load I
bear, one poor leg should have been snatched from under me? Here,
brush this old hair aside; it blinds me, that I seem to weep. Locks
so grey did never grow but from out some ashes! But do I look very
old, so very, very old, Starbuck? I feel deadly faint, bowed, and
humped, as though I were Adam, staggering beneath the piled
centuries since Paradise. God! God! God!"crack my heart!"stave my
brain!"mockery! mockery! bitter, biting mockery of grey hairs, have
I lived enough joy to wear ye; and seem and feel thus intolerably
old? Close! stand close to me, Starbuck; let me look into a human
eye; it is better than to gaze into sea or sky; better than to gaze
upon God. By the green land; by the bright hearth-stone! this is the
magic glass, man; I see my wife and my child in thine eye. No, no;
stay on board, on board!"lower not when I do; when branded Ahab
gives chase to Moby Dick. That hazard shall not be thine. No, no!
not with the far away home I see in that eye!rCY
and
rCLWhat is it, what nameless, inscrutable, unearthly thing is it;
what cozening, hidden lord and master, and cruel, remorseless
emperor commands me; that against all natural lovings and longings,
I so keep pushing, and crowding, and jamming myself on all the time;
recklessly making me ready to do what in my own proper, natural
heart, I durst not so much as dare? Is Ahab, Ahab? Is it I, God, or
who, that lifts this arm? But if the great sun move not of himself;
but is as an errand-boy in heaven; nor one single star can revolve,
but by some invisible power; how then can this one small heart beat;
this one small brain think thoughts; unless God does that beating,
does that thinking, does that living, and not I. By heaven, man, we
are turned round and round in this world, like yonder windlass, and
Fate is the handspike. And all the time, lo! that smiling sky, and
this unsounded sea! Look! see yon Albicore! who put it into him to
chase and fang that flying-fish? Where do murderers go, man! WhorCOs
to doom, when the judge himself is dragged to the bar? But it is a
mild, mild wind, and a mild looking sky; and the air smells now, as
if it blew from a far-away meadow; they have been making hay
somewhere under the slopes of the Andes, Starbuck, and the mowers
are sleeping among the new-mown hay. Sleeping? Aye, toil we how we
may, we all sleep at last on the field. Sleep? Aye, and rust amid
greenness; as last yearrCOs scythes flung down, and left in the
half-cut swaths"Starbuck!rCY
This is in sharp contrast to the far less theatrical voice of the
narrator, Ishmael:
"I stuffed a shirt or two into my old carpet-bag, tucked it under my
arm, and started for Cape Horn and the Pacific. Quitting the good
city of old Manhatto, I duly arrived in New Bedford. It was a
Saturday night in December. Much was I disappointed upon learning
that the little packet for Nantucket had already sailed, and that no
way of reaching that place would offer, till the following Monday.
"As most young candidates for the pains and penalties of whaling
stop at this same New Bedford, thence to embark on their voyage, it
may as well be related that I, for one, had no idea of so doing. For
my mind was made up to sail in no other than a Nantucket craft,
because there was a fine, boisterous something about everything
connected with that famous old island, which amazingly pleased me.
Besides though New Bedford has of late been gradually monopolising
the business of whaling, and though in this matter poor old
Nantucket is now much behind her, yet Nantucket was her great
original"the Tyre of this Carthage;"the place where the first dead
American whale was stranded. Where else but from Nantucket did those
aboriginal whalemen, the Red-Men, first sally out in canoes to give
chase to the Leviathan? And where but from Nantucket, too, did that
first adventurous little sloop put forth, partly laden with imported
cobblestones"so goes the story"to throw at the whales, in order to
discover when they were nigh enough to risk a harpoon from the
bowsprit?"
Your writing, OTOH, bears no resemblance to Poe's whatsoever.
Poe wrote formal, rhymed/metered poetry. You write free verse,
usually in the form of stream of conscious thought fragments (a.k.a.
Fragmentism).
Compare a sample of Poe's verse to a sample of yours:
And now, as the night was senescent
And star-dials pointed to morn"
As the star-dials hinted of morn"
At the end of our path a liquescent
And nebulous lustre was born,
Out of which a miraculous crescent
Arose with a duplicate horn"
Astarte's bediamonded crescent
Distinct with its duplicate horn.
vs
Got the okay to stop by
I step in from another world
Bearing gifts
Smiles to mask
my smashed heart.
Memory and dreams
This may pass
But the final statement
The final f**k off gesture
To me.
This is tantamount to comparing English and Chinese -- they're
different languages which developed independently of one another,
and (apart from being forms of written and verbal communication)
have absolutely nothing in common.
Edgar Allan Poe's influence on my poetry is more tone and subject
matter than form.
The concept of Shadowville, for starters.
When Quacky has nothing substantive to say, he gets vague and gets
even more incoherent.
The Dreckweasel claiming "Shitkickerville" is influenced by Poe?
What a f***ing kook!
Yes.
Glad you agree, kook!
--
"Post-editing someone's statement before replying to it is a sure sign
that you have already lost the argument." - Little Willie Douchebag gets another asskicking from Pendragon.
Cujo DeSockpuppet wrote:
will.dockery@gmail-dot-com.no-spam.invalid (Will-Dockery) wrote in
news:hc-cnQM0KYWt_nD1nZ2dnZfqn_ednZ2d@giganews.com:
Cujo DeSockpuppet wrote:
will.dockery@gmail-dot-com.no-spam.invalid (Will-Dockery) wrote in
news:pLmdnQGrQu-dy3D1nZ2dnZfqn_WdnZ2d@giganews.com:
HarryLime wrote:
Will-Dockery wrote:
https://uncledougsbunkerofhorror.blogspot.com/2015/09/the-scholastic-
edgar-allan-poe-editions.html?m=1
These are the type of Edgar Allan Poe collections that were all over
Richards Junior High School in 1971.
I wasn't the only kid who read and enjoyed Edgar Allan Poe back
then, but as far as I know, I'm the only person inspired enough to
begin writing, myself.
HTH and HAND.
https://uncledougsbunkerofhorror.blogspot.com/2015/09/the-scholastic-
edgar-allan-poe-editions.html?m=1
***
Inspired to begin writing is not the same as having been influenced
by,
Influenced by means that your writing bears some degree of
resemblance to an author, or literary work, that helped to develop,
or changed, your writing style.
Herman Melville was strongly influenced by Shakespeare's "King
Lear," which he read when in the middle of writing "Moby Dick." The
Shakespeare/"Lear" influence can be readily seen in the monologues
Ahad speaks:
rCLOh, Starbuck! it is a mild, mild wind, and a mild looking sky. On
such a day"very much such a sweetness as this"I struck my first
whale"a boy-harpooneer of eighteen! Forty"forty"forty years
ago!"ago! Forty years of continual whaling! forty years of
privation, and peril, and storm-time! forty years on the pitiless
sea! for forty years has Ahab forsaken the peaceful land, for forty
years to make war on the horrors of the deep! Aye and yes, Starbuck,
out of those forty years I have not spent three ashore. When I think
of this life I have led; the desolation of solitude it has been; the
masoned, walled-town of a CaptainrCOs exclusiveness, which admits
but small entrance to any sympathy from the green country
without"oh, weariness! heaviness! Guinea-coast slavery of solitary
command!"when I think of all this; only half-suspected, not so
keenly known to me before"and how for forty years I have fed upon
dry salted fare"fit emblem of the dry nourishment of my soil!"when
the poorest landsman has had fresh fruit to his daily hand, and
broken the worldrCOs fresh bread to my mouldy crusts"away, whole
oceans away, from that young girl-wife I wedded past fifty, and
sailed for Cape Horn the next day, leaving but one dent in my
marriage pillow"wife? wife?"rather a widow with her husband alive!
Aye, I widowed that poor girl when I married her, Starbuck; and
then, the madness, the frenzy, the boiling blood and the smoking
brow, with which, for a thousand lowerings old Ahab has furiously,
foamingly chased his prey"more a demon than a man!"aye, aye! what a
forty yearsrCO fool"fool"old fool, has old Ahab been! Why this
strife of the chase? why weary, and palsy the arm at the oar, and
the iron, and the lance? how the richer or better is Ahab now?
Behold. Oh, Starbuck! is it not hard, that with this weary load I
bear, one poor leg should have been snatched from under me? Here,
brush this old hair aside; it blinds me, that I seem to weep. Locks
so grey did never grow but from out some ashes! But do I look very
old, so very, very old, Starbuck? I feel deadly faint, bowed, and
humped, as though I were Adam, staggering beneath the piled
centuries since Paradise. God! God! God!"crack my heart!"stave my
brain!"mockery! mockery! bitter, biting mockery of grey hairs, have
I lived enough joy to wear ye; and seem and feel thus intolerably
old? Close! stand close to me, Starbuck; let me look into a human
eye; it is better than to gaze into sea or sky; better than to gaze
upon God. By the green land; by the bright hearth-stone! this is the
magic glass, man; I see my wife and my child in thine eye. No, no;
stay on board, on board!"lower not when I do; when branded Ahab
gives chase to Moby Dick. That hazard shall not be thine. No, no!
not with the far away home I see in that eye!rCY
and
rCLWhat is it, what nameless, inscrutable, unearthly thing is it;
what cozening, hidden lord and master, and cruel, remorseless
emperor commands me; that against all natural lovings and longings,
I so keep pushing, and crowding, and jamming myself on all the time;
recklessly making me ready to do what in my own proper, natural
heart, I durst not so much as dare? Is Ahab, Ahab? Is it I, God, or
who, that lifts this arm? But if the great sun move not of himself;
but is as an errand-boy in heaven; nor one single star can revolve,
but by some invisible power; how then can this one small heart beat;
this one small brain think thoughts; unless God does that beating,
does that thinking, does that living, and not I. By heaven, man, we
are turned round and round in this world, like yonder windlass, and
Fate is the handspike. And all the time, lo! that smiling sky, and
this unsounded sea! Look! see yon Albicore! who put it into him to
chase and fang that flying-fish? Where do murderers go, man! WhorCOs
to doom, when the judge himself is dragged to the bar? But it is a
mild, mild wind, and a mild looking sky; and the air smells now, as
if it blew from a far-away meadow; they have been making hay
somewhere under the slopes of the Andes, Starbuck, and the mowers
are sleeping among the new-mown hay. Sleeping? Aye, toil we how we
may, we all sleep at last on the field. Sleep? Aye, and rust amid
greenness; as last yearrCOs scythes flung down, and left in the
half-cut swaths"Starbuck!rCY
This is in sharp contrast to the far less theatrical voice of the
narrator, Ishmael:
"I stuffed a shirt or two into my old carpet-bag, tucked it under my
arm, and started for Cape Horn and the Pacific. Quitting the good
city of old Manhatto, I duly arrived in New Bedford. It was a
Saturday night in December. Much was I disappointed upon learning
that the little packet for Nantucket had already sailed, and that no
way of reaching that place would offer, till the following Monday.
"As most young candidates for the pains and penalties of whaling
stop at this same New Bedford, thence to embark on their voyage, it
may as well be related that I, for one, had no idea of so doing. For
my mind was made up to sail in no other than a Nantucket craft,
because there was a fine, boisterous something about everything
connected with that famous old island, which amazingly pleased me.
Besides though New Bedford has of late been gradually monopolising
the business of whaling, and though in this matter poor old
Nantucket is now much behind her, yet Nantucket was her great
original"the Tyre of this Carthage;"the place where the first dead
American whale was stranded. Where else but from Nantucket did those
aboriginal whalemen, the Red-Men, first sally out in canoes to give
chase to the Leviathan? And where but from Nantucket, too, did that
first adventurous little sloop put forth, partly laden with imported
cobblestones"so goes the story"to throw at the whales, in order to
discover when they were nigh enough to risk a harpoon from the
bowsprit?"
Your writing, OTOH, bears no resemblance to Poe's whatsoever.
Poe wrote formal, rhymed/metered poetry. You write free verse,
usually in the form of stream of conscious thought fragments (a.k.a.
Fragmentism).
Compare a sample of Poe's verse to a sample of yours:
And now, as the night was senescent
And star-dials pointed to morn"
As the star-dials hinted of morn"
At the end of our path a liquescent
And nebulous lustre was born,
Out of which a miraculous crescent
Arose with a duplicate horn"
Astarte's bediamonded crescent
Distinct with its duplicate horn.
vs
Got the okay to stop by
I step in from another world
Bearing gifts
Smiles to mask
my smashed heart.
Memory and dreams
This may pass
But the final statement
The final f**k off gesture
To me.
This is tantamount to comparing English and Chinese -- they're
different languages which developed independently of one another,
and (apart from being forms of written and verbal communication)
have absolutely nothing in common.
Edgar Allan Poe's influence on my poetry is more tone and subject
matter than form.
The concept of Shadowville, for starters.
When Quacky has nothing substantive to say, he gets vague and gets
even more incoherent.
The Dreckweasel claiming "Shitkickerville" is influenced by Poe?
What a f***ing kook!
Yes.
Glad you agree, kook!
Maybe it would be better if Will Donkey were influenced by the Old
Spice man.
Cujo DeSockpuppet wrote:
nancygene.andjayme@gmail-dot-com.no-spam.invalid (NancyGene) wrote in news:qOCcnQWU3592OXD1nZ2dnZfqn_qdnZ2d@giganews.com:
Cujo DeSockpuppet wrote:
will.dockery@gmail-dot-com.no-spam.invalid (Will-Dockery) wrote in
news:hc-cnQM0KYWt_nD1nZ2dnZfqn_ednZ2d@giganews.com:
Cujo DeSockpuppet wrote:
will.dockery@gmail-dot-com.no-spam.invalid (Will-Dockery) wrote in
news:pLmdnQGrQu-dy3D1nZ2dnZfqn_WdnZ2d@giganews.com:
HarryLime wrote:
Will-Dockery wrote:
https://uncledougsbunkerofhorror.blogspot.com/2015/09/the-scholastic-
edgar-allan-poe-editions.html?m=1
These are the type of Edgar Allan Poe collections that were all over
Richards Junior High School in 1971.
I wasn't the only kid who read and enjoyed Edgar Allan Poe back
then, but as far as I know, I'm the only person inspired enough to
begin writing, myself.
HTH and HAND.
https://uncledougsbunkerofhorror.blogspot.com/2015/09/the-scholastic-
edgar-allan-poe-editions.html?m=1
***
Inspired to begin writing is not the same as having been influenced
by,
Influenced by means that your writing bears some degree of
resemblance to an author, or literary work, that helped to develop,
or changed, your writing style.
Herman Melville was strongly influenced by Shakespeare's "King
Lear," which he read when in the middle of writing "Moby Dick." The
Shakespeare/"Lear" influence can be readily seen in the monologues
Ahad speaks:
rCLOh, Starbuck! it is a mild, mild wind, and a mild looking sky. On
such a day"very much such a sweetness as this"I struck my first
whale"a boy-harpooneer of eighteen! Forty"forty"forty years
ago!"ago! Forty years of continual whaling! forty years of
privation, and peril, and storm-time! forty years on the pitiless
sea! for forty years has Ahab forsaken the peaceful land, for forty
years to make war on the horrors of the deep! Aye and yes, Starbuck,
out of those forty years I have not spent three ashore. When I think
of this life I have led; the desolation of solitude it has been; the
masoned, walled-town of a CaptainrCOs exclusiveness, which admits
but small entrance to any sympathy from the green country
without"oh, weariness! heaviness! Guinea-coast slavery of solitary
command!"when I think of all this; only half-suspected, not so
keenly known to me before"and how for forty years I have fed upon
dry salted fare"fit emblem of the dry nourishment of my soil!"when
the poorest landsman has had fresh fruit to his daily hand, and
broken the worldrCOs fresh bread to my mouldy crusts"away, whole
oceans away, from that young girl-wife I wedded past fifty, and
sailed for Cape Horn the next day, leaving but one dent in my
marriage pillow"wife? wife?"rather a widow with her husband alive!
Aye, I widowed that poor girl when I married her, Starbuck; and
then, the madness, the frenzy, the boiling blood and the smoking
brow, with which, for a thousand lowerings old Ahab has furiously,
foamingly chased his prey"more a demon than a man!"aye, aye! what a
forty yearsrCO fool"fool"old fool, has old Ahab been! Why this
strife of the chase? why weary, and palsy the arm at the oar, and
the iron, and the lance? how the richer or better is Ahab now?
Behold. Oh, Starbuck! is it not hard, that with this weary load I
bear, one poor leg should have been snatched from under me? Here,
brush this old hair aside; it blinds me, that I seem to weep. Locks
so grey did never grow but from out some ashes! But do I look very
old, so very, very old, Starbuck? I feel deadly faint, bowed, and
humped, as though I were Adam, staggering beneath the piled
centuries since Paradise. God! God! God!"crack my heart!"stave my
brain!"mockery! mockery! bitter, biting mockery of grey hairs, have
I lived enough joy to wear ye; and seem and feel thus intolerably
old? Close! stand close to me, Starbuck; let me look into a human
eye; it is better than to gaze into sea or sky; better than to gaze
upon God. By the green land; by the bright hearth-stone! this is the
magic glass, man; I see my wife and my child in thine eye. No, no;
stay on board, on board!"lower not when I do; when branded Ahab
gives chase to Moby Dick. That hazard shall not be thine. No, no!
not with the far away home I see in that eye!rCY
and
rCLWhat is it, what nameless, inscrutable, unearthly thing is it;
what cozening, hidden lord and master, and cruel, remorseless
emperor commands me; that against all natural lovings and longings,
I so keep pushing, and crowding, and jamming myself on all the time;
recklessly making me ready to do what in my own proper, natural
heart, I durst not so much as dare? Is Ahab, Ahab? Is it I, God, or
who, that lifts this arm? But if the great sun move not of himself;
but is as an errand-boy in heaven; nor one single star can revolve,
but by some invisible power; how then can this one small heart beat;
this one small brain think thoughts; unless God does that beating,
does that thinking, does that living, and not I. By heaven, man, we
are turned round and round in this world, like yonder windlass, and
Fate is the handspike. And all the time, lo! that smiling sky, and
this unsounded sea! Look! see yon Albicore! who put it into him to
chase and fang that flying-fish? Where do murderers go, man! WhorCOs
to doom, when the judge himself is dragged to the bar? But it is a
mild, mild wind, and a mild looking sky; and the air smells now, as
if it blew from a far-away meadow; they have been making hay
somewhere under the slopes of the Andes, Starbuck, and the mowers
are sleeping among the new-mown hay. Sleeping? Aye, toil we how we
may, we all sleep at last on the field. Sleep? Aye, and rust amid
greenness; as last yearrCOs scythes flung down, and left in the
half-cut swaths"Starbuck!rCY
This is in sharp contrast to the far less theatrical voice of the
narrator, Ishmael:
"I stuffed a shirt or two into my old carpet-bag, tucked it under my
arm, and started for Cape Horn and the Pacific. Quitting the good
city of old Manhatto, I duly arrived in New Bedford. It was a
Saturday night in December. Much was I disappointed upon learning
that the little packet for Nantucket had already sailed, and that no
way of reaching that place would offer, till the following Monday.
"As most young candidates for the pains and penalties of whaling
stop at this same New Bedford, thence to embark on their voyage, it
may as well be related that I, for one, had no idea of so doing. For
my mind was made up to sail in no other than a Nantucket craft,
because there was a fine, boisterous something about everything
connected with that famous old island, which amazingly pleased me.
Besides though New Bedford has of late been gradually monopolising
the business of whaling, and though in this matter poor old
Nantucket is now much behind her, yet Nantucket was her great
original"the Tyre of this Carthage;"the place where the first dead
American whale was stranded. Where else but from Nantucket did those
aboriginal whalemen, the Red-Men, first sally out in canoes to give
chase to the Leviathan? And where but from Nantucket, too, did that
first adventurous little sloop put forth, partly laden with imported
cobblestones"so goes the story"to throw at the whales, in order to
discover when they were nigh enough to risk a harpoon from the
bowsprit?"
Your writing, OTOH, bears no resemblance to Poe's whatsoever.
Poe wrote formal, rhymed/metered poetry. You write free verse,
usually in the form of stream of conscious thought fragments (a.k.a.
Fragmentism).
Compare a sample of Poe's verse to a sample of yours:
And now, as the night was senescent
And star-dials pointed to morn"
As the star-dials hinted of morn"
At the end of our path a liquescent
And nebulous lustre was born,
Out of which a miraculous crescent
Arose with a duplicate horn"
Astarte's bediamonded crescent
Distinct with its duplicate horn.
vs
Got the okay to stop by
I step in from another world
Bearing gifts
Smiles to mask
my smashed heart.
Memory and dreams
This may pass
But the final statement
The final f**k off gesture
To me.
This is tantamount to comparing English and Chinese -- they're
different languages which developed independently of one another,
and (apart from being forms of written and verbal communication)
have absolutely nothing in common.
Edgar Allan Poe's influence on my poetry is more tone and subject
matter than form.
The concept of Shadowville, for starters.
When Quacky has nothing substantive to say, he gets vague and gets
even more incoherent.
The Dreckweasel claiming "Shitkickerville" is influenced by Poe?
What a f***ing kook!
Yes.
Glad you agree, kook!
Maybe it would be better if Will Donkey were influenced by the Old
Spice man.
Maybe Mr. Bubble might be a better introduction to the subject.
https://www.target.com/p/mr-bubble-calm-and-sleep-baby-bubble-bath-36-fl-
oz
Best of all, it introduces his fat ass to a bathtub.
--
"Post-editing someone's statement before replying to it is a sure sign
that you have already lost the argument." - Little Willie Douchebag gets another asskicking from Pendragon.