Abstract
In this brief Afterword, I bring E. A. Poe’s poem The Raven (1845) as a way to say goodbye to Simon
In his poem, The Raven (2013), Edgar Allan Poe (1809–1849) confronts us with the sorrow of the death of someone we love. The protagonist of this renowned poem is a lonely man suffering from the intense grief provoked by the passing of his beloved Lenore. On a dreary night in December, the man is reading forgotten lore 1 to disregard his misery when a sudden noise of something tapping at his chamber door interrupts his affair. He wonders whether this tapping could be from a late visitor knocking on the door or simply the wind. Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before. However, the silence is unbroken. The man opens the door to find darkness there and nothing more; just in case he whispers Lenore, but the echo whispers ‘Lenore’ back to him. The tapping persists. He opens the door yet again, and through the darkness, a raven flies into his chamber and perches on the head of a Pallas Athenea statue by the door in the dark. He asks the raven for its name and the intelligent bird responds: Nevermore. What could give a rational explanation for this wonderfully terrifying encounter with this raven? Ravens, like parrots, can imitate the human voice. Has the bird learnt the word from an old master? Or is he visiting me from far beyond to tell me that I see Lenore again? Will I see Lenore again? But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only that one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour: Nevermore. Am I dreaming, or am I awake? Or am I losing my mind? Oblivious to the distressed man’s rhetorical questions, the bird repeats: Nevermore. In despair, the man screams: Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken! Leave my loneliness unbroken! – quit the bust above my door! Take thy beak from out my heart and take thy form from off my door! But the raven, remains sitting, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting . . . On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door.
Myriad different literary analyses of this seminal narrative poem were written since its publication in the New York Evening Mirror in January 1845. Amid the mysterious and surreal atmosphere of the poem written by one of the most important exponents of the American Romantic Movement, we can feel that both love and grief emerge vibrantly with the same force. Poe does not rescue his readers from hopelessness of the word nevermore for his poem’s protagonist. Instead, he leaves us adrift, moving at the rhythm in crescendo of the poem’s musicality, making us experience the same despair as the bereaved man feels when he faces the inexorable: Lenore is nevermore. It is also true that Simon Clarke is nevermore.
I spoke with Simon on the phone one week before his passing. I told him he was not alone. I told him that I was grateful to the spirits for having put me in your way and let me have known you, to have your guidance and enjoy your company and affection for many years. Before phoning him, I had promised myself not to get emotional, but I failed. It was too sad. However, Simon being Simon and those who knew him well enough will understand, comforted me by saying: ‘Ana, it is life!’ Yes. This Forum is a collective celebration of your life, inseparable from your work for a better world in your home journal, Capital & Class. As I promised you during that last call, you would remain alive in our minds and hearts, in our writings, lectures, research, polemics, anecdotes for evermore. Goodbye dear Simon.