Question

FAN AND MEDAL(FOR EVERY QUESTION YOU ANSWER)
does anyone understand edgar allen poes writting and can help we with some questions

Answer 1

Sure I can help

Answer 2

I'm sure these fine gentlemen can help you, just post the questions separately.

Answer 3

I am a lady..

Answer 4

you might have to rad the story though :(

Answer 5

Sorry. I just thought that "gentlemen" would be a silly term for helpers. XD

Answer 6

LOL

Answer 7

if anyone is up to reading the story and helping me answer the question? i will email the story to you @Sunnyo @KyanTheDoodle

Answer 8

Well that depends, how long is the story?

Answer 9

its a short story but its like 25 paragraphs... i just dont understand it and need help i have 3 assements that have to be turned in by midnight and i dont understand his stories at all @Sunnyo @KyanTheDoodle

Answer 10

but most of them are short paragraphs

Answer 11

Oh okay. Can you give me a link?

Answer 12

http://learn.flvs.net/webdav/educator_englishII_v14/module03/pop/03_05_04/03_05_04_popa.htm i dont know if you can get on there though its flvs

Answer 13

Sorry, I can't. What is the short story called?

Answer 14

can i just email it to you or something i dont think you can find it i tried searching

Answer 15

Okay. try candacecane2002@gmail.com.

Answer 16

I don`t give out my emails...

Answer 17

We know of nothing so agonizing upon Earth—we can dream of nothing half so hideous in the realms of the nethermost Hell. What I have now to tell is of my own actual knowledge—of my own personal experience.

For several years I had been subject to attacks of the disorder which physicians have agreed to term catalepsy. Although the causes of this disease are still mysterious, its obvious and apparent symptoms are sufficiently well understood. Sometimes the patient lies, for a day only, or even for a shorter period, in a species of exaggerated lethargy. He is senseless and externally motionless; but the pulsation of the heart is still faintly perceptible; some traces of warmth remain; a slight color lingers within the centre of the cheek; and, upon application of a mirror to the lips, we can detect a torpid, unequal, and irregularaction of the lungs.

Then again the duration of the trance could be for weeks—even for months; while the closest scrutiny, and the most rigorous medical tests, fail to establish any material distinction between the state of the sufferer and what we conceive of absolute death. Very usually he is saved from premature interment solely by the knowledge of his friends that he has been previously subject to catalepsy, and, above all, by the non-appearance of decay.

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My own case differed in no important particular from those mentioned in medical books. Sometimes, without any apparent cause, I sank, little by little, into a half swoon; and, in this condition, without pain, without ability to stir, or, strictly speaking, to think, but with a dull lethargic consciousness of life and of the presence of those who surrounded my bed, I remained, until the crisis of the disease restored me, suddenly, to perfect sensation.

At other times I was struck quickly. I grew sick, and numb, and chilly, and dizzy, and so fell prostrate at once. Then, for weeks, all was void, and black, and silent, and Nothing became the universe. From these latter attacks I awoke slowly. Just as the day dawns to the friendless and houseless beggar who roams the streets throughout the long desolate winter night—just so tardily—just so wearily—just so cheerily came back the light of the Soul to me.

The narrator describes the two forms his attacks take: nearly comatose but somewhat conscious of the world around him or completely comatose and unaware of his surroundings. What would life be like if you experienced these symptoms?

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In all this I endured, there was no physical suffering but of moral distress, an infinite suffering. My fancy turned to all things charnel, I talked "of worms, of tombs, and epitaphs." I was lost in reveries of death, and the idea of premature burial held continual possession of my brain.

The ghastly Danger to which I was subjected haunted me day and night. When night covered the Earth, then, with every horror of thought, I shook—shook as the quivering plumes upon the hearse. When Nature could endure wakefulness no longer, it was with a struggle that I consented to sleep—for I shuddered to reflect that, upon awaking, I might find myself the tenant of a grave.

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From the images of gloom which thus haunted me in dreams, I select for record but a single vision. I thought I was immersed in a cataleptic trance of more than usual duration and depth. Suddenly there came an icy hand upon my forehead, and an impatient, gibbering voice whispered the word "Arise!" within my ear.

I sat erect. The darkness was total. I could not see the figure of him who had woken me.

"Arise! did I not bid you arise?"

"And who," I demanded, "are you?"

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"I have no name in the regions which I inhabit," replied the voice, mournfully; "You feel that I shudder.—My teeth chatter as I speak, yet it is not with the chilliness of the night—of the night without end. But this hideousness is insufferable. How can you tranquilly sleep? I cannot rest for the cry of these great agonies. These sights are more than I can bear. Get up! Come with me into the outer Night, and let me unfold to you the graves. Is not this a spectacle of woe?—Behold!"

I looked; and the unseen figure, which still grasped me by the wrist, had caused to be thrown open the graves of all mankind, and from each issued the faint radiance of decay, so that I could see into the innermost recesses, and there view the shrouded bodies in their sad and solemn slumbers with the worm. But alas! From out the depths of the countless pits there came a melancholy rustling from the garments of the buried. And of those who seemed tranquilly to repose, I saw that a vast number had changed the rigid and uneasy position in which they had originally been entombed.

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The sky at twilight
© 2010 Jupiterimages Corporation
Dreams such as these, presenting themselves at night, extended their terrific influence far into my waking hours. My nerves became thoroughly unstrung, and I fell a prey to perpetual horror. I hesitated to ride, or to walk, or to indulge in any exercise that would carry me from home. In fact, I no longer dared trust myself out of the immediate presence of those who were aware of my proneness to catalepsy, lest, falling into one of my usual fits, I should be buried before my real condition could be ascertained.

It was in vain my friends endeavored to reassure me by the most solemn promises. I exacted the most sacred oaths, that under no circumstances they would bury me until decomposition had so materially advanced as to render farther preservation impossible. And, even then, my mortal terrors would listen to no reason—would accept no consolation.

I entered into a series of elaborate precautions. Among other things, I had the family vault so remodeled as to admit of being readily opened from within. The slightest pressure upon a long lever that extended far into the tomb would cause the iron portal to fly back. There were arrangements also for the free admission of air and light, and convenient receptacles for food and water, within immediate reach of the coffin intended for my reception.

This coffin was warmly and softly padded, and was provided with a lid, fashioned upon the principle of the vault-door, with the addition of springs so contrived that the feeblest movement of the body would be sufficient to set it at liberty. Besides all this, there was suspended from the roof of the tomb, a large bell, the rope of which, it was designed, should extend through a hole in the coffin, and so be fastened to one of the hands of the corpse.


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There arrived an epoch—as often before there had arrived—in which I found myself emerging from total unconsciousness into the first feeble sense of existence. Slowly—like a tortoise—approached the faint gray dawn of the day. Then, after a long interval, a ringing in the ears; then, after a lapse still longer, a wingspanling or tingling sensation in the extremities. At length the slight quivering of an eyelid, and immediately thereupon, an electric shock of a terror, deadly and indefinite, which sends the blood in a torrent from the temples to the heart.

And now the first positive effort to think. And now the first endeavor to remember. And now the memory has so far regained its dominion, that, in some measure, I am aware of my state. I feel that I am not awaking from ordinary sleep. I recollect that I have been subject to catalepsy. And now, at last, as if by the rush of an ocean, my shuddering spirit is overwhelmed by the one grim Danger—by the one spectral and ever-prevalent idea.

For some minutes after this fancy possessed me, I remained without motion. And why? I could not summon courage to move. I dared not make the effort which was to satisfy me of my fate—and yet there was something at my heart which whispered me it was sure. Despair—such as no other species of wretchedness ever calls into being—despair alone urged me, after long indecision, to uplift the heavy lids of my eyes. I uplifted them. It was dark—all dark.

I knew that the fit was over. I knew that the crisis of my disorder had long passed. I knew that I had now fully recovered the use of my visual faculties—and yet it was dark—all dark—the intense and utter raylessness of the Night that endures forevermore.

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I endeavored to shriek, and my lips and my parched tongue moved convulsively together in the attempt—but no voice issued from the cavernous lungs, which oppressed as if by the weight of some mountain, gasped and palpitated, with the heart, at every elaborate and struggling breath.

The movement of the jaws, in this effort to cry aloud, showed me that they were bound up, as is usual with the dead. I felt, too, that I lay upon some hard substance, and by something similar my sides were, also, closely compressed. So far, I had not ventured to stir any of my limbs—but now I violently threw up my arms, which had been lying at length, with the wrists crossed. They struck a solid wooden substance, which extended above my person at an elevation of not more than six inches from my face.

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I could no longer doubt that I reposed within a coffin at last. And now, amid all my infinite miseries, came sweetly the cherub Hope—for I thought of my precautions.

I writhed, and made exertions to force open the lid: it would not move. I felt my wrists for the bell-rope: it was not to be found.

And now the Comforter fled forever, and a still sterner Despair overcame me; for I could not help perceiving the absence of the paddings which I had so carefully prepared—and then, too, there came suddenly to my nostrils the strong peculiar odor of moist earth. The conclusion was irresistible. I was not within the vault.

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I had fallen into a trance while absent from home-while among strangers—when, or how, I could not remember—and it was they who had buried me as a dog—nailed up in some common coffin—and thrust deep, deep, and forever, into some ordinary and nameless grave.

The Premature Burial
© Public Domain
As this awful realization forced itself, thus, into the innermost chambers of my soul, I once again struggled to cry aloud. And in this second endeavor I succeeded. A long, wild, and continuous shriek, or yell of agony, resounded through the realms of the Night.

"Hillo! hillo, there!" said a gruff voice, in reply.

"What the devil's the matter now!" said a second.

"Get out o' that!" said a third.

"What do you mean by yowling in that ere kind of style, like a mountain lion?" said a fourth; and hereupon I was seized and shaken without ceremony, for several minutes, by a group of very rough-looking individuals. They did not arouse me from my slumber—for I was wide awake when I screamed—but they restored me to the full possession of my memory.


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A ship
© 2010 Jupiterimages Corporation
This adventure occurred near Richmond, in Virginia. Accompanied by a friend, I had proceeded, upon a hunting expedition, some miles down the banks of the James River. Night approached, and we were overtaken by a storm. The cabin of a small sloop lying at anchor in the stream, and laden with garden mould, afforded us the only available shelter. We made the best of it, and passed the night onboard.

I slept in one of the only two berths in the vessel—and the berths of a sloop of sixty or twenty tons need scarcely be described. That which I occupied had no bedding of any kind. Its extreme width was eighteen inches. The distance of its bottom from the deck overhead was precisely the same. I found it a matter of exceeding difficulty to squeeze myself in.


Nevertheless, I slept soundly, and the whole of my vision—for it was no dream, and no nightmare—arose naturally from the circumstances of my position—from my fears—and from the difficulty, to which I have alluded, of collecting my senses, and especially of regaining my memory, for a long time after awaking from slumber. The men who shook me were the crew of the sloop, and some laborers engaged to unload it. From the load itself came the earthly smell. The bandage about the jaws was a silk handkerchief in which I had bound up my head, in default of my customary nightcap.

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The tortures endured were quite equal for the time, to those of actual burial. They were fearfully—they were inconceivably hideous.

But out of Evil proceeded Good; for the excess of this experience caused in my spirit a rejection of my old fears. My soul acquired tone—acquired temper. I went abroad. I took vigorous exercise. I breathed the free air of Heaven. I thought upon other subjects than Death. I discarded my medical books. In short, I became a new man, and lived a man's life. From that memorable night, I dismissed forever my apprehensions of live burial, and with them vanished the cataleptic disorder, of which, perhaps, they had been less the consequence than the cause.

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There are moments when, even to the sober eye of Reason, the world of our sad Humanity may assume the semblance of a Hell—but the imagination of man is no innocent, exploring its every cavern is not without risk. Alas! the grim legion of deathly terrors cannot be regarded as altogether fanciful—but, they must sleep, or they will devour us—they must be suffered to slumber, or we perish.

Answer 18

i posted it and i sent it to your email @KyanTheDoodle @Sunnyo

Answer 19

You have my EMAIL!?

Answer 20

Okay, what are the questions?

Answer 21

4. As the narrator experiences fear, what techniques does Poe use to create suspense for the reader?

Answer 22

5. What is happening to the narrator here? Use evidence from the text to support your answer.


6. The narrator describes one of his dreams. What happens and what is the significance?


7. How would you describe the narrator’s mental state? Are his actions rational?



8. What techniques does Poe use in the second paragraph to build suspense? What is the effect on you, the reader?

Answer 23

9. based on the descriptions here, what has happened to the narrator?

Answer 24

11. What has happened? If you were the narrator, what would you feel hearing these voices?

Answer 25

Perhaps Poe uses vague words to describe the fear, so the reader continues the story to see the context in how the vague words are used.

Answer 26

is that one of the answers? @KyanTheDoodle

Answer 27

That's just what I believe is the answer to the first question. If it helped, you can close this question, and start a new one.