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Living with the old man, "I" loved the old man very much, but I couldn't stand the old man's eyes, especially that kind of gaze, so "I" killed and dismembered the old man, and as a result, the old man's heart leaked, and "I" had to confess. This is the storyline of The Tell-Tale Heart (1843).
The plot is simple, but the implications are profound. Although human beings have gone through thousands of years and thousands of forms, the subconscious mind that lurks in the deepest part of all consciousness is basically the same.
This subconscious, according to Jung, is not individual, but universal, "possessing a broadly similar content and mode of behavior that all places and all individuals have."
It expresses a certain dilemma of Sisyphusian human existence: the world is full of irrationality and futility. It is in the focus on this tragic state of humanity that the reader acquires universal sympathy for the novel—a subconscious awareness of one's own situation awakened.
The two main characters in the whole novel, "I" and the old man, should be said to be the respective equals of the scapegoat and the tyrant in the magical imagery. "I" is not simply suffering, nor is the tyrant completely strong.
To some extent, Leaking Hearts reveals the great secrets of humanity's collective experience and deep unconscious. Of course, this work can give us a lot of inspiration, we can interpret it from more levels, which is the real value of classic works.
01
Why kill him
REASON
Really — nervous — very nervous, extremely nervous, then, now, all of them. But why do you insist that I'm crazy? It actually made my senses more sensitive—not malfunctioning—and not numb.
Hearing, in particular, is the best. All the sounds of heaven and earth are in my ear drums, and I hear many things in hell.
So, am I crazy? Listen! Look at how good I looked—how calmly I gave it all to you and to you.
How this idea first entered my mind is impossible to say, but as soon as this idea appeared, it haunted me day and night, with no purpose, no covetousness.
I liked the old man, he never hurt me, never insulted me.
For his gold, I have nothing more than to think about it. I think it's because of that eye! Eyes, that's what it is!
One of his eyes resembles an eagle's eye—a pale blue eye covered in a thin layer. As long as this eye sees me, I shudder. So, gradually—coming and going—I made up my mind to take his life, so that I could get rid of that eye forever.
You see, that's the crux of the matter. You think I'm crazy, but crazy people don't understand anything. It's a pity that you didn't see me, and it's a pity that you didn't see how beautifully I did—so deliberately, so thoughtfully, so cleverly disguised.
02
How to kill him
KIll
In the week before I killed the old man, I was very considerate of him. Every night, around midnight, I turn the latch and pull it open — oh, very slightly!
Then I pushed the door open, pushed it as wide as my head, and put in a black lantern that was so tightly so tight that the light couldn't penetrate at all—and then I leaned in again.
Oh, if you see how cleverly I'm leaning in, you'll laugh! I leaned in slowly, slowly, very slowly, lest I stir up the old man's dreams.
It took me an hour to dig my head into the crack in the door, just in time to see him lying flat on the bed. Ha! - Does a madman have this brain melon? Then, when my head was all in the door, I turned on the lantern carefully—oh, very carefully—carefully (because there was a noise at the junction)—and I opened a gap in the lamp, and a thin light fell on the eagle's eye.
I went on for seven long nights in a row—every night, at midnight—but I found that the eye was always closed, so I couldn't do that work, because then he wasn't the old man who tormented me, it was the hateful eye that tormented me.
Every morning, at the crack of dawn, I went into his room with a big wave, dared to talk to him, called him by his name affectionately, and asked him how he had spent his stay. So you see, this old man is not a scheming man, he never thought that I would spy on him every night, just at twelve o'clock, while he was asleep.
On the eighth night, I opened the door more carefully. The minute hands on the clock are moving faster than my hand. It was only this evening that I felt for the first time in my life that I was so capable of it—I had such a brain. It was about to succeed, and I could hardly help myself. Come to think of it, I came to the door, opened it, little by little, and he couldn't even dream that I had such a secret act or a very special thought.
Thinking of this, I laughed secretly. Probably for him to hear, because he suddenly rolled over on the bed, as if taken aback. You might have thought I'd stop there — but I didn't.
His room was pitch black, and it was hard to see five fingers (because the shutters were tightly closed to prevent robbers), so I knew he couldn't see a crack in the door, so I pushed the door forward little by little.
I leaned in and was about to turn on the lantern, and as soon as my thumb slid into the tin hook, the old man suddenly sat up from the bed and shouted, "Which one?" I stood quietly in place, without a word. For a whole hour, I didn't move, but at the same time I didn't hear him lying down.
He was still sitting there, listening to the movements, as I had before, night after night, listening to the cries of dead insects in the cracks in the walls. After a while I heard a slight moan, and I knew it was a moan of extreme fear, not a moan of pain or sadness—oh no! This is the kind of suppressed low groan that emanates from the depths of the soul when the soul is frightened and scattered.
I know this voice very well. How many nights, just at midnight, when everything was silent, this voice sounded from within myself and grew louder and louder, accompanied by that terrible echo, intensifying the horror that drove me crazy.
I said this voice very clearly to me, I knew the old man's feelings, and I sympathized with him, even though I laughed in my heart. Hearing him roll over on the bed, I knew he had been lying alert since the slightest sound. The old man's fears grew, and he tried his best to imagine these fears as illusory, but he couldn't do it.
He once said to himself, "Isn't it the wind in the chimney"—"Let's just go through the floor", or, "It's just a cricket making a cry". Yes, he tried to comfort himself with these speculative words, but he found that it was all in vain, all in vain, because the god of death, when approaching the old man, had quietly approached him with his own dark shadow, covering the ghost. It was the melancholy force of this imperceptible shadow that made him feel—though he could not see or hear—the presence of my head in the room.
I waited for a long time, very patiently, and still did not hear him lie down, so I decided to turn on a little—to turn on the lantern in a very, very small slit.
I opened a small slit—you can't imagine how unconscious I was—until, like a thin thread pulled out by a spider, projected from that little slit onto the old man's eagle eye.
That eye was wide open—big, wide open—and I stared, furious. I could not have seen it more clearly—a dull blue, covered with a terrible membrane, frightening, and I could not see the old man's face or his whole being at all, for I seemed to instinctively cast the light in that damned place.
Oh, I didn't tell you you mistook me for a lunatic, but was it just my senses being too sharp? Now, tell you, there was a low, monotonous, swift sound in my ear, like the sound of a watch wrapped in cotton. I knew the sound very well, and it was the old man's heartbeat.
This intensified my anger, just as the drums of war inspired the courage of the warriors. Even so, I restrained myself and stood still. I didn't even dare to breathe. I held the lamp steadily to see how steadily I could shine the light on that eye.
At this moment, the abominable fluttering heartbeat intensified.
Just as the clock was being heard, there was a knock at the door. I went to open the door carelessly— what else was there to worry about now? Three people came in, and they introduced themselves gently, saying they were police officers at the police station.
I think that heart must be about to explode.
Now, a new anxiety arises in my heart – this voice will be heard by the neighbors! This old man is dying! I let out a shout, turned on the lantern, and jumped into the house.
He screamed only once—just once. I quickly dragged him to the ground and dragged him over the heavy bed and pressed against him. The work was so sharp that I laughed briskly. For several minutes, though, the heart beat with a muffled voice. This didn't annoy me, the sound could not be heard through the wall.
Finally, the heartbeat stopped, and the old man died. I moved out of bed and examined his body. Yes, he's dead, dead. I reached out and placed it on his heart, where I rested for several minutes. No heartbeat anymore. He was dead. His eyes wouldn't bother me anymore.
If you still think I'm crazy, you won't think so when I describe the meticulous description of the hiding of the corpse.
At night, I was busy with numbness, of course, quietly. I first unloaded the body in eight pieces, cut off the head, cut off the hands, and unloaded the feet.
Then I lifted three more planks from the floor of the room, placed all the mutilated bodies in the gap, and then put the planks back in place, so neat and ingenious that the human eye, even his eye, could see no trace. Nothing to scrub off – no smudges, no traces, I did it meticulously, a vat was fully loaded – ha, ha! When all this work was done, it was four o'clock—it was still as dark as midnight.
03
Leak
SECRET
The neighbors heard a scream in the middle of the night, suspected that the atrocity had occurred, reported the crime to the police, and they (the officers) were sent to check on the situation.
I laughed – what else was there to worry about? I welcomed several gentlemen. The cry, I said, was made by my own dream. I spoke of the old man and said he had gone to the country.
I took the three of them and searched the house. I asked them to search—search well. Finally, I led them to his room. I showed them his delicacy, and everything was safe and sound. I was so confident that I pulled a few chairs into the room and invited them to sit there to rest their legs, while I myself, because of my masterpiece, rose up unscrupulously and placed the seat below where the old man's corpse was hidden. The officers were satisfied, and I had convincing them with my demeanor.
I was unusually relaxed. They sat and chatted about their parents, and I answered like a stream. But before long, I felt myself pale and looked forward to their departure. I had a headache and felt a tinnitus sound, but they sat there and talked. The tinnitus became clearer and clearer – it continued, it became clearer.
In order to dispel this feeling, I spoke more and more arbitrarily, but the voice continued, more distinctly—and finally, I realized that the sound did not originate in my ears.
No doubt I was pale — but I was talking more and more, and I raised my voice. And the voice is growing unabated – what should I do? It was a low, single, rapid sound—especially like the sound of a watch wrapped in cotton. I gasped for breath—but the officers didn't hear it.
I spoke faster—more agitated—but the voice was still intensifying. I stood up, fiercely arguing over trivial matters, but the voice grew stronger. Why don't they go? I paced back and forth on the floor with heavy steps, as if provoked by their remarks—but the voice was still growing.
Oh my God, what should I do? I spit on the splash – I gibberish – I swear by the curse! I shook the chair I was sitting in, and the chair squeaked against the floor, but the sound overshadowed it all and continued to intensify. Louder and louder – louder – louder!
And those few people are still chatting in the sea, still giggling. May not be able to hear it? Almighty God! - No, no! They heard it! - They guessed it! - They know! They're making fun of my fears! I thought so, and I still think so. But there is nothing more painful than this, nothing more torturous than this ridicule! I can't stand the laughter of these hypocrites anymore!
"Badass!" I screamed. "Stop pretending! I confess! Uncover these floors! - Here, here! This is the beating of that hateful heart. ”
[About Edgar Allan Poe]:
Edgar Allan Poe (1809–1849) was a nineteenth-century American poet, novelist, and literary critic, and an important member of the American Romantic period.
During his lifetime, he worked as a newspaper editor for a long time. His works are exquisite in form, beautiful in language and diverse in content, and are a "unique" style in any era.
Poe is known for his mystery stories and horror novels, he was one of the earliest pioneers of the American short story, and is revered as the founding father of speculative fiction, and thus the ancestor of science fiction in later generations. He was the first well-known American writer to attempt to make a living entirely on writing, leading to poverty.