Blog

The Philosophy of Composition
By Edgar Allan Poe

For my own part, I have neither sympathy with the repugnance alluded to, nor, at any time, the least difficulty in recalling to mind the progressive steps of any of my compositions; and, since the interest of an analysis, or reconstruction, such as I have considered a desideratum, is quite independent of any real or fancied interest in the thing analyzed, it will not be regarded as a breach of decorum on my part to show the modus operandi by which some one of my own works was put together. I select "The Raven,� as most generally known. It is my design to render it manifest that no one point in its composition is referrible either to accident or intuition--that the work proceeded, step by step, to its completion with the precision and rigid consequence of a mathematical problem.

Some of the guys still think that girls give you the cooties, but I don't believe it! I think girls are nice, and I talk to them and sit with them on the bus, and at school. Because of this, I am an expert on women, and I don't mind telling you the way I get girls.

Let us dismiss, as irrelevant to the poem per se, the circumstance--or say the necessity--which, in the first place, gave rise to the intention of composing a poem that should suit at once the popular and the critical taste.

Starting right out, forget about feelings. Feelings don't mean nothing when it comes to picking a girl. Most guys just want a girl who everybody else wanted, but you got her, and you know she will make you look important because she's so pretty.

We commence, then, with this intention.

So let's just start right there, without all the stupid romantic stuff.

The initial consideration was that of extent. If any literary work is too long to be read at one sitting, we must be content to dispense with the immensely important effect derivable from unity of impression--for, if two sittings be required, the affairs of the world interfere, and every thing like totality is at once destroyed. But since, ceteris paribus, no poet can afford to dispense with any thing that may advance his design, it but remains to be seen whether there is, in extent, any advantage to counterbalance the loss of unity which attends it. Here I say no, at once. What we term a long poem is, in fact, merely a succession of brief ones--that is to say, of brief poetical effects. It is needless to demonstrate that a poem is such, only inasmuch as it intensely excites, by elevating, the soul; and all intense excitements are, through a psychal necessity, brief. For this reason, at least one half of the "Paradise Lost� is essentially prose--a succession of poetical excitements interspersed, inevitably, with corresponding depressions--the whole being deprived, through the extremeness of its length, of the vastly important artistic element, totality, or unity, of effect.

The first thing to think about is size. You don't want a girl that's too fat, or too skinny. That's even true for boobs. Some guys want really BIG boobs, but those can be un-practical. I like them just in the middle (but not really in the middle--that's a joke). Also, she shouldn't be too tall--most guys like a girl to come up to about your chin. Don't worry, by the time you get to high school, it will mostly turn out like that! But if she's too short, you could get a crick in your neck from always bending your head down to talk to her, so you don't want that, either.

It appears evident, then, that there is a distinct limit, as regards length, to all works of literary art--the limit of a single sitting--and that, although in certain classes of prose composition, such as "Robinson Crusoe,� (demanding no unity,) this limit may be advantageously overpassed, it can never properly be overpassed in a poem. Within this limit, the extent of a poem may be made to bear mathematical relation to its merit--in other words, to the excitement or elevation--again in other words, to the degree of the true poetical effect which it is capable of inducing; for it is clear that the brevity must be in direct ratio of the intensity of the intended effect:--this, with one proviso--that a certain degree of duration is absolutely requisite for the production of any effect at all.

It just looks like Nature has made it so girls ought to be a little shorter than guys, so you can talk down to them. Not a whole lot, but a little bit. It's not natural to be looking up to them. So you want a short girl, but not too short.

Holding in view these considerations, as well as that degree of excitement which I deemed not above the popular, while not below the critical, taste, I reached at once what I conceived the proper length for my intended poem--a length of about one hundred lines. It is, in fact, a hundred and eight.

With this rule, I made a mathematical formula. I figured out that when I'm growd up, I will be six feet tall, and I will need a wife who is five feet four inches. Do you believe it? I asked Miss Ingalls how tall she is, and she's five feet four inches!

My next thought concerned the choice of an impression, or effect, to be conveyed: and here I may as well observe that, throughout the construction, I kept steadily in view the design of rendering the work universally appreciable. I should be carried too far out of my immediate topic were I to demonstrate a point upon which I have repeatedly insisted, and which, with the poetical, stands not in the slightest need of demonstration--the point, I mean, that Beauty is the sole legitimate province of the poem. A few words, however, in elucidation of my real meaning, which some of my friends have evinced a disposition to misrepresent. That pleasure which is at once the most intense, the most elevating, and the most pure, is, I believe, found in the contemplation of the beautiful. When, indeed, men speak of Beauty, they mean, precisely, not a quality, as is supposed, but an effect--they refer, in short, just to that intense and pure elevation of soul--not of intellect, or of heart--upon which I have commented, and which is experienced in consequence of contemplating "the beautiful.� Now I designate Beauty as the province of the poem, merely because it is an obvious rule of Art that effects should be made to spring from direct causes--that objects should be attained through means best adapted for their attainment--no one as yet having been weak enough to deny that the peculiar elevation alluded to, is most readily attained in the poem. Now the object, Truth, or the satisfaction of the intellect, and the object Passion, or the excitement of the heart, are, although attainable, to a certain extent, in poetry, far more readily attainable in prose. Truth, in fact, demands a precision, and Passion, a homeliness (the truly passionate will comprehend me) which are absolutely antagonistic to that Beauty which, I maintain, is the excitement, or pleasurable elevation, of the soul. It by no means follows from any thing here said, that passion, or even truth, may not be introduced, and even profitably introduced, into a poem--for they may serve in elucidation, or aid the general effect, as do discords in music, by contrast--but the true artist will always contrive, first, to tone them into proper subservience to the predominant aim, and, secondly, to enveil them, as far as possible, in that Beauty which is the atmosphere and the essence of the poem.

When you pick out a girl, the first thing to think about is what everybody else will think when they see you out in the public. You want them to say, "Boy, she's a real looker--he must be pretty sharp to have gotten her!" The only really important thing, to start right off, is how pretty she is, and especially how pretty everybody else thinks she is. But when you're sitting at the lunch counter at the diner, with your sandwich and your fries and checking your e-mail, you want to be able to look over and see a really pretty face next to you, checking her e-mail! Now, you do want her to be able to talk good, too. Even if she's pretty, it doesn't get you hot if something stupid comes out of her mouth! So you want pretty, and you want smart enough that she doesn't say stupid things. You don't need a girl who sings songs or recites poetry. What gets you hot isn't poetry, it's just plain talking--but not stupid talking. Talking about the weather is okay--anything that guys and girls both like. Don't expect her to talk about cars and engines and football! But you don't want her talking about makeup and chick flicks and other girl stuff, neither. Just so's she can talk about normal things and doesn't sound stupid. All this is easy to remember--you can boil it down to the fact that a real man wants his girl to be real pretty, and at least smart enough not to sound dumb.

Regarding, then, Beauty as my province, my next question referred to the tone of its highest manifestation--and all experience has shown that this tone is one of sadness. Beauty of whatever kind, in its supreme development, invariably excites the sensitive soul to tears. Melancholy is thus the most legitimate of all the poetical tones.

So a guy has to pick a pretty girl, but there's lots of kinds of pretty. Which kind is the best kind? Some guys want a girl who's cheerful and bubbly all the time! But listen to me, it will make you crazy real quick. A sad girl isn't gabbing away at you all the time. Besides, every guy knows that a girl is prettiest when she's crying.

The length, the province, and the tone, being thus determined, I betook myself to ordinary induction, with the view of obtaining some artistic piquancy which might serve me as a key-note in the construction of the poem--some pivot upon which the whole structure might turn. In carefully thinking over all the usual artistic effects--or more properly points, in the theatrical sense--I did not fail to perceive immediately that no one had been so universally employed as that of the refrain. The universality of its employment sufficed to assure me of its intrinsic value, and spared me the necessity of submitting it to analysis. I considered it, however, with regard to its susceptibility of improvement, and soon saw it to be in a primitive condition. As commonly used, the refrain, or burden, not only is limited to lyric verse, but depends for its impression upon the force of monotone--both in sound and thought. The pleasure is deduced solely from the sense of identity--of repetition. I resolved to diversify, and so vastly heighten, the effect, by adhering, in general, to the monotone of sound, while I continually varied that of thought: that is to say, I determined to produce continuously novel effects, by the variation of the application of the refrain--the refrain itself remaining, for the most part, unvaried.

So now we've got the basics of what to look for, but what about the practical part? How do you actually find her, and then catch her? The answer is you gotta have a good line. The guy who has the best line gets the girl, because you gotta get a conversation going, to start with. It has to be something you can memorize and use over and over, that will sound good even if you use it a hundred times! It has to be something that makes her say, "Wow, this guy is going to be interesting to talk to, I want to know more!"

These points being settled, I next bethought me of the nature of my refrain. Since its application was to be repeatedly varied, it was clear that the refrain itself must be brief, for there would have been an insurmountable difficulty in frequent variations of application in any sentence of length. In proportion to the brevity of the sentence, would, of course, be the facility of the variation. This led me at once to a single word as the best refrain.

But you don't want something that goes on and on. The shorter your line is, the better! If you can figure out a line that's only one word, or a couple of words, that's the best kind.

The question now arose as to the character of the word. Having made up my mind to a refrain, the division of the poem into stanzas was, of course, a corollary: the refrain forming the close to each stanza. That such a close, to have force, must be sonorous and susceptible of protracted emphasis, admitted no doubt: and these considerations inevitably led me to the long o as the most sonorous vowel, in connection with r as the most producible consonant.

Now you want to think about how the line sounds. It should sound sweet and interesting, but also kind of dangerous, because girls like that. They don't like nice guys--they like bad boys who sound sweet. So it should have some sweet sounds in it, but also some rough sounds.

The sound of the refrain being thus determined, it became necessary to select a word embodying this sound, and at the same time in the fullest possible keeping with that melancholy which I had predetermined as the tone of the poem. In such a search it would have been absolutely impossible to overlook the word "Nevermore.� In fact, it was the very first which presented itself.

So you want it short, and you want it to sound both sweet and rough, or rude, at the same time. I like the classic line, "Hey baby!" You can't lose with "Hey baby!" It's worked for a thousand guys.

The next desideratum was a pretext for the continuous use of the one word "nevermore.� In observing the difficulty which I at once found in inventing a sufficiently plausible reason for its continuous repetition, I did not fail to perceive that this difficulty arose solely from the pre-assumption that the word was to be so continuously or monotonously spoken by a human being--I did not fail to perceive, in short, that the difficulty lay in the reconciliation of this monotony with the exercise of reason on the part of the creature repeating the word. Here, then, immediately arose the idea of a non -reasoning creature capable of speech; and, very naturally, a parrot, in the first instance, suggested itself, but was superseded forthwith by a Raven, as equally capable of speech, and infinitely more in keeping with the intended tone.

But if you're going to use the same line all the other guys use, you have to figure out a delivery that's different from all the other guys. It has to be believable, and it has to be interesting, and it has to be weird, and it has to be funny. I'm pretty good at gymnastics, so I figured out that if I do a headstand and yell out, "Hey baby!" it works every time! I can use it as many times as I want, and they always like it. At first I thought about doing a cartwheel, but it's tricky talking at the same time you're turning, and you might run into something, so a headstand is better.

I had now gone so far as the conception of a Raven--the bird of ill omen--monotonously repeating the one word, "Nevermore,� at the conclusion of each stanza, in a poem of melancholy tone, and in length about one hundred lines. Now, never losing sight of the object supremeness, or perfection, at all points, I asked myself--"Of all melancholy topics, what, according to the universal understanding of mankind, is the most melancholy?� Death--was the obvious reply. "And when,� I said, "is this most melancholy of topics most poetical?� From what I have already explained at some length, the answer, here also, is obvious--"When it most closely allies itself to Beauty: the death, then, of a beautiful woman is, unquestionably, the most poetical topic in the world--and equally is it beyond doubt that the lips best suited for such topic are those of a bereaved lover."

Now when you've figured out your line, and how you're going to deliver your line, you have to know what you're going to start talking about with her. You can't just give your line and sit there, dumb-like! So you have to have some topics ready. Remember this is a girl, and girls' minds work different. It's not like a guy, where you can just up and say, "How about them Patriots!" and already you're buddies just like that. I'll tell you the secret--though I don't really want to give it up--you talk about her! You ask her a question about herself. Almost anything will do. Does she like Miss Ingall's class? Does she think the new vanilla icing on the cakes at lunch is as good as the chocolate? What's her favorite kind of weather? Compliments are good too, but unless you're experienced and can pull it off, I'd say go easy on that. But whatever you do, don't ask about anybody or any pets that died in her family! That will kill it.

I had now to combine the two ideas, of a lover lamenting his deceased mistress and a Raven continuously repeating the word "Nevermore�--I had to combine these, bearing in mind my design of varying, at every turn, the application of the word repeated; but the only intelligible mode of such combination is that of imagining the Raven employing the word in answer to the queries of the lover. And here it was that I saw at once the opportunity afforded for the effect on which I had been depending--that is to say, the effect of the variation of application. I saw that I could make the first query propounded by the lover--the first query to which the Raven should reply "Nevermore�--that I could make this first query a commonplace one--the second less so--the third still less, and so on--until at length the lover, startled from his original nonchalance by the melancholy character of the word itself--by its frequent repetition--and by a consideration of the ominous reputation of the fowl that uttered it--is at length excited to superstition, and wildly propounds queries of a far different character--queries whose solution he has passionately at heart--propounds them half in superstition and half in that species of despair which delights in self-torture--propounds them not altogether because he believes in the prophetic or demoniac character of the bird (which, reason assures him, is merely repeating a lesson learned by rote) but because he experiences a phrenzied pleasure in so modeling his questions as to receive from the expected "Nevermore� the most delicious because the most intolerable of sorrow. Perceiving the opportunity thus afforded me--or, more strictly, thus forced upon me in the progress of the construction--I first established in mind the climax, or concluding query--that to which "Nevermore" should be in the last place an answer--that in reply to which this word "Nevermore" should involve the utmost conceivable amount of sorrow and despair.

Now here's where it gets tricky. You've delivered your line, you're both talking, and you've got her talking about herself. A girl could go on talking about herself all day, but that's not what you want, 'cause you're not really interested in all that. What you want is to ask her out, so you have to move the conversation around to music, or movies, or food. And then to the places where those things happen, like concerts, and theaters, and restaurants. But you have to be patient, 'cause if you're too obvious, she'll bolt like a scared rabbit! It just has to sound natural-like. It should take about ten minutes. Here, I'll give you an example:

Here then the poem may be said to have its beginning--at the end, where all works of art should begin--for it was here, at this point of my preconsiderations, that I first put pen to paper in the composition of the stanza:

"Prophet,� said I, "thing of evil! prophet still if bird or devil!
By that heaven that bends above us--by that God we both adore,
Tell this soul with sorrow laden, if within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore--
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.�
Quoth the raven--"Nevermore.�

(Headstand) "Hey, baby!"
Nancy, giggling: "That's funny! How did you learn to do that?"
(Walking over to her, with confidence) "I picked it up in gym, and figured it out real quick. What do you like to do best in gym?"
"I like volleyball. I'm the captain of my team in volleyball."
"Wow, that's great! I saw you in a game the other day, you looked really good. I saw you spike the ball."
(Nancy blushes.)
"I saw you in cafeteria yesterday, too. What do you think about the new vanilla icing on the cake, instead of the chocolate icing they used to have?"
"I hate it! I really like chocolate!"
"Me, too. Have you ever been to Pierre's Chocolate Shop?"

I composed this stanza, at this point, first that, by establishing the climax, I might the better vary and graduate, as regards seriousness and importance, the preceding queries of the lover--and, secondly, that I might definitely settle the rhythm, the metre, and the length and general arrangement of the stanza--as well as graduate the stanzas which were to precede, so that none of them might surpass this in rhythmical effect. Had I been able, in the subsequent composition, to construct more vigorous stanzas, I should, without scruple, have purposely enfeebled them, so as not to interfere with the climacteric effect.

You see, you have to keep in mind what you want the end to be, and then you work up to it. It's not just talking. You have to be thinking all the time about how are you going to get her to go out with you.

And here I may as well say a few words of the versification. My first object (as usual) was originality. The extent to which this has been neglected, in versification, is one of the most unaccountable things in the world. Admitting that there is little possibility of variety in mere rhythm, it is still clear that the possible varieties of metre and stanza are absolutely infinite--and yet, for centuries, no man, in verse, has ever done, or ever seemed to think of doing, an original thing. The fact is, originality (unless in minds of very unusual force) is by no means a matter, as some suppose, of impulse or intuition. In general, to be found, it must be elaborately sought, and although a positive merit of the highest class, demands in its attainment less of invention than negation.

I might as well talk about how to talk. You don't want to use too many big words, because she'll catch on that you're trying to impress her. But you don't want to sound stupid. You don't want to sound too eager, but you also don't want to sound like you're trying to be too cool. Just talk normal, even though it's not really normal talk with a guy. But don't make the mistake of talking to her like a guy. If you have a sister, you can imagine you're talking with your sister, except it's not a girl you hate like your sister. The most important thing is to think up something different. It has to be something original--that will impress her. That doesn't mean being down on stuff--you can be original without always being down on everything.

Of course, I pretend to no originality in either the rhythm or metre of the "Raven.� The former is trochaic--the latter is octametre acatalectic, alternating with heptameter catalectic repeated in the refrain of the fifth verse, and terminating with tetrameter catalectic. Less pedantically--the feet employed throughout (trochees) consist of a long syllable followed by a short: the first line of the stanza consists of eight of these feet--the second of seven and a half (in effect two-thirds)--the third of eight--the fourth of seven and a half--the fifth the same--the sixth three and a half. Now, each of these lines, taken individually, has been employed before, and what originality the "Raven� has, is in their combination into stanza; nothing even remotely approaching this combination has ever been attempted. The effect of this originality of combination is aided by other unusual, and some altogether novel effects, arising from an extension of the application of the principles of rhyme and alliteration.

Of course, nothing I'm saying is really original. I've just copied it from the smoothest operators I know, and some of it from movies and stuff. It's the way you put it together that's the original part. You take one line from one movie, and another line from your big brother, and another line from a TV show. Like that. It is original, the way you mix it up, and if you do it just right, trust me, it will work!

The next point to be considered was the mode of bringing together the lover and the Raven--and the first branch of this consideration was the locale. For this the most natural suggestion might seem to be a forest, or the fields--but it has always appeared to me that a close circumscription of space is absolutely necessary to the effect of insulated incident:--it has the force of a frame to a picture. It has an indisputable moral power in keeping concentrated the attention, and, of course, must not be confounded with mere unity of place.

I determined, then, to place the lover in his chamber--in a chamber rendered sacred to him by memories of her who had frequented it. The room is represented as richly furnished--this in mere pursuance of the ideas I have already explained on the subject of Beauty, as the sole true poetical thesis.

Now, I know what you're thinking--you want to get to the part where you suck face! But you have to be patient. You have to play the game, and go through all the steps. You have to get her believing that you really "care about her." Then she'll do it. Otherwise, you could get slapped, or even kicked in the balls! Later on, when you've gotten what you wanted and you dump her, you'll be out of reach of that foot. So the best thing is to take her to some place where it's dark. Movie theaters are the best (especially when you're too young to drive). You can sit kinda far back, and tell her it hurts your eyes to sit too close to the screen. She'll know you're lying, but by this time, if she likes you, she'll go with it. So this is how you get together.

The locale being thus determined, I had now to introduce the bird--and the thought of introducing him through the window, was inevitable. The idea of making the lover suppose, in the first instance, that the flapping of the wings of the bird against the shutter, is a "tapping� at the door, originated in a wish to increase, by prolonging, the reader�s curiosity, and in a desire to admit the incidental effect arising from the lover�s throwing open the door, finding all dark, and thence adopting the half-fancy that it was the spirit of his mistress that knocked.

The next thing is how to get her dress or blouse unbuttoned so you can do some heavy petting, but that depends on the way the darned thing is made. That's something you have to figure out before you get into the theater, but you can't let her catch you looking at it. There's buttons, and zippers, and catches, and all of that, and underwear and stuff. My big brother explained it all to me, but maybe you'd better ask your big brother about that.

I made the night tempestuous, first, to account for the Raven�s seeking admission, and secondly, for the effect of contrast with the (physical) serenity within the chamber.

You know the old saying, "A Bird in the hand is worth two in the Bush." I say a Bird in the Bush is even better! But most guys don't get there. Remember that although the girl can't kick you in the balls at the theater, she sure as heck can kick you in the shins! My brother says it's not worth it.

I made the bird alight on the bust of Pallas, also for the effect of contrast between the marble and the plumage--it being understood that the bust was absolutely suggested by the bird--the bust of Pallas being chosen, first, as most in keeping with the scholarship of the lover, and, secondly, for the sonorousness of the word, Pallas, itself.

Better to forget the Bird in the Bush, and just go for the Bust.