La Murdoj de Kadavrejo-Strato

By Edgar Allan Poe

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de
la malantauxa domflanko estis cxiam fermitaj, krom tiuj de
la granda malantauxcxambro de la kvara etagxo. La domo estas
bonstata konstruajxo--ne tre malnova.

ISIDORO MUSETO, gxendarmo, depozicias ke, vokite al la domo
cxirkaux la tria de la mateno, li trovis dudek-tridek homojn
starantajn antaux la pordego, strebantajn eniri. Malfermis gxin
perforte tempofine, per bajoneto, ne per levstango. Spertis
nur malmulte da gxeno gxin malfermante pro tio ke gxi estis
duobla aux faldpordego, riglita nek suprajxe nek malsuprajxe.
La kriacxoj dauxre auxdigxis gxis la perforta malfermigxo de la
pordego--tiam subite cxesis. Ili auxdigxis sxajne kiel kriacxoj
de homo/homoj spertanta/spertantaj grandan doloregon. Estis
lauxtaj kaj longdauxraj, ne mallongaj kaj rapidaj. Depoziciinto
malfermis la suprenirantan vojon laux la sxtuparo. Atinginte
la unuan etagxon, auxdis du vocxojn kverelantajn lauxte kaj
kolere. Rauxka estis la unua; ege pli strida, kaj stranga, la
alia. Scipovis kompreni kelkajn vortojn eldiratajn de la unua
vocxo, vocxo de Franco. Certis ke ne estis vocxo de virino.
Sukcesis rekoni la vortojn _sacre_ kaj _diable_. La strida
vocxo estis tiu de fremdalandano. Ne certis cxu gxi estis
vira aux ina vocxo. Ne sukcesis malcxifri la eldiritajxon sed
opiniis ke temis pri la Hispana lingvo. La staton de la cxambro
kaj tiun de la kadavroj la depoziciinto priskribis same kiel ni
priskribis hieraux.

HENRIKO DUVALO, najbaro kaj faka argxentisto, depozicias esti
membrinta en la ensemblo unue enirinta la domon. Konfirmas
gxeneraldetale la depozicion de Museto. Tuj post kiam ili
perfortis la enirpordon, ili refermis gxin por ekskludi
la homamason tre rapide kunigxintan malgraux la malfruo

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Text Comparison with The Raven and The Philosophy of Composition

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Perrett The Decorations by Will Jenkins [Illustration] Paul Elder and Company San Francisco and New York Contents Foreword .
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If so, it becomes all the more distinctive as a marvelous bit of imaginative writing, and as such ranks equally with that wild snatch of melody, “The Raven.
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I have often thought how interesting a magazine paper might be written by any author who would—that is to say who could—detail, step by step, the processes by which any one of his compositions attained its ultimate point of completion.
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We commence, then, with this intention.
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A few words, however, in elucidation of my real meaning, which some of my friends have evinced a disposition to misrepresent.
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Truth, in fact, demands a precision, and Passion a homeliness (the truly passionate will comprehend me) which are absolutely antagonistic to that Beauty which, I maintain, is the excitement, or pleasurable elevation, of the soul.
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These points being settled, I next bethought me of the nature of my refrain.
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Now, never losing sight of the object supremeness, or perfection, at all points, I asked myself—“Of all melancholy topics, what, according to the universal understanding of mankind, is the most melancholy?” Death—was the obvious reply.
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My first object (as usual) was originality.
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I determined, then, to place the lover in his chamber—in a chamber rendered sacred to him by memories of her who had frequented it.
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So far, everything is within the limits of the accountable—of the real.
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The casement being thrown open at the fluttering of the bird’s wings, the bird itself perches on the most convenient seat out of the immediate reach of the student, who, amused by the incident and the oddity of the visitor’s demeanour, demands of it, in jest and without looking for a reply, its name.
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seek a moral in all that has been previously narrated.
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“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.
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_] [Illustration] “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.
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Published by Paul Elder and Company and done into a book for them at the Tomoye Press, New York City.