I read another Poe short story this evening,
The Black Cat; a grizzly tale of horror, fate and the demon consequences of drink. Three short stories read in a week and the catastrophic follies of alcohol are explored in two of them. I'm guessing Poe was a remorseful, guilt-ridden drunk. Although there are a couple (at least) of implausible narrative leaps in the story it still has some power, particularly of imagery. The narrator's brutal attack on poor, ageing Pluto with his eyeless socket. The cat's image seared on the bedroom wall's plaster. The ghoulish, blood-soaked image of the penultimate sentence. Written by Poe 170 years ago but still clear, still disturbing. And for all that there's clumsiness in places there's a brilliantly positioned point of revelation when we learn, more than half way through the story, about location. It immediately enriches the story, propelling it towards the doom-laden conclusion. Great stuff. Classic Victorian horror. He may have invented the genre all by himself.
