Luciano Duarte

In The Philosophy of Composition, Edgar Allan Poe explains in detail his process of poetic creation, exemplifying through his best-known poem, the marvelous The Raven.

Without intending to summarize even more what is already extremely summarized in the few pages of the essay, let’s go to some interesting topics.

Poe begins:

I select “The Raven” as most generally known. It is my design to render it manifest that no one point in its composition is referrible either to accident or intuition— that the work proceeded, step by step, to its completion with the precision and rigid consequence of a mathematical problem.

Any surprises? Of course not.

Sweet illusion to those who think that a great artistic creation is the fruit of any divine illumination: it is the fruit of hard work, criteria, and rigor.

The Raven is, aesthetically, impeccable. The atmosphere and musicality that emanate from this little poem are magnificent.

And it is interesting to verify the progression of Poe’s creative process: first, the idea; then, the tone; then, the format; and finally, the composition.

That is to say: by composing The Raven, by thinking about how he would develop The Raven, Poe sat already knowing what he would compose, how much he would compose, and how he would compose. The unity achieved was not the result of luck.

Another interesting aspect of The Philosophy of Composition is the way Poe emphasizes the importance of the tone of the poem: primary, once defined, influences all other stages of poetic construction.

Beauty of whatever kind, in its supreme development, invariably excites the sensitive soul to tears. Melancholy is thus the most legitimate of all the poetical tones.

And The Raven, imbued with melancholy, overflows the feeling, and the reader, in a few verses, sees himself in a similar state of mind.

This occurs, first, because of the pictorial effects: the tempestuous night, the loneliness in the room, and the raven that erupts from the darkness.

Then, because of the melancholy coming from the death of the beloved woman.

And finally, because of the repetition of the closed, grave, and long phonemes at the end of the stanzas—”nevermore”, “nevermore”, “nothing more”, “nothing more”…

The Raven is a wonderful, untranslatable poem that, after closed, remains echoing. And if something is concluded after knowing its constructive process, it is that the high level, in poetry, is reached only as a result of tremendous rigor.

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I once said that forcing the beginning of the movement of the fingers is enough for the prose to take life. Or, in other words: prose is made by force. How different is poetry! In it, there is nothing to do: for it to come out with quality, it is necessary, above all, patience. In order to begin to compose it, the poem must be practically ready, that is: structurally defined and with the verses, at least, well sketched. And patience for the terrible work of finding among hundreds of thousands of words those that express the thought, fit the rhythm, and deliver the desired sonority. And more patience: for when, after exhausting work, the poem appears finished, it is time to put it to rest. Weeks? Months? What is clear is that, without tremendous patience, the verses do not reach the desired final form.

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• The Illusion of Poetic Freedom
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All my still tiny literary production is the fruit of a perseverance that I never had for any other activity. I must, I admit, pay honors to the ear plugs and muffs, an invention infinitely more useful than, for example, the telephone: when units of different models overlap, they produce peace and solve a large part of my problems. However, if I analyze more carefully, I find all reality hostile to my act of writing. It is Saturday: the day of alcohol and socialization. I find myself, at this very moment, with my computer on top of a shoebox, and it, in turn, is on a bedside table at the end of my room; I sit on a chair that looks more like a stool: low, uncomfortable, with no support for my back; and my legs are immobile, each one embedded in a space of no more than fifteen centimeters in the gap that opens, on one side, between the wall and the bedside table and, on the other, between this one and my bed. “This is a joke. From a place like this, no art will ever come out…”—but it’s not over: a car, in the street, plays loudly any sertanejo music; a neighbor screams on the phone—obstinate, she wants to penetrate my mind, but I smile, for I know she will not…—I thought a few months ago: “In my present condition, it is impossible to write”. But from here, from this tight, uncomfortable, and noisy space came almost all my few hundred pages, in poetry and prose. There is no silence—never!;—there is no waterfall rumbling pleasantly close to me; the view, from my window, is of a vandalized grey, electric and spiral fences, tangled wires hanging from poles, windows broken for years and never restored, among other unpleasant details. To write, to concentrate on writing, to produce art, is an act of rebellion against all that surrounds me; it is, essentially, a definitive and complete refusal. And I have, in this short time of work, paid the price in different currencies. There is no reward, no favorable prospect, and the time employed along these lines would be infinitely better employed, in the eyes of the world, in any other activity. Well, stupid world: I have never felt my efforts as honorable as now!

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