TRUE! nervous, very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why will you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses, not destroyed, not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell. How then am I mad? Hearken! and observe how healthily, how calmly, I can tell you the whole story.

It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain, but, once conceived, it haunted me day and night. Object there was none. Passion there was none. I loved the old man. He had never wronged me. He had never given me insult. For his gold I had no desire. I think it was his eye! Yes, it was this! One of his eyes resembled that of a vulture — a pale blue eye with a film over it. Whenever it fell upon me my blood ran cold, and so by degrees, very gradually, I made up my mind to take the life of the old man, and thus rid myself of the eye for ever.

Now this is the point. You fancy me mad. Madmen know nothing. But you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded — with what caution — with what foresight, with what dissimulation, I went to work! I was never kinder to the old man than during the whole week before I killed him. And every night about midnight I turned the latch of his door and opened it oh, so gently! And then, when I had made an opening sufficient for my head, I put in a dark lantern all closed, closed so that no light shone out, and then I thrust in my head. Oh, you would have laughed to see how cunningly I thrust it in! I moved it slowly, very, very slowly, so that I might not disturb the old man's sleep. It took me an hour to place my whole head within the opening so far that I could see him as he lay upon his bed. Ha! would a madman have been so wise as this? And then when my head was well in the room I undid the lantern cautiously — oh, so cautiously — cautiously (for the hinges creaked), I undid it just so much that a single thin ray fell upon the vulture eye. And this I did for seven long nights, every night just at midnight, but I found the eye always closed, and so it was impossible to do the work, for it was not the old man who vexed me but his Evil Eye. And every morning, when the day broke, I went boldly into the chamber and spoke courageously to him, calling him by name in a hearty tone, and inquiring how he had passed the night. So you see he would have been a very profound old man, indeed, to suspect that every night, just at twelve, I looked in upon him while he slept.

Upon the eighth night I was more than usually cautious in opening the door. A watch's minute hand moves more quickly than did mine. Never before that night had I felt the extent of my own powers, of my sagacity. I could scarcely contain my feelings of triumph. To think that there I was opening the door little by little, and he not even to dream of my secret deeds or thoughts. I fairly chuckled at the idea, and perhaps he heard me, for he moved on the bed suddenly as if startled. Now you may think that I drew back — but no. His room was as black as pitch with the thick darkness (for the shutters were close fastened through fear of robbers), and so I knew that he could not see the opening of the door, and I kept pushing it on steadily, steadily.

I had my head in, and was about to open the lantern, when my thumb slipped upon the tin fastening, and the old man sprang up in the bed, crying out — "Who's there?"

I kept quite still and said nothing. For a whole hour I did not move a muscle, and in the meantime I did not hear him lie down. He was still sitting up in the bed, listening; just as I have done night after night hearkening to the death watches in the wall.

Presently, I heard a slight groan, and I knew it was the groan of mortal terror. It was not a groan of pain or of grief — oh, no! It was the low stifled sound that arises from the bottom of the soul when over-charged with awe. I knew the sound well. Many a night, just at midnight, when all the world slept, it has welled up from my own bosom, deepening, with its dreadful echo, the terrors that distracted me. I say I knew it well. I knew what the old man felt, and pitied him although I chuckled at heart. I knew that he had been lying awake ever since the first slight noise when he had turned in the bed. His fears had been ever since growing upon him. He had been trying to fancy them causeless, but could not. He had been saying to himself, "It is nothing but the wind in the chimney, it is only a mouse crossing the floor," or, "It is merely a cricket which has made a single chirp." Yes he has been trying to comfort himself with these suppositions; but he had found all in vain. All in vain, because Death in approaching him had stalked with his black shadow before him and enveloped the victim. And it was the mournful influence of the unperceived shadow that caused him to feel, although he neither saw nor heard, to feel the presence of my head within the room.

When I had waited a long time very patiently without hearing him lie down, I resolved to open a little — a very, very little crevice in the lantern. So I opened it — you cannot imagine how stealthily, stealthily — until at length a single dim ray like the thread of the spider shot out from the crevice and fell upon the vulture eye.

It was open, wide, wide open, and I grew furious as I gazed upon it. I saw it with perfect distinctness — all a dull blue with a hideous veil over it that chilled the very marrow in my bones, but I could see nothing else of the old man's face or person, for I had directed the ray as if by instinct precisely upon the damned spot.

And now have I not told you that what you mistake for madness is but over-acuteness of the senses? now, I say, there came to my ears a low, dull, quick sound, such as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I knew that sound well too. It was the beating of the old man's heart. It increased my fury as the beating of a drum stimulates the soldier into courage.

But even yet I refrained and kept still. I scarcely breathed. I held the lantern motionless. I tried how steadily I could maintain the ray upon the eye. Meantime the hellish tattoo of the heart increased. It grew quicker and quicker, and louder and louder, every instant. The old man's terror must have been extreme! It grew louder, I say, louder every moment! — do you mark me well? I have told you that I am nervous: so I am. And now at the dead hour of the night, amid the dreadful silence of that old house, so strange a noise as this excited me to uncontrollable terror. Yet, for some minutes longer I refrained and stood still. But the beating grew louder, louder! I thought the heart must burst.

And now a new anxiety seized me — the sound would be heard by a neighbour! The old man's hour had come! With a loud yell, I threw open the lantern and leaped into the room. He shrieked once — once only. In an instant I dragged him to the floor, and pulled the heavy bed over him. I then smiled gaily, to find the deed so far done. But for many minutes the heart beat on with a muffled sound. This, however, did not vex me; it would not be heard through the wall. At length it ceased. The old man was dead. I removed the bed and examined the corpse. Yes, he was stone, stone dead. I placed my hand upon the heart and held it there many minutes. There was no pulsation. He was stone dead. His eye would trouble me no more.

If still you think me mad, you will think so no longer when I describe the wise precautions I took for the concealment of the body. The night waned, and I worked hastily, but in silence.

I took up three planks from the flooring of the chamber, and deposited all between the scantlings. I then replaced the boards so cleverly so cunningly, that no human eye — not even his — could have detected anything wrong. There was nothing to wash out — no stain of any kind — no blood-spot whatever. I had been too wary for that.

When I had made an end of these labours, it was four o'clock — still dark as midnight. As the bell sounded the hour, there came a knocking at the street door. I went down to open it with a light heart, — for what had I now to fear? There entered three men, who introduced themselves, with perfect suavity, as officers of the police. A shriek had been heard by a neighbour during the night; suspicion of foul play had been aroused; information had been lodged at the police office, and they (the officers) had been deputed to search the premises.

I smiled, — for what had I to fear? I bade the gentlemen welcome. The shriek, I said, was my own in a dream. The old man, I mentioned, was absent in the country. I took my visitors all over the house. I bade them search — search well. I led them, at length, to his chamber. I showed them his treasures, secure, undisturbed. In the enthusiasm of my confidence, I brought chairs into the room, and desired them here to rest from their fatigues, while I myself, in the wild audacity of my perfect triumph, placed my own seat upon the very spot beneath which reposed the corpse of the victim.

The officers were satisfied. My manner had convinced them. I was singularly at ease. They sat and while I answered cheerily, they chatted of familiar things. But, ere long, I felt myself getting pale and wished them gone. My head ached, and I fancied a ringing in my ears; but still they sat, and still chatted. The ringing became more distinct: I talked more freely to get rid of the feeling: but it continued and gained definitiveness — until, at length, I found that the noise was not within my ears.

No doubt I now grew very pale; but I talked more fluently, and with a heightened voice. Yet the sound increased — and what could I do? It was a low, dull, quick sound — much such a sound as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I gasped for breath, and yet the officers heard it not. I talked more quickly, more vehemently but the noise steadily increased. I arose and argued about trifles, in a high key and with violent gesticulations; but the noise steadily increased. Why would they not be gone? I paced the floor to and fro with heavy strides, as if excited to fury by the observations of the men, but the noise steadily increased. O God! what could I do? I foamed — I raved — I swore! I swung the chair upon which I had been sitting, and grated it upon the boards, but the noise arose over all and continually increased. It grew louder — louder — louder! And still the men chatted pleasantly, and smiled. Was it possible they heard not? Almighty God! — no, no? They heard! — they suspected! — they knew! — they were making a mockery of my horror! — this I thought, and this I think. But anything was better than this agony! Anything was more tolerable than this derision! I could bear those hypocritical smiles no longer! I felt that I must scream or die! — and now — again — hark! louder! louder! louder! louder!—

"Villains!" I shrieked, "dissemble no more! I admit the deed! — tear up the planks! — here, here! — it is the beating of his hideous heart!"

search in English Search Now:

EA Poe Society of Baltimore
Edgar Allan Poe Museum -- Richmond Virginia
A Poe Webliography: Edgar Allan Poe on the Internet
Poe in Hungarian (SZÖVEGEK -- TEXTS)
Poe Studies/Dark Romanticism (an academic journal)
American authors translated into Hungarian
American history in books

Hungarian Poe

A FEKETE MACSKA - THE BLACK CAT
HÁROM ELBESZÉLÉS
POE, EDGAR ALLAN
A kétnyelvû olvasókönyvek eredeti, átdolgozatlan irodalmi szövegeket tartalmaznak és magyar mûfordításaikat. Az angol szöveg alatt szereplõ szómagyarázatok és a szemközti oldalon közölt magyar fordítás a nyelvtanulók számára lehetõvé teszik a szöveg szótárazás nélküli, folyamatos olvasását. A könyv fejleszti a szókincset, javítja a szövegértési készséget és segítséget nyújt fordítási problémák megoldásához.

A HOLLÓ
VERSEK ÉS ELBESZÉLÉSEK
POE, EDGAR ALLAN
Heléna (Tandori Dezsõ)
Város a tengerben (Szabó Lõrinc)
A kísértetes palota(Babits Mihály)
A gyõztes féreg (Babits Mihály)
Álomország (Babits Mihály)
Éulália (Kosztolányi Dezsõ)
A holló (Tóth Árpád)
Ellen-óda (Tandori Dezsõ)
Ulalume (Babits Mihály)
Álom az álomban (Kosztolányi Dezsõ)
Eldorádó (Kosztolányi Dezsõ)
Lee Annácska (Babits Mihály)

ELBESZÉLÉSEK

Palackban talált kézirat (Bartos Tibor)
Ligeia (Babits Mihály)
Az Usher-ház vége (Babits Mihály)
A Morgue utcai kettõs gyilkosság (Pásztor Árpád)
A vörös halál álarca (Babits Mihály)
A kút és az inga (Babits Mihály)
Az áruló szív (Babits Mihály)
Az aranybogár(Ferencz Gyõzõ)
A fekete macska (Pásztor Árpád)
Monsieur Valdemar kóresete tényszerû megvilágításban (Bartos Tibor)
Egy hordó amontillado (Babits Mihály)
Bice-béka (Kuczka Péter)

AZ OVÁLIS ARCKÉP - AZ ISMERETLEN REMEKMÛ
POE, EDGAR ALLAN - BALZAC, HONORÉ DE

EDGAR ALLAN POE ÖSSZES MÛVEI
POE, EDGAR ALLAN

EDGAR ALLAN POE ÖSSZES VERSEI
THE COMPLETE POEMS
POE, EDGAR ALLEN
Poe költészetének átültetése a magyar költõknek több mint fél évszázados kedvelt erõpróbája: legnagyobb költõ-mûfordítóink (Babits, Kosztolányi, Tóth Árpád, Szabó Lõrinc stb.) foglalkoztak vele.
Poe, mint Szerb Antal írja, "magányos géniusz, csak utódai vannak, elõdei nincsenek", különösen Baudelaire-re volt hatással (aki összes verseit lefordította). Mindenképpen sajátos tünemény, egész költõi életmûve egy vékonyka kötet (abban is sok a kevésbé jelentõs vers), de néhol szuggesztív-látomásos erejével, nyelvi-költõi virtuozitásával a legmagasabb csúcsokra emelkedik (A holló; A kísértetes palota; Ulalume; Lee Annácska). Megszállott, vizionárius képiségû költészetével sajátos ellentétben áll szintén nagyhatású poétikája, amelyben a költõi tudatosság és a "tiszta költészet" mellett tör lándzsát.
A kötet a klasszikus fordítások mellett (ezek közül A Holló három megoldásban is szerepel), felhasználja a nívós, kész átültetéseket (Kardos László, Komlós Aladár, Radó György), az új anyagban pedig fõleg Tandori Dezsõ remek fordításaira támaszkodik. A kötetet magyarázó jegyzetanyag és címmutató egészíti ki. (Legeza Ilona)

ISMERETLEN TÖRTÉNETEK
UNFAMILIAR STORIES
POE, EDGAR ALLAN
Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1849) huszonkét esztendõs korában „lépett ki az életbe". Amerikában akkoriban indult a nagyüzemi folyóiratgyártás, a „magazinok" divatja. Poe haláláig ennek a ma is népszerû terméknek szentelte java tevékenységét. Verset és kritikát, esszét, tudományos cikket, riportot írt a magazinoknak, de egy új mûfajjal, a „short story"-val - a novellával is jelentkezett. Az irodalomtörténet a versei alapján a költõ Poe-nak ítéli a pálmát - széles körû és tartós népszerûségét azonban novelláinak köszönheti. A Poe novellák skálája rendkívül széles. Szerencsétlen, korán elpusztult gyermekfeleségét sirató lírai-allegorikus daraboktól a matematikai logikával megszerkesztett detektívtörténetig, a horrortól a mai tudományos fantasztikus irodalmat megalapozó írásokig óriási területet kalandoz be és fest színesen elénk ez a különös tehetségû, fantomokat kergetõ és fantomok-ûzte poéta, akit fiatalon vitt el a hajsza és a boldogtalanság. Számos egyáltalán nem vagy alig ismert, úgy-nevezett Mark Twain-elõképnek tekinthetõ, sokszor humoros írás is gazdagítja az író palettáját. A Poe összes mûveit felölelõ kétnyelvû sorozat hetedik kötete ebbõl nyújt válogatást, mely a nyelvtanulók számára is bizonyára hasznos olvasmány lesz.

KÜLÖNÖS TÖRTÉNETEK
CURIOUS STORIES
POE, EDGAR ALLAN

MISZTIKUS TÖRTÉNETEK - WEIRD TALES
POE, EDGAR ALLAN
Az amerikai romantika nagy alakja több mûfajban is maradandót alkotott, évtizedekkel megelõzve e mûfajok európai megalapítóit, ám hírnevét elsõsorban misztikus és bizarr rémtörténeteinek köszönheti, amelyek a prózaírás új, kiaknázatlan területei felé terelték a figyelmet. A késõbbi nagy utódok (Kafka, Borges, Bierce) mûveikben elismeréssel adóznak Poe-nak, s alkotásaikban is tulajdonképpen a Poe mûvei által legitimitást nyert, a rejtély és a rémület szimbólumainak immár klasszikussá vált lélektani mûfaját fejlesztették tovább. Poe szûkszavúan iszonytató írásai mindig a tiszta logika és a megfoghatatlan szorongás légkörében játszódnak, mégpedig egyszerre. Ez a ridegen szigorú és mégis szorongó elme nem riadt vissza a szélsõségesen vadromantikus hátborzongatástól sem, más írásaiban pedig olykor már szinte a szürrealista próza elõfutára. Elbeszéléseiben a lélektani és a filozófiai szenvedélyek az ember belsõ világába vezetnek, s onnan dívja elõ alakjait, ahonnan a shakespeare-i szellemek jönnek elõ. A borzalmakat sugalló légkör és a páratlan atmoszférateremtés ma is olvasók millióit bilincseli le. A kétnyelvû kötetben az író ismertebb elbeszélései mellett olyan írások is szerepelnek, amelyek elõször látnak magyar fordításban napvilágot.

POE ÖSSZES VERSEI
THE COMPLETE POEMS
POE, EDGAR ALLAN
„Poe-t, a költõt sokan az abszolút ínyencek szerzõjének tartják. Valóban nem való mindenkinek, nem olvasható nagy mennyiségben, s nem is akármikor. Fõleg az utóbbi lényeges: verseinek olvasásához sajátos lelkiállapot kell. Poe-t olyankor érdemes elõvenni, ha például úgy érezzük, kissé túlságosan sok a zajos, önelégült ember körülöttünk, és nem kapunk levegõt tõlük; ha ravatalon látjuk azt, akit soha senki nem pótolhat számunkra; ha kitüntetés címén megaláznak bennünket... Vannak õszi alkonyatok, amikor úgy tûnik: a közelgõ éjszaka benyomja ránk az ablaküveget, és a besüvítõ hideg ellen nem tudunk védekezni. Ilyenkor gyógyítanak Poe tompa tónusú, ólomsúlyú szavai, rímes bánatai, idõmértékes szorongásai, lebegõ iszonyatai, rejtelmes, anyagtalan víziói; talán úgy, ahogy megfelelõ adagolásban, szérum formájában a betegség kórokozói meggyógyítják a betegséget.
A kötet Poe kísérteties tájaira kalauzol - ahová a költõ is menekült a szorongató élet valósága elõl.” - Baróti Szabolcs

English Poe

Complete Stories and Poems of Edgar Allan Poe
by Edgar Allan Poe (Hardcover)
This single volume brings together all of Poe's stories and poems, and illuminates the diverse and multifaceted genius of one of the greatest and most influential figures in American literary history.


The Complete Tales and Poems of Edgar Allan Poe
by Edgar Allan Poe (Paperback - March 1987)
All of the tales by the master of the detective and the macabre story. 53 of his best-known poems plus essays and criticisms.

Edgar Allan Poe Audio Collection [UNABRIDGED]
by Edgar Allan Poe (Author) (Audio CD - October 2000)
Universally acclaimed as the maestro of horror and the morbid, Edgar Allan Poe's dark gift has for more than a century and a half set the standard for the genre.

Now, Caedmon Audio presents a classic collection of Poe's most terrifying tales performed by two of the most brilliant interpreters of his work ever to be recorded: Vincent Price and Basil Rathbone.

Between them, they perform 20 of Poe's chilling stories and poems, creating an unforgettably intense listening experience.

Works of Edgar Allan Poe [UNABRIDGED]
by Edgar Allan Poe (Hardcover - June 1992)
He revolutionized the horror tale, giving it psychological insight and a consistent tone and atmosphere; he invented the modern detective story; he wrote some of the world's best-known lyric poetry and a major novella of the fantastic; he impressed such writers as Baudelaire, Mallarme and Borges . If it's been a while since you read any Edgar A. Poe (he never used "Allan"), you've probably forgotten how terrific he is. And some of his best work is in his lesser-known stories, such as "The Imp of the Perverse" and "A Descent into the Maelstrom." In short, what are you waiting for?

21 Great Stories
by Abraham Harold Lass (Editor), et al (Mass Market Paperback - October 1991)
Classic stories by classic writers, including Poe, Twain, London, Steinbeck, Joyce.


The Gold-Bug and Other Tales (Dover Thrift Editions) [UNABRIDGED]
by Edgar Allan Poe (Paperback - September 1993)
Like most Dover books, this tidy volume is inexpensive. If there ever was a 'reader's edition,' this is it. You get "The Cask of Amontillado", "The Tell-Tale Heart", "The Fall of The House of Usher" and more. Nine tales total, the best o the best, all for under $2.


18 Best Stories by Edgar Allan Poe
by Edgar Allan Poe, et al (Mass Market Paperback - September 1983)
The Black Cat - The Fall of the House of Usher - The Masque of the Red Death - The Facts in the Case of M. Valdemar - The Premature Burial - Ms. Found in a Bottle - A Tale of the Ragged Mountains - The Sphinx - The Murders in the Rue Morgue - The Tell-Tale Heart - The Gold-Bug - The System of Dr. Tarr and Prof. Fether - The Man That Was Used Up - The Balloon Hoax - A Descent Into the Maelstrom - The Purloined Letter - The Pit and The Pendulum - The Cask of Amontillado

The Tell-Tale Heart and Other Writings
by Edgar Allan Poe (Mass Market Paperback - February 1983)
Packed to the gills with Poe's work. 17 stories, and an incredible selection of poems.

Graphic Classics: Edgar Allan Poe
by Edgar Allan Poe, Various (Illustrator) (Paperback - November 2001)
"Graphic Classics: Edgar Allan Poe" is the first in a new series of books, created in the tradition of the great Classics Illustrated comics, reborn for the contemporary adult reader. Each issue features the works of one classic author, presented in comics and heavily-illustrated stories by some of the best artists working today in the fields of comics, book illustration and fine arts.

"Graphic Classics: Edgar Allan Poe" features comics adaptations of "The Raven" by J.B. Bonivert, "The Tell-Tale Heart" by Rick Geary, "The Conqueror Worm" by Gahan Wilson, and ten more illustrated stories and poems. Plus "New Murders in the Rue Morgue", a Poe "sequel" newly-illustrated by Mark A. Nelson. The introduction is by Joe R. Lansdale.

The Raven and Other Favorite Poems (Dover Thrift Editions)
by Edgar Allan Poe (Paperback - March 1991)
What can I say of "The Raven" that has not been said? Beauty and sadness, grief and romance... all here in snugly in a smart Dover volume.

Lamenting the loss of a gentle but passionate woman, the narrator drinks, yet somberly dwells on her name. A local raven, with the capacity to utter like a parrot a syllable or two, repeats "Lenore," and "Nevermore." The narrator, tired and broken, believes the raven might be sent by God or even by the Devil, and tries talking with it.

The poem, like an long tale, draws the listener or reader to be in that lonely room.

Anyone who has ever been in love and lost that lover will known Poe's pain and supplication of God.