Poe's Imp

Edgar Poe (it seems he disliked being called "Edgar Allan Poe") wrote a short story with the interesting title The Imp of the Perverse.  The narrator is a murderer who seemingly commits a murder for which he cannot be suspected, but is compelled to admit the crime, thereby assuring his conviction and ultimate death by hanging.  He's compelled to admit the crime not by interrogation or happenstance, but by his own urge to do so, despite knowing he need not and knowing that by doing so he's effectively killing himself.

It's a story that describes an irresistible self-destructive impulse, then.  Of course, given Poe's personal history, many have suggested he was himself a victim of the Imp and that the story was a kind of confession.  Unfortunately for Poe, the story was panned by the critics of the day, who evidently were unable to tolerate or even consider the thought that the Imp could exist.

Poe could be a rather savage critic himself.  He was prone to dispute with his rivals, and was especially fierce in his quarrel with and condemnation of Longfellow.  If you've ever read Longfellow, particularly his famous Song of Hiawatha, you know how annoying his poetry can be and like me may be inclined to sympathize with Poe.  But you might also be unsurprised by the criticism Poe received and that he was upset by it.

The Imp should have been a recognized figure even then, however, as our self-destructive impulse has been apparent throughout recorded history.  But perhaps the classical nature of education at that time inclined those who recognized it to ascribe it to hubris, the fate of those whose pride offended the gods, or in any case thought it to be a function of the just wrath of God, or the machinations of the Devil.

Since Poe wrote the story, though, we've become familiar with the Imp, who made appearances in the work of Dostoevsky and others, and of course in Freud.  In fact, the Imp has even become a regular in various films, TV series and specials, not to mention its presence in courtrooms and the ubiquitous news media.  The Imp is still portrayed as irresistible, and as overcoming  the reason of heroes and villains alike.

I'm not so sure.  Although there may well be circumstances where the urge to self-destruction is overwhelming and caused by genuine mental illness, I think the Imp must be indulged in order for it to destroy us.

As I'm an aspiring Stoic, I ask myself how the Imp would have been perceived by the ancient Stoic philosophers.  The Stoics thought suicide to be an option available where it was not possible to live according to nature, but didn't deem it to be virtuous in itself.  Self-destruction was not a goal of the sage except in limited circumstances.  Otherwise, I think it would have been considered contrary to reason and to the Divine Reason (the creative aspect of the universe) in particular.  It's in our nature to die, but not in most cases to cause our own death.

I think the Imp would have been considered perhaps the ultimate instance where emotions such as fear, guilt, and despair, which are in our control, were left uncontrolled.  Succumbing to the Imp would be seen as something the Stoic Sage could not do.

The Imp, I would say, isn't something which is not in our control, to which we should be indifferent according to Stoic thought.  It's not a disturbance resulting from our preoccupation with what others think and do, or from our desire for things in the control of others.  It's rather a failure on our part to do the best we can with what's in our control, i.e. ourselves.

An Old Chaos of the Sun

We live in that old chaos, said Wallace Stevens in his poem Sunday Morning.  Is that enough for us?  That seems to be the question debated somewhat leisurely in that work, but profoundly enough, even with coffee and oranges.

There's nothing complacent about that debate.  That it even takes place in the manner it does establishes that the poem is of the 20th century.  The rather disturbingly dramatic pathos displayed by certain artists and thinkers of the 19th century in the face of the realization that we humans may not be the special favorites of the divine isn't evident.  I think of the histrionics of the characters of Dostoevsky and the yapping of Nietzsche and can't help but feel embarrassed.  Despair and defiance seem childish responses to the vastness of the universe and our tiny place in it.  In Stevens' poem we have cool appraisal of our "predicament."  We are, at least, adults in the universe, if only temporarily.

Do we need paradise?  Is this world enough for us, or are we fated to long for something more, something not just better but best?   Some of us at least seem to need the best; perhaps even some of us expect it as our due.  So we look for it or forward to it.  Heaven or higher knowledge, good or beauty, beyond that available to us in this world which we refuse to accept despite the fact that we are so completely a part of it, one kind of organism among many.  We're much more sophisticated than the others we know of so far, it's true; we may find we are much less sophisticated than others we become aware of in the future.  Will they be more privileged than we humans as a result and have a greater claim to God's favor?

Our belief we're exceptional has rendered us monotonous.  Although we should know better now as we understand we are not the center of the universe and that it does not revolve around us for our delight we make the same assumptions and ask the same questions we did when we thought that way from ignorance.  To a great extent, we come to the same answers, or no answers at all.

I think Stevens in his poem comes to the conclusion that the world is indeed enough, or should be.  Perhaps that's what he and Hemingway fought about that drunken evening in Key West.  In any case, that seems to be the adult response.  Neither despair nor defiance is reasonable.  If there is more than this, it's likely it will be another version or aspect of this (the universe).  If there is something that is not a part of the universe, to which we will have access, it is necessarily unknown to us now.  We can only know that which we can know and we can only know what we have experienced or others have and told us about.  We may feel what we call transcendence, but feeling it we feel whatever it is as parts of the universe and thus it is part of the universe as well.

The universe is remarkable indeed; we may never be done exploring it.  Understanding it and our part in it is a monumental task, but it is a task we can engage in and we can progress in that task in a manner which is measurable.  Paradise is something we can't attain in this life, but we can obtain and accomplish some things, and should do so.