"The Raven", annotated

Most people hitting this page seem to be looking for the search query "Aidenn". I'm guessing because it's becoming a popular boy's name. The word means paradise in Arabic. Poe uses it to refer to a neutral afterlife, not--as some passionate new goths choose to presume--hell.

With the double-ens at the end I would think the name should be pronounced A-den with emphasis equal on both syllables, as opposed to A-dən emphasizing the first syllable. For this reason, people might accidentally infer it is a girl's name.

Best to just stick with the "Aden" spelling. Or choose a different name.

The funny thing about boy's names is they are occasionally snapped up to become girl's names (Stacy, Tracy, Terry, and many others) but hardly ever the other way around (Frank).

First, why annotate "The Raven"? The poem has been churned through the poor brains of so many high school freshmen that it fairly reeks with the tortured theses of generations of numb minded sluggards, dragging themselves through their education by sheer force of will.

Poe himself offered a superior investigation some 150 years ago.

I was bothered by imagery. Not the room's opulence contrasting the striken mind, nor the smooth, white bust under the raven's treach'rus black plumes; I find it hard to believe a bust mounted above a door would stick out enough for a large bird like a raven to perch, and that no contrivence of lighting could cast a shadow from the raven onto the floor. Basically, it sounds like a very crowded doorjamb. Or should I type "crow"ded.

Let us begin with incontrovertable visual evidence.

Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above the chamber door, the lamp-light over him streaming throws his shadow on the floor. The shadow reaches the velvet lining of the wheeled, cushioned seat, which has been moved before bird, bust and door.
Verily, this is a sight to fill one's tempestous night with the human thirst for self-torture!

However, you will find the image brings our hero back full circle to chuckle at the ridiculous sight of an ungainly fowl perched on a bust above the door, because it highlights the funhouse proportions of the room and its mantle of curiousities. The protagonist is either very short, or more popularly deduced, a cripple--witness the "wheeled" chair. Makes one wonder whether Lenore is actually within the distant Aidenn, or merely run off with a whole man. Further supporting the cripple-protagonist theory (CplPT for short, but will henceforth be called alternate motility prototheory in this document) is the position of the window with respect to the desk. Surely a very short man could not open there fling the shutter, unless his arms were of as uncommon length as his legs are short. No, our man is in a wheelchair, and Leonore ran off with an Hungarian prospector.

Pallas is another name for the Goddess Athena. Or it may be her father, or sister. The issue is complex. The name was used for something like ten different or overlapping figures from Greek mythology. But, in general, it's a synonym, first name, or alias for Athena. Here's the name in Greek, as chiseled in the bust's stand:
Παλλάς Άθήνη
Pi alpha lamda lamda alpha sigma
Alpha theta eta nu eta

Poe says he chose Pallas because the name sounds good, but also because the lover is a scholar, and scholars—as we know—are wont to keep phony Greek shit nearby to broadcast their seriousness. Athena is the Goddess of Wisdom.

"Prospector," ask you? Turn your eye again to the text:

The "Plutonian Shores" on the southern rim of Lake Balaton are host to the last remaining wild source of the Gileadbalm fish. THAT is where he damns the raven to, for THAT, my friends, is where Lenore is running around with her beauhunk prospector of rare radiogenic elements. So rare, in fact, that it does not occur in nature, but never mind that.

THE RAVEN. Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. "'Tis some visiter," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door -- Only this, and nothing more."

"Quaint and curious volume of forogotten lore," is an artistic way to describe porn. The perv.
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December, And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow; -- vainly I had sought to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow -- sorrow for the lost Lenore -- For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore -- Nameless here for evermore.

Can't sleep, so he's reading funny old books. Euphamism for more porn.
And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me -- filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating "'Tis some visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door -- Some late visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door; -- This it is, and nothing more."
I don't know if it's really his curtains rustling (see the image above--no purple in the room at all, let alone curtains), or a poetic way to describe dark sheets of rain.
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, "Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, That I scarce was sure I heard you " -- here I opened wide the door; ---- Darkness there and nothing more.

A strange thing to holler at somebody before going through the trouble of actually letting them in.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before; But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token, And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore!" This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!" -- Merely this, and nothing more.

I don't know if there was really an echo in the chamber, or the guy just whispered "Lenore!" twice. Or did the raven mimic him? How could it have heard his whisper from outside on a stormy night?
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, Soon I heard again a tapping somewhat louder than before. "Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice; Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore -- Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;-- 'Tis the wind and nothing more!"

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore; Not the least obeisance made he; not an instant stopped or stayed he; But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door -- Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door -- Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
"Flirt and flutter" is supposed to be comical.
I don't know why the bird is "of the saintly days of yore".
Very aloof bird. Supposed to be funny. Laugh, laugh like you're watching Shakespeare in the park with your brie and turtleneck and you REALLY get the lame sex puns.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, "Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven, Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shore -- Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!" Quoth the raven "Nevermore."

He means the bird is bold.

And from hell.

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, Though its answer little meaning -- little relevancy bore; For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door -- Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door, With such name as "Nevermore."

Most people don't have sculputred busts above their doors, so he wins the contest by default.
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. Nothing farther then he uttered -- not a feather then he fluttered -- Till I scarcely more than muttered "Other friends have flown before -- On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before." Then the bird said "Nevermore."

We find out why he can't really keep any friends later in the poem.
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, "Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore -- Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore Of "Never -- nevermore."

The crow learned to speak from its previous owner, who was so bummed all the time that his depressing mantras were laced with "nevermore".
But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling, Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door; Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore -- What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore Meant in croaking "Nevermore."

A little too fancy, his fancy, methinks.
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core; This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplght gloated o'er, But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er, She shall press, ah, nevermore!

The bird didn't raise the subject of Lenore. Our pathetic hero did.
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by Angels whose faint foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor. "Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee -- by these angels he hath sent thee Respite -- respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore; Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!" Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."
Bird's not so funny any more is it?
Censer is the guy swinging the smoking thing in church. The invisible foot-falls might be drips of water falling off the wet Raven.
Nepenthe is a potion that makes people forget. Quaffing is what rugby players do to their beer.
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! -- prophet still, if bird or devil! -- Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted -- On this home by Horror haunted -- tell me truly, I implore -- Is there -- is there balm in Gilead? -- tell me -- tell me, I implore!" Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."

Tempter's the debil.
Desert land enchanted might be an allusion to the magical island from The Tempest. Or not.
Balm of Gilead is a soothing ointment from Jerusalem.
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil -- prophet still, if bird or devil! By that Heaven that bends above us -- by that God we both adore -- Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore -- Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore." Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."

Aidenn just means afterlife, I think. The raven's not saying Lenore's in Hell, just that the hero has no hope of ever seeing her again.
"Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting -- "Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore! 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!" Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."

Poe characters shriek whenever possible. And if this is how he treats his guests, it's no wonder he's all alone.
And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming, And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor; And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted -- nevermore!

Pallid Pallas. That's called "ALLITERATION". Look for it elsewhere in the poem for bonus points.

Most people hitting this page seem to be looking for the search query "Aidenn". I'm guessing because it's becoming a popular boy's name. The word means paradise in Arabic. Poe uses it to refer to a neutral afterlife, not--as some passionate new goths choose to presume--hell. With the double-ens at the end I would think the name should be pronounced A-den with emphasis equal on both syllables, as opposed to A-dən emphasizing the first syllable. For this reason, people might accidentally infer it is a girl's name. Best to just stick with the "Aden" spelling. Or choose a different name. The funny thing about boy's names is they are occasionally snapped up to become girl's names (Stacy, Tracy, Terry, and many others) but hardly ever the other way around (Frank).
First, why annotate "The Raven"? The poem has been churned through the poor brains of so many high school freshmen that it fairly reeks with the tortured theses of generations of numb minded sluggards, dragging themselves through their education by sheer force of will. Poe himself offered a superior investigation some 150 years ago. I was bothered by imagery. Not the room's opulence contrasting the striken mind, nor the smooth, white bust under the raven's treach'rus black plumes; I find it hard to believe a bust mounted above a door would stick out enough for a large bird like a raven to perch, and that no contrivence of lighting could cast a shadow from the raven onto the floor. Basically, it sounds like a very crowded doorjamb. Or should I type "crow"ded.
Let us begin with incontrovertable visual evidence. Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above the chamber door, the lamp-light over him streaming throws his shadow on the floor. The shadow reaches the velvet lining of the wheeled, cushioned seat, which has been moved before bird, bust and door. Verily, this is a sight to fill one's tempestous night with the human thirst for self-torture! However, you will find the image brings our hero back full circle to chuckle at the ridiculous sight of an ungainly fowl perched on a bust above the door, because it highlights the funhouse proportions of the room and its mantle of curiousities. The protagonist is either very short, or more popularly deduced, a cripple--witness the "wheeled" chair. Makes one wonder whether Lenore is actually within the distant Aidenn, or merely run off with a whole man. Further supporting the cripple-protagonist theory (CplPT for short, but will henceforth be called alternate motility prototheory in this document) is the position of the window with respect to the desk. Surely a very short man could not open there fling the shutter, unless his arms were of as uncommon length as his legs are short. No, our man is in a wheelchair, and Leonore ran off with an Hungarian prospector. Pallas is another name for the Goddess Athena. Or it may be her father, or sister. The issue is complex. The name was used for something like ten different or overlapping figures from Greek mythology. But, in general, it's a synonym, first name, or alias for Athena. Here's the name in Greek, as chiseled in the bust's stand: Παλλάς Άθήνη Pi alpha lamda lamda alpha sigma Alpha theta eta nu eta Poe says he chose Pallas because the name sounds good, but also because the lover is a scholar, and scholars—as we know—are wont to keep phony Greek shit nearby to broadcast their seriousness. Athena is the Goddess of Wisdom.
"Prospector," ask you? Turn your eye again to the text: The "Plutonian Shores" on the southern rim of Lake Balaton are host to the last remaining wild source of the Gileadbalm fish. THAT is where he damns the raven to, for THAT, my friends, is where Lenore is running around with her beauhunk prospector of rare radiogenic elements. So rare, in fact, that it does not occur in nature, but never mind that.
THE RAVEN. Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. "'Tis some visiter," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door -- Only this, and nothing more."	"Quaint and curious volume of forogotten lore," is an artistic way to describe porn. The perv.
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December, And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow; -- vainly I had sought to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow -- sorrow for the lost Lenore -- For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore -- Nameless here for evermore.	Can't sleep, so he's reading funny old books. Euphamism for more porn.
And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me -- filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating "'Tis some visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door -- Some late visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door; -- This it is, and nothing more."	I don't know if it's really his curtains rustling (see the image above--no purple in the room at all, let alone curtains), or a poetic way to describe dark sheets of rain.
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, "Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, That I scarce was sure I heard you " -- here I opened wide the door; ---- Darkness there and nothing more.	A strange thing to holler at somebody before going through the trouble of actually letting them in.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before; But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token, And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore!" This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!" -- Merely this, and nothing more.	I don't know if there was really an echo in the chamber, or the guy just whispered "Lenore!" twice. Or did the raven mimic him? How could it have heard his whisper from outside on a stormy night?
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, Soon I heard again a tapping somewhat louder than before. "Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice; Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore -- Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;-- 'Tis the wind and nothing more!"
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore; Not the least obeisance made he; not an instant stopped or stayed he; But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door -- Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door -- Perched, and sat, and nothing more.	"Flirt and flutter" is supposed to be comical. I don't know why the bird is "of the saintly days of yore". Very aloof bird. Supposed to be funny. Laugh, laugh like you're watching Shakespeare in the park with your brie and turtleneck and you REALLY get the lame sex puns.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, "Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven, Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shore -- Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!" Quoth the raven "Nevermore."	He means the bird is bold. And from hell.
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, Though its answer little meaning -- little relevancy bore; For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door -- Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door, With such name as "Nevermore."	Most people don't have sculputred busts above their doors, so he wins the contest by default.
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. Nothing farther then he uttered -- not a feather then he fluttered -- Till I scarcely more than muttered "Other friends have flown before -- On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before." Then the bird said "Nevermore."	We find out why he can't really keep any friends later in the poem.
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, "Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore -- Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore Of "Never -- nevermore."	The crow learned to speak from its previous owner, who was so bummed all the time that his depressing mantras were laced with "nevermore".
But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling, Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door; Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore -- What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore Meant in croaking "Nevermore."	A little too fancy, his fancy, methinks.
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core; This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplght gloated o'er, But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er, She shall press, ah, nevermore!	The bird didn't raise the subject of Lenore. Our pathetic hero did.
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by Angels whose faint foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor. "Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee -- by these angels he hath sent thee Respite -- respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore; Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!" Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."	Bird's not so funny any more is it? Censer is the guy swinging the smoking thing in church. The invisible foot-falls might be drips of water falling off the wet Raven. Nepenthe is a potion that makes people forget. Quaffing is what rugby players do to their beer.
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! -- prophet still, if bird or devil! -- Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted -- On this home by Horror haunted -- tell me truly, I implore -- Is there -- is there balm in Gilead? -- tell me -- tell me, I implore!" Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."	Tempter's the debil. Desert land enchanted might be an allusion to the magical island from The Tempest. Or not. Balm of Gilead is a soothing ointment from Jerusalem.
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil -- prophet still, if bird or devil! By that Heaven that bends above us -- by that God we both adore -- Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore -- Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore." Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."	Aidenn just means afterlife, I think. The raven's not saying Lenore's in Hell, just that the hero has no hope of ever seeing her again.
"Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting -- "Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore! 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!" Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."	Poe characters shriek whenever possible. And if this is how he treats his guests, it's no wonder he's all alone.
And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming, And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor; And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted -- nevermore!	Pallid Pallas. That's called "ALLITERATION". Look for it elsewhere in the poem for bonus points.