The Raven; Cause of Misery

This is the continuation of my piece "The Raven; A Tale of sorrow." I feel that that is the stronger piece, because I took more time with the other piece, and put more passion into it. I still hope you enjoy this though. 

After the main character of “The Raven” begins to speak to the raven in the poem, this sets the events into motion. He begins ask it questions about the raven’s origin, and the raven simply replies, “Nevermore.” He begins to become weary of this answer, and eventually upset. However, when he begins to ask of his beloved Lenore, (Who had passed away.) the raven again replies, “Nevermore.” He begins to realize what the meaning of, “Nevermore,” is. He realizes that he will never truly be over the death of Lenore, and he shall love ‘Nevermore.’ Similarly, to how Misha realizes that he will never love another like he loved Janinina in Milkweed.  

The wheels had been set into motion when the main character had begun to speak to the raven, and from that small action, it caused him to realize he will never love again. It is sad that one action can cause such misery in a person, but that is what love is, love is learning to move on, and if you truly love something, the memory of the love will keep you going. Love can transcend age, size, color, time, and even death.  

The Raven

I love Edgar Allen Poe, and many of his works. I feel like this is one of my best pieces, and I really took my time with it. I really hope you enjoy it, and take much away from it, enjoy! 

The Raven; A Tale of Sorrow

“Quoth the Raven ‘Nevermore.’” A tale of love, loss, and sorrow, The Raven beautifully portrays human madness and suffering. With the death of his beloved Lenore, the main character (Who is unnamed.) is fraught with grief, until one night, he begins to read in his study. The poem begins with the main character pondering over what he has just read, until he is suddenly woken by a faint rapping at his chamber door.   He presumes that it is only a visitor, and politely asks them to leave through the door, but they do not leave, and continue knocking. Curious now as to whom it may be, he rises from his place at his desk, and carefully opens the door, asking, “Hello?” only to be greeted by silence and darkness.

Confused, he returns to his place at his desk, and resumes his  reading, only to be re-disturbed by another rapping, only this time, it is at his window. Hesitantly, he rises from his place, and crosses over to the window. He slowly opens the window, and flings open the shudders, only to have a raven swoop in, and land gracefully on a bust of Pallas (The Ancient Greek goddess of Athena.) above his study door. Slightly frightened by the raven’s sudden appearance, he slowly draws nearer, only to as the raven it’s name. The raven croaks “Nevermore.”

Astonished by receiving an answer at all, he proceeds to ask the raven, evidently named “Nevermore,” it’s origin, the raven merely responds, “Nevermore.” Confused as to whether this was the only word the raven knew, he begins to ask more questions, receiving in return only the word, “Nevermore.” Eventually, he begins to become annoyed by only receiving the word, “Nevermore.” He eventually asks about his beloved Lenore, hoping against hope that he will get a real answer this time, however, the raven only replies, “Nevermore.” Livid with grief, he cries to the raven, and calls it a liar, for he realizes that he will love nevermore. He will never truly be over the death of his beloved Lenore, and he will suffer for the rest of his life. It is similar to the ending of New Moon in the sense that Edward loves Bella enough not to be with her, so he is forced to leave her for her own safety.  

Knowing he will never love again, he is fraught with grief, and the poem ends. In the end, however, he is fighting himself internally with his realization in a person vs. self style conflict. To love, and to have lost hurts, and the only way not to be hurt is not to love, but is a life without love really a life at all? I will let you decide.     

A Cinderella Story

Grey clouds pooled in the early morning sky, and a thick obscure mist hung over the ground like a silvery cloak. The sun had just started to appear over the mountains in the distance, giving the morning dew a faint twinkle. I walked swiftly along the extensive country dirt road to the graveyard, it had felt like months since I had been to mother’s grave, but it had only been a week. In all truth Step-Mother had just kept me so busy, I hadn’t found the time to make the 16 mile trek round trip to the monastery and the graveyard.

I set out I usually did, at 5:00 o’clock in the morning with a light breakfast packed in a burlap sack, which I now carried in my left hand. However, every time I leave, I always make sure I grab an arrangement of beautiful flowers form the chateau garden. Then, before I leave, I place the bouquet with care at the base of the tombstone. With the flowers in a basket cradled in my right arm, I am ready to set out.

It was not uncommon to meet other travelers along the road to the monastery. I often saw the village baker in his cart coming back from his delivery’s, or perhaps a traveling pilgrim. However, with the fog, the road seemed to be strangely quiet and abandoned. Not that I’m complaining, on the contrary, everything was peaceful and calm. The silence seemed almost friendly, so I kept going until I reached the foot of the mountain where the path and stairs to the monastery began.

The climb was strenuous, and my feet often had bunions afterwards, but the pain was worth it. My mother had died when I was young, and I can barely remember her. At least when I am at her grave, I can feel close to her, if only for an hour.

The climb was finally over, and I peered over the last step, I was at the cemetery at last. “Finally,” I murmured. I walked through the misty yard of towering pillars to mark each grave. I did not feel safe this time, as if I was not alone. Everything was silent, usually I heard at least the sound of birds in the morning, but not today.

Finally I reached mother’s grave. it was a stately marble pillar, but there was someone else there! An old woman, hunched over at the tombstone next to it. Her black shawl covered her face for the moment, but as she slowly turned, it revealed a soft, kind face, as if aged, but timeless.

“Hello,” she said softly, “who are you?”

“Hello,” I responded carefully, not knowing what would become of this, “my name is Daniella, but most people just call me Ella.”

“Well,” said the old woman, “my name is Agatha, nice to meet you.” She held out an aged hand. I took it in mine, and shook gently.