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Morton Marcus: Good evening everybody, and Happy Halloween. This is Morton Marcus and this is The Poetry Show, and tonight we're going to do a special Halloween show. And in fact, we will continue this with "From the Bookshelf," where we will

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have a story by Roald Dahl. So, stay tuned for the next hour and a half. Tonight on The Poetry Show, I'm going to read you some Halloween poetry and I'm going to read you some famous and not so famous Halloween stories, which I hope you will enjoy. But

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first, let's- have me tell you little bit about Halloween an what- some things you may or ma not know about it. So here's a introduction to Halloween. An if you are out and about wit your children or if this is you children, listen up. Th

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Halloween we celebrate today i miles away from the paga rituals practiced by the Druid of England, Ireland, and Wale over 2000 years ago. For th Druids, the last day of Octobe marked the end of summer and th beginning of the cold an

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darkness of winter, the seaso of death. On the 31st, they they celebrated Samhain, whic it looks like it should b pronounced Sam-hain, and believ that this was the night when th dead roamed the Earth. The built huge sacred bonfires an

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burnt animal sacrifices, as wel as human ones, if rumors are t be believed, as the Druids neve kept a written log of thei practices. Well actually, let m interrupt, the these huge fire actually had bones thrown int them and they were the bones o

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animals who had died or had bee slaughtered. And so really th word was "bone fire". But ove the years the the word has bee joined together to becom "bonfire". The Druids dressed u in elaborate costumes made o animal heads and fur and wor

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masks over their faces so tha evil spirits wouldn't recogniz their faces and bring bad luc to them. Once the night wa over - before the celebratio s began, everyone would put o t the fires in their homes - t en, once the night was done, rel

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ght them from the sacred bonfi es, believing that this w uld protect them during the wi ter months. The Celts livin in England at the time belie ed that October 31 was the ni ht that all the wicked souls t at had been forced to live in

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he bodies of animals for he previous years, would be et free. And would roam as spir ts or ghouls, they would lay f od outside their doors as an offering to the spirits so t at they would not enter th ir homes. Well, the Druids al

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o, and especially, the Ir sh believed that this was the t me when the gate was down betw en the other world and our wor d. And the Sidhe which is spel ed S-I-D-H-E. The Sidhe, or he dead, would possibly make it over that gate into our wor

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d. The female Sidhes were cal ed Bean. And when you join th se two words together, you've ot Bean Sidhe or Banshees, nd that's where that word co es from- "the howling banshee ". Well, those were ancient tim s, 2000 years ago, but when

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he Romans conquered the Celts a ew hundred years later, t ey brought to England and Irel nd their own celebrations. he first was the celebration of Feralia, which commemorated he passing of the dead, and he second, was to honor Pomona,

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he Roman goddess of fruits nd trees. Over a period of ti e, the three different honors of the dead were incorporated i to one celebration. As he influence of Christianity spr ad through the country, P pe Boniface the Fourth, at aro

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nd 600 AD designated November 1 s All Saints Day, Saints- Sain s Day, that is to honor the sain s and martyrs of the Church. t incorporated all the oth r celebrations before it into on , and was called All Hallows Da . Therefore, tonight, the d

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y before- or the evening before s All-hallows Eve, which slow y became shortened and mangl d into Halloween, the name we kn w it today. Well, the British, t e Welsh, and the Irish wou d celebrate still by weari g costumes. And by doing vario

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s rituals, especially the fi e ritual, down through time a d they would carve turnips in o the likenesses of frighteni g faces to ward off the ev l spirits. But when the Iri h immigrated to the United Stat s during the late 1840s, to esca

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e the terrible Potato Famine ov r there, they took with them a l t of the rituals and practices a d traditions of All-Hallows Ev , which many Americans adopted a d began to practice themselves. s the years passed, though t e barbaric rituals of anim

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l sacrifices and the dark side f All-Hallows Eve were replaced y celebrations that the who e family could take part i , including the children as e know it today. Well, one of t e things that the Irish broug t with them was the carving

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f turnips, and they immediate y found a much larger fruit th Well, I've got a little poem here, which- I don't know how t was much much easier to car e over here. And instead f turnips, they began to car e those Jack o' Lantern faces

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well it's going to go over, but I will tell you about it. And n pumpkins and put candles n them. And of course, what th I'm going to read another poem by this man. And the program t very simply did was give us o e of the main rituals, the maki

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tonight is almost totally going to be based on American writers g and the carving of the heads f pumpkin of horror, and fantasy tales. Ones you know. And I'll tell you little things about them, but we will have one exception to that.

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And that is the great Scottish poet, Robert Burns, who was born in 1759 and died 37 years later of a terrible case of rheumatic fever in 1796. We know so many of his songs; "Flow Gently, sweet Afton", "Auld Lang Syne", "Comin' Thro' the Rye", "John

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Anderson My Jo, John", and narrative poems such as "Cotter's Saturday Night", "The Jolly Beggars", and "Tam o' Shanter." He was self educated, a farmer, and is probably the great national poet of- probably of Scotland. And I have got

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here, because it is a little difficult to read a lot of Burns's poetry, because it is done in the Scottish dialect of the English language. And a lot of the words we just don't know. He was a great poet who wrote in very, very complex Scottish

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stanza schemes, and I've got some translations into English, which try to continue the rhyme scheme, and it was made by the Burns Federation, who has had a big project in translating all his poems into English. But to introduce the poem and to read

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it, I've got a special guest. And I ask you to welcome him. And he is a Scotsman. And his name is Angus McEwen. And he is Angus McEwen: Well laddie, I'm happy to be here. sitting right here. Mr. McEwen. Thank you so much for coming in.

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Morton Marcus: You are a- adept and an aficionado of Robert Burns. Angus McEwen: Any Scotsman is laddie, let me tell you that. Robert Burns may be one of the great poets of the English

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language. Morton Marcus: Well, you've said that, not only would you read his poem "Halloween", but would actually tell us what was going on in the different sections, because I must say this poem

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sort of confused me. So if you'll read this English translation- Angus McEwen: I'm doing this against my better judgment. You must know that to put a poem in the Scottish brogue into the

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English language is a great insult. Morton Marcus: Yes, well, I understand that. But, you know, will- you will read the poem, I hope. Angus McEwen: I will read the poem and I'll comment on it. And

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the poem HALLOWEEN by Robert Burns, and here it is in this rather miserable rendition.

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Morton Marcus: Upon the night, when light fairies on Cassilis Low-lands dance, or over the pastures, in splendid blaze, on sprightly swift horses prance. Or for Colean road is taken. Beneath the moon's pale beams, there up the Cove, to stray and

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rove, among the rocks and streams to sport that night. Among the lovely winding banks, where river Doon runs winding clear, where Bruce once ruled the martial ranks and shook his Carrick spear. Some merry, friendly, country folk together

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did convene to burn their nuts and pull their plants and keep their Halloween full blythe that night. Angus McEwen: Well, let me tell you, interrupting that, that what this poem is going to be about, is about a bunch of young

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people and how we celebrate Halloween in Scotland. And what we do is, we play games which are really charms and hopes for the future. And pulling plants and burning nuts is the way we do it. And I'll be telling you about that.

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A girl spruce and cleanly neat, more lovely than when they are fair. Their faces blythe full sweetly show hearts loyal, and warm, and kind. The lads so neat with love-knots, well knotted on their garters, some uncommonly shy, and some with talk, make

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girls hearts go beating, sometimes fast at night. Well, now we're coming into the first one, and the first one is pulling stalks from the plants in the cabbage fields, though they're not cabbage leaves. And the shape of them there stalks

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will be the shape of the man the girls will marry, and vice versa, what the males will marry. And when they taste these stalks, if the taste be sweet, then the marriage and the man's temper or girls temperament will be sweet. And if it is bitter,

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oh a bad marriage that's going to be. So then, Mr. Burns continues. Then first and foremost, through the cabbage, theirs- their stalks must be looked for once. They shut their eyes and grope

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and choose for big stalks and straight ones. Poor foolish Will, though, lost the way and wandered through the cabbage and pulled for want of better choice a stalk, was like a sows tail, so bent that night. Then straight or crooked, Earth or

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none, the children roar and cry pell-mell. The very children and toddling run with stalks over their shoulders, as if the pith is sweet or sour with pocket knives, they taste them. Then cozily above the door with prudent care, they have placed

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them to lie that night. So what we do is we put the stalks above the door so the prophecy will come true. Well, now here is one. The girls stole from among them all, to pull their stalks of

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corn, but Robert Burns slips out, and dodges about behind the large thorn. He gripped Nellie about the waist hard and fast, loud squealed all the girls, but her grain at the tippy-top was most lost when cuddling in the hole in the corn stack with

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Robert Burns that night. Well, what we have here is an interesting little reference to Bobby Burns at 15 years of age, putting his arms around Nellie or Nell, who was his first love. And what's so interesting about

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that is, though they were never married, Robert Burns wrote his first poems to Nell, and that i what he said to his dying days was how he began to write poetry. Well, the next game, o the next charm, is burning nut and when the nuts burn, and the

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crack, you can tell who, if yo name those nuts, your husban will be, or your wife will be So now we go inside the house The old housewife's well- oarded nuts are round and round ivided, and many lads' and irls' fates are there that

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ight decided. Some inflame omfortably, some side by side nd burn together trimly, some f these little nuts start away ith saucy pride and jump over he fireplace full high that ight. Jean slips in two with atchful eye; who it was, she

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ould not tell. But "this is Jock and this is me," he whispers to herself. He blazed over her, and she over him and they would never part more, till puff! he started, did that little nut up the chimney and Jean had ever a sore heart to see it that night.

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And poor Willie, with his cabbage stalk was burnt with prim Molly. And Mary, no doubt, took the huff to be compared with Willie. Mall's nut leaped out with prideful start, and her own foot, it burnt it. While Willie leaped and swore by jing

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it was just the way he wanted to be that night. Nell had the hole in the corn stalk in her mind. She puts herself and Robert Burns in. In loving blaze they sweetly join, till white in shes they are sobbing. Nell's eart was dancing at the view.

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he whispered Rob to look for t. Robert but stealth tasted er lovely mouth, full cozy in he corner of it. Unseen by thers that night. But Marian et back behind their backs her houghts on Andrew Bell. She eaves them gabbing at their

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alk and slips out by herself. he through the yard the nearest akes into the kiln she goes hen, and in the dark grasps for ross beams and in the blue-clue hrows then, right afraid that ight.

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Well now this yard is the third charm. You'll find the surname of your future spouse. If you go to the kiln and throw in a bit of blue flannel. And if you can see who your future husband will be, if you wish on it that night.

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And always Marian whelmed it, and always she sweated. I bet she made no trifling till something held within the kiln pot. Good Lord, but she was quaking. But whether it was the devil himself she saw, or whether it was a beam end, or

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whether it was Andrew Bell. She did not wait on talking to ask anyone that evening. And now in the house, little Jenny asks her grandmother if she can look in a mirror, because it was believed if you

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look in the mirror and think hard enough, you'll see your future husband. So, Little Jenny to her grandmother says, 'Would you go with me, g andmother? To eat the apple, a the mirror, I got from uncle J

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hnny.' She puffed her pipe w th such a smoke. The old w man, in wrath, she was so p avish, she noticed it not a c n- a cinder burned. Her l vely, new, worsted apron, out t rough the night. And she said, ' ou little s

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elpie-limmer's-face. I dare y u try such sporting, as seek t e Devil any place for him to te l your fortune, no doubt but yo may get a sight. Great curse yo have to fear it for many a on has gotten a fright and li ed and died delirious mad, on

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uch a night for looking in the mirror. One harvest before the Sherra-moor, I remember it wel as last night. I was a you g girl then, I am sure I was not past 15. The summer had been col and wet, and the grain was ver green and always rollicking har

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est-home we got, and just on Hal oween. It fell that night. Our chief harvester was Rab M'G aen, a clever, sturdy fel ow. His son got Eppie Sim wit child, that lived Ach achalla. He got hemp-seed, I rem mber it well, and he made unc

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mmonly light of it. But many a d y was by himself, off his wit . He was so sorely fri htened. That very night. Well, that's what happens when you look in the mirror but also what happens when you use some of this here hemp-seed because

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one of the things was that you take a handful of hemp-seed, and you go outside all by yourself and you throw it over your left shoulder, and then you see possibly who you might marry, the next person you see. And so as the old woman starts ta-

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stops talking, we hear of this. Then up got fighting Jamie Fleck and he swore by his conscience that he could sow hemp-seed, for it was all but merely nonsense. The old master of the house reached down the sack and out a

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handful gave him then bade Jimmy Fleck slip from among the folk. Sometime when no one saw him, and try it that night. Well, Jamie marches through among the stacks, though he was something staggered. The manure-fork, he for a harrow takes and trails at

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his crupper and every now and then he says 'hemp-seed I sow you, and her that is to be my girlfriend come after me and draw you as fast this night.' Jamie whistled up Lord Lennox March to keep his courag cheery, although his hair bega

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to arch, he was so scared an awe-stricken. Till presently h hears a squeak and then a groa and grunt. He round hi shoulder, he gave a look, an tumbled with a somersault ove and over that night. He roared horrid murder-shout, in dreadfu

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desperation, and young and ol came running out, and to hea the sad narration. He swore i was halting stammering Jea McCraw or hunchback Maria Humphie, tell stop! She trotte through them all. And it was bu a pig that had become astir tha

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night And the sixth charm is when you go to the barn and you take a corn winnowing tool to summon up a ghost for no reason but to see a ghost. And that's Meg, and Meg, says Robert Burns,

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Meg desirous would to the barn have gone, to winnow three measures of nothing but for to meet the Devil all by herself. She put but little faith in. She gives the shepherd a few nuts and two red-cheeked apples to watch, while for the barn she

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sets in hopes to see Tam Kipples that very night. She turns the key with careful twist and over the threshold ventures. But first on Alexander gives a call. Then boldly in she enters. A rat rattled up the wall, and she cried, 'Lord preserve us.' And

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ran through the dunghill gutter and all and prayed with zeal and fervor full fast that entire night. Then, a group of children urged out poor-willed Will, with sore advice. They promised him some fine lovely one. It chanced the stack he fathomed it three

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times, was timber propped for throwing. He takes a twisted old moss-oak for some black, gruesome old woman and uttered a curse and made a hit, till skin in shreds came hurling off his fists that night.

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And that was old Will though he seemed lost in the cabbage. Who go where- goes to the haystack, and then looks in to see who he will see, whether it will be his mate. And he sees this old gruesome woman. And then the eighth spell of the nine, is to

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dip one's lifts from a sleeve in a spring or stream. And then when you go to bed, suddenly, your- the ghost of the Phantom of your mate will come and take your sleeve and put it outside the covers so it will dry, and that's how you know who you will

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marry. And that is a wanton wizard- I'm sorry, I didn't tell you all I said, because what you do is, first you put out three bowls. One is a bowl of clear water, another is a bowl of dirty water, and a third is an empty bowl, and if you- if you

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put- if you dip your sleeve in the clear bowl and the Phantom comes, why then you can marry a very mild mannered and lovely person. But if you put it in a bitter bowl, you'll have a bitter mate. And if you put it in an empty bowl, you'll never

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get married at all. A wanton widow Leezie was, as lively as a kitten. But och! that night, among the woods, she got a fearful settling. She through the gorse, and by the cairn and over the hill went

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careering, where three lairds' lands met at a stream to dip her left shirt sleeve in and was bent to it that night. Now over a waterfall the steam plays as through the glen it meandered, sometimes rock- a rocky- sometimes round a rocky cliff it

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strays. Sometimes in a eddy, it dimpled it. Sometimes glittered to the nightly rays with bickering, dancing dazzle. Sometimes a stream hid underneath the hill sides, below the spreading hazel unseen that night. Among the ferns, on th

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hillside, between her and he moon, the Devil, or else a young cow in the open, got up an gave a croon. And poor eezie's heart almost leaped he sheath. Near lark high she ju ped, but missed a foot, and in the pool out over the ears. She

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plumped with a plunge in t e wate And now the ninth which is the three small dishes, arrayed with clean water, dirty water and empty water. In order, on the clean hearth-stone, the three small

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dishes are ranged. And every time great care is taken to see them duly changed. Old uncle John, who wedlock's joys since Mar's-year 1715 did desire, because he got the empty dish three times. He heaved all three of them in the fire, in his

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wrath that night. Ah, with merry songs and friendly talk, I wager they did not weary at wonderous tales and funny jokes. The children in sports were cheap and cheery. Till buttered sows, with fragrant smoke set all their tongues a wagging. Then

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with a social glass of liquor, they parted off careering full blythe, that Halloween night. Morton Marcus: And if you just tuned in, we were reading Robert Burns's, poem "Halloween." I want to thank Mr. Angus McEwen

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for coming in and reading that poem. Thank you, Angus. Angus McEwen: I- You're welcome, laddie. I'll do it anytime, and I'd love to read Tam O'Shanter, if you have it- time for it tonight.

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Morton Marcus: Well, we'll see about that, Angus. But again, thank you and thank you for all your explanations of those wonderful little games, and charms, and spells in old Scotland and how they celebrated Scotland, actually, almost

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150-200 years ago. This is Morton Marcus and this is a special Halloween show and, boy, look how much time that took. Before we take a break, let me read you a very quick story. This- from America, everything from the rest of the night will

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be from America. And this is a story by Octavio Paz, the great Mexican poet. And it is a Halloween story, as far as I'm concerned, but south of the border, Central America and its called:

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THE BLUE BOUQUET When I woke up, I was soaked with sweat. The floor of my room had been freshly sprinkled and a warm vapor was rising from the red tiles. A moth flew around and around the naked bulb,

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dazzled by the light. I got out of the hammock and walked barefoot across the room, being careful not to step on a scorpion, if one had come out of its hiding place to enjoy the coolness of the floor. I stood at the windows for a few

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minutes, breathing in the air from the fields and listening to the vast, feminine breathing of the night. Then I walked over to the washstand, poured some water into the enamel basin, and moistened the towel. I rubbed my chest and legs with the damp

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cloth, dried myself a little, and got dressed, first making sure that no bugs had got into the seams of my clothes. I went leaping down the green-painted staircase and blundered into the hotelkeeper at the door. He was blind in one eye, a glum and

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reticent man, sitting there in a rush chair, smoking a cigarette, with his one eye half closed. Now he peered at me with that good eye. 'Where are you going senor?' he asked in a hoarse voice. 'To take a walk. It's just too hot to stay in my

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room.' 'But everything's closed up now. And we don't have any street lights here. You'd better stay in.' I shrugged my shoulders and mumbled, 'I'll be right back,' and went out into the darkness. At first I couldn't see anything at all. I

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groped my way along the stone-paved street. I lit a cigarette. Suddenly the moon came out from behind a black cloud, lighting up a weather-beaten white wall. I stopped in my tracks, blinded by that whiteness. A faint breeze

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stirred the air, I could smell the fragrance of the tamarind trees. The night was murmurous with the sounds of leaves and insects. The crickets had bivouacked among the tall weeds. I raised my eyes. Up there, the stars were also camping out. I

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thought that the whole universe was a grand system of signals, a conversation among enormous beings. My own actions, the creak of a cricket, the blinking of a star, were merely pauses and syllables, odd fragments of that dialogue. I was only one

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syllable if only one word. But what was that word? Who was uttering it? And to whom? I tossed my cigarette onto the sidewalk. It fell in a glowing arc, giving out spar- giving off sparks, like a miniature comet. I walked on, slowly, for a long

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while. I felt safe and free, because those great lips were pronouncing me so clearly, so joyously from heaven. The night, in fact, seemed to be a garden of eyes. Then when I was crossing a street, I could tell that

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someone had come out of a doorway. I turned around but couldn't see anything. I began to walk faster. A moment later, I could hear the scuff of huaraches on the warm stones. I didn't want to look back even though I knew the shadow was

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catching up with me. I tried to run. I couldn't. Then I stopped short. And before I could defend myself, I thought the point of a knife against my back and a soft voice said, 'Don't move senor, or you're dead.' Without turning my head, I asked, 'What do you

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want?' 'Your eyes, senor?' His voice was strangely gentle. almost embarrassed. 'My eyes? What are you going to do with my eyes? Look, I got a little money. on me. Not much, but it's something. I'll give you everything I've got if you'll-

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if you let me go. Don't kill me.' 'You shouldn't be scared, senor, I'm not going to kill you. I just want your eyes,' 'But what- what do you want them for?' 'It's my sweetheart's idea. She'd like to have a bouquet of blue eyes. There are

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many people around here that have blue eyes.' 'Mine won't do you any good. They aren't blue. They're light brown,' 'No, senor. Don't try to fool me. I know they're blue.' But we're both Christians, hombre! You can't just gouge my eyes out.

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I'll give you everything I've got on me.' 'Don't be so squeamish, turn around.' I turned around. He was short and slight, with a palm sombrero half covering his face. He had a long machete in his right hand, it glittered in the moonlight.

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[cut off] -276695 or online at, 'ucscextension.edu.' Stay tuned right after this for "From the Bookshelf," hosted by Billy Harris, who brings us the wonderful actor and drama

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teacher Sue Clough pronounced to rhyme with "So" so it's Sue So, now its Sue Clough. That's it, to read "Mrs. Bixby and the Colonel's Coat" by Roald Dahl, who is a pretty scary and a pretty terrific writer. That is at nine o'clock tonight, as we

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continue the Halloween celebration on KUSP. And looking for an intelligent and useful movie review? Find them at Kusp.org/film, kusp.org/film. The KUSP film gang reviews new movies each week, and their comments are just a click away,

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at Kusp.org. Click the archives for reviews of films now at Area theaters are available on video. And finally, we got this in. The Subterranean Beat Revival Saturday, November 13 starting at 9pm at The Fernando on highway one in Big Sur. Nine

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poets will read open mic, and all I'll say about that is just call Michael at 831, this area code, 667-2422. That is if you're interested in The Subterranean Beat Revival, call Michael at 831-667-2422. And we now continue with the show and I

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think what we'll read is, read a little modern poetry and Bob, who will introduce himself, will read one of his favorite Halloween poems and tell you a little bit about it. Bob Spitz: Yes, it's a poem by E.E. Cummings, and little

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magical sort of play with words, you know. It's called HIST WHIS Hist whist, little ghost things, tip-toe twinkle-toe. Little twitchy, witches and tingling, goblins hob-a-nob hob-a-nob.

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Little hoppy happy, toad in tweeds tweeds. Little itchy mousies with scuttling eyes, rustle and run and hide, hide, hide. Whisk, whisk look out for the old woman with the wart on her nose. What she'll do to yer, nobody knows, for she knows the

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devil, ooch. The devil, ouch. The devil, ach. The great green dancing devil, devil, devil, devil. wheeEEE. Morton Marcus: And as was announced throughout the week, I will read one, maybe later, another poem on Halloween, that

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I've written. And this is very appropriate because this is called THE POETS' HALLOWEEN There must be a poets' Halloween, a night the old

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poets, now frayed gray, filaments, sway up from their native Earth and return. I don't know the date. The calendar reveals nothing but birthdays, death days, saint's days. The poets blessed us and blessed us when alive. Surely they won't

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forget us now, nor we them, at this turning point of all our years. Surely they won't abandon us to the bomb, or to terrorists, or mad politicians, who feed on our fears. Some nights I sit before the bookshelves and hear the words

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inside the books muttering and cursing under their breath, like restless prisoners in their cells. Is that the poets' holloween, do the books wait and wait for us to listen? Like a choir, ready to open their mouths, and return the poets

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from the dead. Should we go to them or to the window and look out at a landscape where the trees shake their hair and hiss, the fog flounders in, and the moon searches and searches, its astonished face playing hide and seek with four foot Draculas

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carrying plastic shopping bags. Look, the poets, there they are. Hardly a presence, no more than slurs in the air. Moonlit syllables flickering up the road, sliding among sauntering brooms and teenage witches, crepe paper cats and prancing

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rock musicians. They are only as eternal as the words they wrote, a decade or 100 years ago, for they have become their words and nothing more, and live only in our repeating what they said. Words that at one and the same time, are invocations that

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summon their present- presence and spells that keep us hopeful and forever young. So there is certainly my sense of the importance of poets on this Halloween night. And you know, I was going to read you

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three stories by American masters, because certainly we are masters in this kind of writing and I find that I'm probably not going to have time but let me name these masters first. Washington Irving, the first internationally recognized

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American writer in the 1820s and 1830s. When people realized there was not- there was a cultural life over here. And following him, really living at the same time, the great Edgar Allan Poe. A writer who is much- should be taken much more

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seriously is Nathaniel Hawthorne, whose short stories I urge you to read. They are- they're really wonders, most of you know "The Scarlet Letter," and maybe, "The House of the Seven Gables," but his stories are really wonderful. I don't

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know when I'm gonna have time to read "Dr. Heidegger's Experiment," but certainly, let me just mention, "My Kinsman, Major Molineux," one of the great American stories of all time and pretty horrifying. "Young Goodman Brown," "The

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Minister's Black Veil," "Dr. Heidegger's Experiment," "The Birth-Mark," "The Artist of the Beautiful," "Rappaccini's Daughter," just great tales. But for tonight, I want to go to Edgar Allan Poe for a story that- maybe 150 years later,

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sounds completely different than when he wrote it because of its psychology. Poe, who is picked up by the French, especially the great Charles Baudelaire, who I've read on this program before, translated into beautiful French, so that he

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reads much better in French, even though he reads in English, told stories of mystery and horror, but they really were stories about the dark side of the human psyche. And he believed that we rose through creativity and the imagination.

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But in the end, we're moving back to death and desolation, and that was through the dark side that in the end would kill us. And this story, "The Black Cat," is a perfect example of that. But more to me, amazes me because it follows the idea and

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themes of Fyodor Dostoevsky, who said, "Man is not ruled by reason, but by whim," and I think that what Poe would say is, "You're right. Man is not ruled by reason. But I would not say it's whim. I would say it's just natural perversity."

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THE BLACK CAT By Edgar Allan Poe. For the most wild, yet homely narrative which I am about to pen, I neither expect nor solicit belief. Mad indeed would

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I be to expect it, in a case where my very senses reject their own evidence. Yet, mad am I not, and very surely do I not dream. But tomorrow, I die, and today I would unburthen my soul. My immediate purpose is to place before the world plainly,

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succinctly and without comment, a series of mere household events. In their consequences these events have terrified, have tortured, have destroyed me. Yet I will attempt to expound them. To me, they have presented little but horror, to

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many they will seem less terrible than barroques. Hereafter, perhaps, some intellect may found- may be found which will reduce my phantasm to the common-place, some intellect more calm, more logical and far less excitable

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than my own, which will perceive in the circumstances I detail here with awe, nothing more than an ordinary succession of very natural causes and effects. From my infancy, I was noted for the docility and humanity of my disposition. My tenderness of

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heart was even so conspicuous as to make me the jest of my companions. I was especially fond of animals, and was indulged by my parents with a great variety of pets. With these I spent most of my time, and never was so happy is when

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feeding and caressing them. This peculiar- peculiarity of character grew with my growth and in my manhood, I derived from it one of my principal sources of pleasure. To those who have cherished an affection for a faithful and sagacious

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dog, I need hardly be at the trouble of explaining the nature or the intensity of the gratification thus, derivable. There is something in the unselfish and unsa- self-sacrificing love of a brute, which goes directly to

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the heart of a man who has had frequent occasion to test the paltry friendship and gossamer fidelity of either man or woman. I married early, and was happy to find in my wife a disposition not uncongenial with my own. Observing my partiality for

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domestic pets, she lost no opportunity of procuring those of the most agreeable kind. We had birds, goldfish, a fine dog, rabbits, a small monkey, and a cat. This latter was a remarkably large and beautiful animal, entirely black and

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sagacious to an astonishing degree. In speaking of his intelligence, my wife, who at heart was not a little tinctured with superstition, made frequent allusion to the ancient popular notion, which regarded all black cats as witches in disguise. Not

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that she was ever serious upon this point. And I mentioned the matter at all, for no better reason, than it happens just now that I remember it. Puto- this was the cat's name- was my favorite pet and playmate. I alone fed him, and he attended

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me wherever I went about the house. It was even with difficulty that I could prevent him from following me through the streets. Our friendship lasted, in this manner, for several years during which my general temperament and

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character, through the instrumentality of the Fiend Intemperance, yes drink, had I blush to confess it, experienced a radical alteration for the worse. I drank, and I grew day by day more moody, more irritable, more regardless of

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the feelings of others. I suffered myself to use intemperate language to my wife. At length, I even offered her personal violence. My pets, of course, were made to feel the change in my disposition, as well. I not only neglected but

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ill used them. For Pluto, however, I still retained sufficient regard to restrain me from maltreating him, as I made no scruple of maltreating the rabbits, the monkey, or even the dog, when by accident, or through affection, they came in

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my way. But my disease, my alcoholic disease, grew upon me for what disease is like alcohol. At length even Pluto, was now becoming old, and consequently somewhat peevish, even Pluto began to experience the effects of my ill temper.

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One night, returning home much intoxicated from one of my haunts about town, I fancied that the cat avoided my presenc. I seized him then, when, in his firght at my violence he inflicted a slight wound upon my hand with his teeth. The fury of

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a demon instantly possessed me. I knew myself no longer. My original soul seemed, at once, to take its flight from my own body, and more than fiendish malevolence, gin-nurtured, thrilled every fibre of my frame. I took form my

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waistcoat-pocket a pen-knife opened it, grasped the poor beast by the throat and deliberately cut out one of its eyes from the socket. I blush, I burn, I shudder, while I pen that damnable atrocity. When reason returned with morning

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light, when I had slept off the fumes of the night's debauch, I experienced the sentiment half of horror, half of remorse, for the crime of which I had been guilty. But it was, at best, a feeble and equivocal feeling, and my soul remained untouched.

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I again plunged into excessive drink, and soon drowned in wine, all memory of the deed. In the meantime, the cat slowly recovered. The socket of the lost eye presented, it is true, a frightful appearance, but he no longer appeared to suffer any

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pain. He went about the house as usual, but as might be expected, fled in extreme terror at my approach. I had so much of my old heart left, as to be at first grieved by this evident dislike on the part of a creature which had once so loved

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me. But this feeling soon gave place to irritation. And then came, as if my final and irrevocable overthrow, the spirit of perverseness. Of this spirit philosophy takes no account. Yet I am not more sure that my soul lives, that I am

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that perverseness is one of the primitive impulses of the human heart, one of the indivisible primary faculties, or sentiments which give direction to the character of humans. Who has not, a hundred times, found himself committing a vile or a

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silly action for no other reason than because he knows he should not? Have we not a perpetual inclination, in the teeth of our best judgment, to violate that which is a Law, merely because we understand it to be such? This spirit of perverseness, I

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say, came to my final overthrow. It was this unfathomable longing of the soul to vex itself- to offer violence to its own nature- to do wrong for the wrong's sake only- that urged me to continue and finally to consummate the injury I had

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inflicted upon the unoffending brute. One morning, in cool blood, I slipped a noose about the cat's neck and hung it to the limb of a tree, hung it with the tears streaming from my eyes and with the bitterest remorse at my heart. Hung it because I

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knew that it had loved me. And because I felt it had given me no reason of offense. Hung it because I knew that in so doing, I was committing a sin, a deadly sin that would so jeopardize my immortal soul as to place it, if such a thing were possible, even

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beyond the reach of the infinite mercy of the Most Merciful and Most Terrible God. On the night of the day on which this cruel deed was done, I was aroused from sleep by the cry of fire. The curtains on my bed were in flames. The whole house was

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blazing. It was with great difficulty that my wife, a servant, and myself, made our escape from the conflagration. The destruction of the house, however, was complete. My entire worldly wealth was swallowed up, and I resigned myself henceforth

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to despair. I am above the weakness of seeking to establish a sequence of cause and effect between the disaster and the atrocity. But I am detailing a chain of facts and wish not to leave, even a possible link imperfect. On the day succeeding

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the fire. I visited the ruins. The walls, with one exception, had fallen in. This exception was found in a compartment hole, not very thick, which stood about the middle of the house and against which had rested the head of my bed. The plastering

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had here in great measure resist to the action of the fire effect, which I attributed to its having been recently spread. About this wall, a dense crowd had collected, and many persons seemed to be examining a particular portion of it with

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very minute and eager attention. The words 'strange!' 'singular!' and other similar expressions, excited my curiosity. I approached and saw, as if graven in bas relief upon the white surface of the wall, the figure of a gigantic cat. The

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impression was given with an accuracy truly marvelous there was a rope about the animal's neck. When I first beheld, this apparition, probably could squarely scarcely be regarded as less, I wonder and my terror were extreme. But at length

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reflection came to my aid. The cat I remembered had been hung in a garden adjacent to the house, upon the alarm of fire. This garden had been immediately filled by the crowd, by some one of whom the animal must have been cut from the tree and

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thrown through an open window into my chamber. This had probably been done with a view of arousing me from sleep of falling over the walls it can press the victim of my cruelty into the substance of the freshly spread plaster. The lime

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of which, with the flames and the ammonia from the carcass, had then accomplished the portraiture on the wall, as I saw it. Although I thus readily accounted into my reason, if not altogether to my conscience, for the startling fact just

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detailed, it did not the list failed to make a deep impression upon my fancy. For months I cannot rid myself of the Phantasm of the cat. And during this period there came back into my spirit, a half-sentiment that seemed, but was not, remorse. I

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went so far as to regret the loss of the animal and to look about me among the vile haunts which I now habitually frequented, for another pet of the same species and of somewhat similar appearance, with which to supply its place. One night

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as I sat, half stupified, in a den of more than infamy, my attention was suddenly drawn to some black object, reposing upon the head of one of the immense hogsheads of Gin, or Rum, which constituted the chief furniture of this bar, or inn, if you

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will. I had been looking steadily at the top of this hogshead for some minutes, and what now caused me surprise was the fact that I had no sooner perceived the object there upon. I approached it, and touched it with my hand. It was a black

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cat, a very large one, fully as large as Pluto, and closely resembling him in every respect but one. Pluto had not a white hair upon any portion of his body, but this cat had a large although indefinite splotch of white, covering nearly the whole

00:50:52.000 - 00:51:10.000

region of his breast. Upon my touching him, immediately rose, purred loudly, rubbed against my hand, and appeared delighted with my notice. This then, was the very creature of which I was in search. I at once offered to purchase it of the landlord, but

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the landlord made no claim to it, knew nothing of it, had never seen it before. I continued my caresses, and when I prepared to go home, the animal evinced a disposition to accompany me. I permitted it to do so, occasionally stooping and

00:51:25.390 - 00:51:43.090

patting it as I proceeded. When it reached the house, it domesticated itself at once, and became immediately a great favorite with my wife. For my own part, I soon found a dislike to it arising within me. This was just the reverse of what I

00:51:43.090 - 00:51:59.860

had anticipated, but I know not how, or why it was. It's evident fondness for myself rather disgusted and annoyed me. By slow degrees, these feelings of disgust and annoyance rose into bitterness of hatred. I avoided the creature; a certain sense of

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shame, and the remembrance of my former deed of cruelty, preventing me from physically abusing it. I did not, for some weeks, strike, or otherwise violently ill use it. But gradually, very gradually, I came to look upon it with

00:52:15.610 - 00:52:32.770

unutterable loathing, and to flee silently from its odious presence, as from a breath of a pestilence. What added, no doubt, to my hatred of the beast, was the discovery on the morning after I brought it home, that, like Pluto, it also had

00:52:32.770 - 00:52:47.860

been deprived of one of its eyes. This circumstance, however, only endeared it to my wife, who, as I have already said, possessed, in a high degree that humanity a feeling, which had once been my distinguishing trait, and the

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source of many of my simplest and purest pleasures. With my aversion to this cat, however, it's partiality for myself seemed to increase. It followed my footsteps with a pertinacity which it would be difficult to make the reader comprehend.

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Whenever I sat, it would crouch beneath my chair, or spring upon my knees, covering me with its loathsome caresses. If I arose to walk, it would get between my feet and thus nearly throw me down, or, fastening its long and sharp claws on my chest clamber,

00:53:22.300 - 00:53:40.180

in this manner, to my breast. And such times, although I longed to destroy it with a blow, I was yet withheld from so doing, partly by a memory of my former crime, but chiefly, let me confess it at once, by absolute dread of the beast.

00:53:42.850 - 00:53:58.840

This dread was not exactly a dread of physical evil, and yet I should be at a loss how otherwise to define it. I am almost ashamed to own, yes, even in this felon's cell where now I sit, I'm almost ashamed to own, that the terror and horror with

00:53:58.840 - 00:54:13.480

which the animal inspired me, had been heightened by one of the merest chimæras, it would be possible to conceive. My wife had called attention, more than once, to the character of the mark of white hair, of which I have spoken, and which

00:54:13.480 - 00:54:27.640

constituted the sole visible difference between the strange beasts and the one I had destroyed. The reader will remember that this mark, although large, had been originally very indefinite, but by slow degrees- degrees, nearly

00:54:27.640 - 00:54:44.920

imperceptible, and which for a long time my reason struggled to reject this fanciful- it had, at length, assumed a rigorous distinctness of outline. It was now the representation of an object that I shudder to name- and for this, above all, I

00:54:44.920 - 00:55:02.380

loathed and dreaded and would have rid myself, of the monster had I dared- it was now I say, the image of a hideous, of a ghastly thing, of a hangman's rope, mournful and terrible engine of Horror and of Crime- Agony and Death, a hangman's

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rope around the cat's neck. And now was I indeed wretched beyond the wretched of mere Humanity. And a brute beast, whose fellow I had contemptuously destroyed- a brute beast to work out for me- for me a man, fashioned in the image of a High God- so much

00:55:21.790 - 00:55:40.510

of insufferable wo. Alas! neither by day nor by night knew I the blessing of Rest anymore. During the form of the creature left me no moment alone. And in the latter, I started hourly from dreams of unutterable fear.

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And guess what, folks, you're going to have to find out how this story ends because we have gone over our time on this Halloween night. And this is Morton Marcus just reminding you that this program is supported by UC Extension Humanities and

00:55:58.750 - 00:56:16.480

Human Development, offering four classes in Santa Cruz including "Facing Loss," "Opening the Sacred," as well as "The Magical Isles: a Tour of Ancient Sites of Britain," of the British Isles led by Myra Freeman. Call 427-6695 and right now, stay

00:56:16.480 - 00:56:28.360

tuned for, "From the Bookshelf," where Sue Clough will read a story by Roald Dahl. See you next week when I'll be interviewing J.P. Dancing Bear. This is The Poetry Show.