Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Conqueror Worm”

The Conqueror Worm (Audio Reading) - YouTube

Few writers manage to personify the pangs of life as well as Edgar Allan Poe.  While many of the Romantics-themed writers of his day focused on encapsulating what they perceived as the quasi-transcendence of life and nature, and the beauty beheld by it, Poe set his sights past the glitter, and sought to present the (at the time) oft-neglected darker themes surrounding human existence.  More than mere pessimism though, his writing betrays a delicate understanding in the balance that exists between beauty and the grotesque, joy and pain, light and dark, life and death.

By artistic extension, the theme of helpless inevitability regarding the dynamic between life and death defines a great deal of the macabre tone Edgar Allan Poe creates in his prose.  Death has a special place in Poe’s work, and often takes center stage as the primary character underlying the plot of the narrative; always in the role of an unspoken, absolutist sovereign whose authority has no equal.  “The Conqueror Worm” is not the first (nor the last) poem in which Poe explores the persona of Death as the sole sovereign before which all life and imagined existence must ultimately bow, but it is a key work illustrating the poet’s deeper understanding of the phenomenons relation to life, and the human experience of it.

Lo! ’t is a gala night
Within the lonesome latter years!
An angel throng, bewinged, bedight
In veils, and drowned in tears,
Sit in a theatre, to see
A play of hopes and fears,
While the orchestra breathes fitfully
The music of the spheres.

The described scene is one in which even angels, servants of God and guardians of man, must humble themselves to the role of mere spectators before the play of life; the outcome of who’s plot they have no say over, and can do little but cry at the sight of the tragedy for the actors on stage.

Mimes, in the form of God on high,
Mutter and mumble low,
And hither and thither fly—
Mere puppets they, who come and go
At bidding of vast formless things
That shift the scenery to and fro,
Flapping from out their Condor wings
Invisible Wo!

The characters of the play are mimes, in the form of God–symbolizing man, said to have been made in the image of God–trapped in a continuous roundelay, chasing intangible matters they have no hope of catching, but cannot help but go after like puppets being pulled by their strings.

That motley drama—oh, be sure
It shall not be forgot!
With its Phantom chased for evermore
By a crowd that seize it not,
Through a circle that ever returneth in
To the self-same spot,
And much of Madness, and more of Sin,
And Horror the soul of the plot.

This path man is set to repeat, brings him nothing but despair and hopelessness, as he is doomed to always return to the same scene in his plot.  A fate so dire that even if he recognized the vicious circle he’s in, he’d still be bound to carry on acting through the futility of his existence.  However, although neither man nor divine intervention can free him from his plight, a bittersweet recourse does emerge to finally cut the puppet strings forcing him through his acts.

But see, amid the mimic rout,
A crawling shape intrude!
A blood-red thing that writhes from out
The scenic solitude!
It writhes!—it writhes!—with mortal pangs
The mimes become its food,
And seraphs sob at vermin fangs
In human gore imbued.

In the end, while man obediently gives chase to the phantoms keeping him trapped as an actor in the play of life, Death emerges from out of the scene to devour the actor, and finish the play for good.

Death’s intrusion in man’s scene is fatalistic, in that it signals the drawing of the curtains, and the end of his life:

Out—out are the lights—out all!
And, over each quivering form,
The curtain, a funeral pall,
Comes down with the rush of a storm,

But it also signals the end to his grief, by being able to finally conquer the root that is keeping man chained to his relentless despair.  In that view, Death is not the villain in the play called life: he is the hero, in the tragedy called Man.

While the angels, all pallid and wan,
Uprising, unveiling, affirm
That the play is the tragedy, “Man,”
And its hero, the Conqueror Worm.

Sane vs. Insane

Sane:  “Morning.”

Insane:  “Morning.”

Sane:  “How are you feeling?”

Insane:  “Good.”

Sane:  “Good.  Sleep well?”

Insane:  “Always.”

Sane:  “Excellent.  Do you know who and where you are.”

Insane:  “Yes.”

Sane:  “Who are you?  Where are you?”

Insane:  “I’m a patient at a psychiatric facility for the mentally disturbed.”

Sane:  “Do you know why you’re here?”

Insane:  “If I was to take a wild guess, I’d assume it’s because you think I’m mentally disturbed.”

Sane:  “Do you disagree?”

Insane:  “I wasn’t aware I had a vote in the matter.”

Sane:  “Why do you think you’re here?”

Insane:  “Because you think I’m dangerous.”

Sane:  “Dangerous in what way?”

Insane:  “Don’t know.  I’m not the one who thinks this, you are.”

Sane:  “If you had to, how would you prefer to describe yourself then?”

Insane:  “Aware.”

Sane:  “Aware?”

Insane:  “Yes.”

Sane:  “Of…”

Insane:  “Everything.  Everything that matters.”

Sane:  “Everything?  Like secret plots and conspiracies, things of that nature?”

Insane:   “Amongst other things.”

Sane:  “I see. What about other people?  Are they as aware as you are?”

Insane:  “No, it doesn’t look like they are.  I suppose if you all were, you wouldn’t have put me in here.”

Sane:  “Makes sense.  Can you tell me any specific things or details you are aware of which others aren’t?”

Insane:  “No, I can’t.  You’re already convinced I’m crazy and everything I say will just further validate this belief.”

Sane:  “And you don’t think that you’re crazy?”

Insane:  “As a matter of fact, I don’t.”

Sane:  “Why not?”

Insane:  “I can’t prove a negative.  Tell me why you think I’m crazy and I’ll tell you why you’re wrong.”

Sane:  “Okay.  You admit to being aware of things that other people aren’t, correct?”

Insane:  “Yes.”

Sane:  “And you are convinced that this awareness gives you insights to details that go by unnoticed to the rest of us?”

Insane:  “Yes.”

Sane:  “And, since only you can notice these details, your testimony is the only source you have to validate any of it, since (by your own admission) the rest of us lack the awareness to attest to anything that you’re saying.  Correct?”

Insane:  “You’re making it sound a bit more simplistic than I would.  But sure, that’s essentially right.”

Sane:  “So, what does it tell you when you have a piece of information that only you have the awareness to notice, whose validity cannot be deduced by anyone else’s perception but your own?  Would you agree that, given all this, you ought to exercise a bit of caution about how much trust you can place in this awareness of yours, and the validity of these various plots and conspiracies it’s helped you uncover?  Perhaps consider the alternative that all you think is so right and real, is possibly just the result of possessing a very confused mental state?”

(In)sane:  “Perhaps.  But, by that same token, how can I be sure that, what you perceive to be a healthy state of mind, isn’t simply a failure on your part to connect all the relevant dots?”

 

Excerpt from The Insomniac Manifesto, available for free here.