The Philosophy of Composition

THE PHILOSOPHY OF COMPOSITION

(1846)

Charles Dickens, in a note now lying before me, alluding to an examination I once made of the

mechanism of "Barnaby Rudge," says- "By the way, are you aware that Godwin wrote his 'Caleb

Williams' backwards? He first involved his hero in a web of difficulties, forming the second

volume, and then, for the first, cast about him for some mode of accounting for what had been

done."

I cannot think this the precise mode of procedure on the part of Godwin- and indeed what he

himself acknowledges, is not altogether in accordance with Mr. Dickens' idea- but the author of

"Caleb Williams" was too good an artist not to perceive the advantage derivable from at least a

somewhat similar process. Nothing is more clear than that every plot, worth the name, must be

elaborated to its denouement before anything be attempted with the pen. It is only with the

denouement constantly in view that we can give a plot its indispensable air of consequence, or

causation, by making the incidents, and especially the tone at all points, tend to the development

of the intention.

There is a radical error, I think, in the usual mode of constructing a story. Either history affords a

thesis- or one is suggested by an incident of the day- or, at best, the author sets himself to work

in the combination of striking events to form merely the basis of his narrative-designing,

generally, to fill in with description, dialogue, or autorial comment, whatever crevices of fact, or

action, may, from page to page, render themselves apparent.

I prefer commencing with the consideration of an effect. Keeping originality always in view- for

he is false to himself who ventures to dispense with so obvious and so easily attainable a source

of interest- I say to myself, in the first place, "Of the innumerable effects, or impressions, of

which the heart, the intellect, or (more generally) the soul is susceptible, what one shall I, on the

present occasion, select?" Having chosen a novel, first, and secondly a vivid effect, I consider

whether it can be best wrought by incident or tone- whether by ordinary incidents and peculiar

tone, or the converse, or by peculiarity both of incident and tone- afterward looking about me (or

rather within) for such combinations of event, or tone, as shall best aid me in the construction of

the effect.

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. Why such a paper has never been given to

the world, I am much at a loss to say- but, perhaps, the autorial vanity has had more to do with

the omission than any one other cause. Most writers- poets in especial- prefer having it

understood that they compose by a species of fine frenzy- an ecstatic intuition- and would

positively shudder at letting the public take a peep behind the scenes, at the elaborate and

vacillating crudities of thought- at the true purposes seized only at the last moment- at the

innumerable glimpses of idea that arrived not at the maturity of full view- at the fully-matured

fancies discarded in despair as unmanageable- at the cautious selections and rejections- at the

painful erasures and interpolations- in a word, at the wheels and pinions- the tackle for scene-

shifting- the step-ladders, and demon-traps- the cock's feathers, the red paint and the black

patches, which, in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, constitute the properties of the literary

histrio.

I am aware, on the other hand, that the case is by no means common, in which an author is at all

in condition to retrace the steps by which his conclusions have been attained. In general,

suggestions, having arisen pell-mell are pursued and forgotten in a similar manner.

For my own part, I have neither sympathy with the repugnance alluded to, nor, at any time, the

least difficulty in recalling to mind the progressive steps of any of my compositions, and, since

the interest of an analysis or reconstruction, such as I have considered a desideratum, is quite

independent of any real or fancied interest in the thing analysed, it will not be regarded as a

breach of decorum on my part to show the modus operandi by which some one of my own works

was put together. I select 'The Raven' as most generally known. It is my design to render it

manifest that no one point in its composition is referable 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.

Let us dismiss, as irrelevant to the poem, per se, the circumstance- or say the necessity- which, in

the first place, gave rise to the intention of composing a poem that should suit at once the popular

and the critical taste.

We commence, then, with this intention.

The initial consideration was that of extent. If any literary work is too long to be read at one

sitting, we must be content to dispense with the immensely important effect derivable from unity

of impression- for, if two sittings be required, the affairs of the world interfere, and everything

like totality is at once destroyed. But since, ceteris paribus, no poet can afford to dispense with

anything that may advance his design, it but remains to be seen whether there is, in extent, any

advantage to counterbalance the loss of unity which attends it. Here I say no, at once. What we

term a long poem is, in fact, merely a succession of brief ones- that is to say, of brief poetical

effects. It is needless to demonstrate that a poem is such only inasmuch as it intensely excites, by

elevating the soul; and all intense excitements are, through a psychal necessity, brief. For this

reason, at least, one-half of the "Paradise Lost" is essentially prose- a succession of poetical

excitements interspersed, inevitably, with corresponding depressions- the whole being deprived,

through the extremeness of its length, of the vastly important artistic element, totality, or unity of

effect.

It appears evident, then, that there is a distinct limit, as regards length, to all works of literary art-

the limit of a single sitting- and that, although in certain classes of prose composition, such as

"Robinson Crusoe" (demanding no unity), this limit may be advantageously overpassed, it can

never properly be overpassed in a poem. Within this limit, the extent of a poem may be made to

bear mathematical relation to its merit- in other words, to the excitement or elevation-again, in

other words, to the degree of the true poetical effect which it is capable of inducing; for it is clear

that the brevity must be in direct ratio of the intensity of the intended effect- this, with one

proviso- that a certain degree of duration is absolutely requisite for the production of any effect

at all.

Holding in view these considerations, as well as that degree of excitement which I deemed not

above the popular, while not below the critical taste, I reached at once what I conceived the

proper length for my intended poem- a length of about one hundred lines. It is, in fact, a hundred

and eight.

My next thought concerned the choice of an impression, or effect, to be conveyed: and here I

may as well observe that throughout the construction, I kept steadily in view the design of

rendering the work universally appreciable. I should be carried too far out of my immediate topic

were I to demonstrate a point upon which I have repeatedly insisted, and which, with the

poetical, stands not in the slightest need of demonstration- the point, I mean, that Beauty is the

sole legitimate province of the poem. A few words, however, in elucidation of my real meaning,

which some of my friends have evinced a disposition to misrepresent. That pleasure which is at

once the most intense, the most elevating, and the most pure is, I believe, found in the

contemplation of the beautiful. When, indeed, men speak of Beauty, they mean, precisely, not a

quality, as is supposed, but an effect- they refer, in short, just to that intense and pure elevation of

soul- not of intellect, or of heart- upon which I have commented, and which is experienced in

consequence of contemplating the "beautiful." Now I designate Beauty as the province of the

poem, merely because it is an obvious rule of Art that effects should be made to spring from

direct causes- that objects should be attained through means best adapted for their attainment- no

one as yet having been weak enough to deny that the peculiar elevation alluded to is most readily

attained in the poem. Now the object Truth, or the satisfaction of the intellect, and the object

Passion, or the excitement of the heart, are, although attainable to a certain extent in poetry, far

more readily attainable in prose. 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. It by no means follows,

from anything here said, that passion, or even truth, may not be introduced, and even profitably

introduced, into a poem for they may serve in elucidation, or aid the general effect, as do

discords in music, by contrast- but the true artist will always contrive, first, to tone them into

proper subservience to the predominant aim, and, secondly, to enveil them, as far as possible, in

that Beauty which is the atmosphere and the essence of the poem.

Regarding, then, Beauty as my province, my next question referred to the tone of its highest

manifestation- and all experience has shown that this tone is one of sadness. 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.

The length, the province, and the tone, being thus determined, I betook myself to ordinary

induction, with the view of obtaining some artistic piquancy which might serve me as a key-note

in the construction of the poem- some pivot upon which the whole structure might turn. In

carefully thinking over all the usual artistic effects- or more properly points, in the theatrical

sense- I did not fail to perceive immediately that no one had been so universally employed as

that of the refrain. The universality of its employment sufficed to assure me of its intrinsic value,

and spared me the necessity of submitting it to analysis. I considered it, however, with regard to

its susceptibility of improvement, and soon saw it to be in a primitive condition. As commonly

used, the refrain, or burden, not only is limited to lyric verse, but depends for its impression upon

the force of monotone- both in sound and thought. The pleasure is deduced solely from the sense

of identity- of repetition. I resolved to diversify, and so heighten the effect, by adhering in

general to the monotone of sound, while I continually varied that of thought: that is to say, I

determined to produce continuously novel effects, by the variation of the application of the

refrain- the refrain itself remaining for the most part, unvaried.

These points being settled, I next bethought me of the nature of my refrain. Since its application

was to be repeatedly varied it was clear that the refrain itself must be brief, for there would have

been an insurmountable difficulty in frequent variations of application in any sentence of length.

In proportion to the brevity of the sentence would, of course, be the facility of the variation. This

led me at once to a single word as the best refrain.

The question now arose as to the character of the word. Having made up my mind to a refrain,

the division of the poem into stanzas was of course a corollary, the refrain forming the close to

each stanza. That such a close, to have force, must be sonorous and susceptible of protracted

emphasis, admitted no doubt, and these considerations inevitably led me to the long o as the

most sonorous vowel in connection with r as the most producible consonant.

The sound of the refrain being thus determined, it became necessary to select a word embodying

this sound, and at the same time in the fullest possible keeping with that melancholy which I had

pre-determined as the tone of the poem. In such a search it would have been absolutely

impossible to overlook the word "Nevermore." In fact it was the very first which presented itself.

The next desideratum was a pretext for the continuous use of the one word "nevermore." In

observing the difficulty which I had at once found in inventing a sufficiently plausible reason for

its continuous repetition, I did not fail to perceive that this difficulty arose solely from the

preassumption that the word was to be so continuously or monotonously spoken by a human

being- I did not fail to perceive, in short, that the difficulty lay in the reconciliation of this

monotony with the exercise of reason on the part of the creature repeating the word. Here, then,

immediately arose the idea of a non-reasoning creature capable of speech, and very naturally, a

parrot, in the first instance, suggested itself, but was superseded forthwith by a Raven as equally

capable of speech, and infinitely more in keeping with the intended tone.

I had now gone so far as the conception of a Raven, the bird of ill-omen, monotonously repeating

the one word "Nevermore" at the conclusion of each stanza in a poem of melancholy tone, and in

length about one hundred lines. 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. "And when,"

I said, "is this most melancholy of topics most poetical?" From what I have already explained at

some length the answer here also is obvious- "When it most closely allies itself to Beauty: the

death then of a beautiful woman is unquestionably the most poetical topic in the world, and

equally is it beyond doubt that the lips best suited for such topic are those of a bereaved lover."

I had now to combine the two ideas of a lover lamenting his deceased mistress and a Raven

continuously repeating the word "Nevermore." I had to combine these, bearing in mind my

design of varying at every turn the application of the word repeated, but the only intelligible

mode of such combination is that of imagining the Raven employing the word in answer to the

queries of the lover. And here it was that I saw at once the opportunity afforded for the effect on

which I had been depending, that is to say, the effect of the variation of application. I saw that I

could make the first query propounded by the lover- the first query to which the Raven should

reply "Nevermore"- that I could make this first query a commonplace one, the second less so, the

third still less, and so on, until at length the lover, startled from his original nonchalance by the

melancholy character of the word itself, by its frequent repetition, and by a consideration of the

ominous reputation of the fowl that uttered it, is at length excited to superstition, and wildly

propounds queries of a far different character- queries whose solution he has passionately at

heart- propounds them half in superstition and half in that species of despair which delights in

self-torture- propounds them not altogether because he believes in the prophetic or demoniac

character of the bird (which reason assures him is merely repeating a lesson learned by rote), but

because he experiences a frenzied pleasure in so modelling his questions as to receive from the

expected "Nevermore" the most delicious because the most intolerable of sorrows. Perceiving

the opportunity thus afforded me, or, more strictly, thus forced upon me in the progress of the

construction, I first established in my mind the climax or concluding query- that query to which

"Nevermore" should be in the last place an answer- that query in reply to which this word

"Nevermore" should involve the utmost conceivable amount of sorrow and despair.

Here then the poem may be said to have had its beginning- at the end where all works of art

should begin- for it was here at this point of my preconsiderations that I first put pen to paper in

the composition of the stanza:

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! prophet still if bird or devil!

By that Heaven that bends above us- by that God we both adore,

Tell this soul with sorrow laden, if, within the distant Aidenn,

It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore-

Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."

Quoth the Raven- "Nevermore."

I composed this stanza, at this point, first that, by establishing the climax, I might the better vary

and graduate, as regards seriousness and importance, the preceding queries of the lover, and

secondly, that I might definitely settle the rhythm, the metre, and the length and general

arrangement of the stanza, as well as graduate the stanzas which were to precede, so that none of

them might surpass this in rhythmical effect. Had I been able in the subsequent composition to

construct more vigorous stanzas I should without scruple have purposely enfeebled them so as

not to interfere with the climacteric effect.

And here I may as well say a few words of the versification. My first object (as usual) was

originality. The extent to which this has been neglected in versification is one of the most

unaccountable things in the world. Admitting that there is little possibility of variety in mere

rhythm, it is still clear that the possible varieties of metre and stanza are absolutely infinite, and

yet, for centuries, no man, in verse, has ever done, or ever seemed to think of doing, an original

thing. The fact is that originality (unless in minds of very unusual force) is by no means a matter,

as some suppose, of impulse or intuition. In general, to be found, it must be elaborately sought,

and although a positive merit of the highest class, demands in its attainment less of invention

than negation.

Of course I pretend to no originality in either the rhythm or metre of the "Raven." The former is

trochaic- the latter is octametre acatalectic, alternating with heptametre catalectic repeated in the

refrain of the fifth verse, and terminating with tetrametre catalectic. Less pedantically the feet

employed throughout (trochees) consist of a long syllable followed by a short, the first line of the

stanza consists of eight of these feet, the second of seven and a half (in effect two-thirds), the

third of eight, the fourth of seven and a half, the fifth the same, the sixth three and a half. Now,

each of these lines taken individually has been employed before, and what originality the

"Raven" has, is in their combination into stanza; nothing even remotely approaching this has

ever been attempted. The effect of this originality of combination is aided by other unusual and

some altogether novel effects, arising from an extension of the application of the principles of

rhyme and alliteration.

The next point to be considered was the mode of bringing together the lover and the Raven- and

the first branch of this consideration was the locale. For this the most natural suggestion might

seem to be a forest, or the fields- but it has always appeared to me that a close circumscription of

space is absolutely necessary to the effect of insulated incident- it has the force of a frame to a

picture. It has an indisputable moral power in keeping concentrated the attention, and, of course,

must not be confounded with mere unity of place.

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. The room is represented as richly furnished- this in mere

pursuance of the ideas I have already explained on the subject of Beauty, as the sole true poetical

thesis.

The locale being thus determined, I had now to introduce the bird- and the thought of introducing

him through the window was inevitable. The idea of making the lover suppose, in the first

instance, that the flapping of the wings of the bird against the shutter, is a "tapping" at the door,

originated in a wish to increase, by prolonging, the reader's curiosity, and in a desire to admit the

incidental effect arising from the lover's throwing open the door, finding all dark, and thence

adopting the half-fancy that it was the spirit of his mistress that knocked.

I made the night tempestuous, first to account for the Raven's seeking admission, and secondly,

for the effect of contrast with the (physical) serenity within the chamber.

I made the bird alight on the bust of Pallas, also for the effect of contrast between the marble and

the plumage- it being understood that the bust was absolutely suggested by the bird- the bust of

Pallas being chosen, first, as most in keeping with the scholarship of the lover, and secondly, for

the sonorousness of the word, Pallas, itself.

About the middle of the poem, also, I have availed myself of the force of contrast, with a view of

deepening the ultimate impression. For example, an air of the fantastic- approaching as nearly to

the ludicrous as was admissible- is given to the Raven's entrance. He comes in "with many a flirt

and flutter."

Not the least obeisance made he- not a moment stopped or stayed he,

But with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door.

In the two stanzas which follow, the design is more obviously carried out:-

Then this ebony bird, beguiling my sad fancy into smiling

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,

"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no

craven,

Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore-

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore?"

Quoth the Raven- "Nevermore."

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,

Though its answer little meaning- little relevancy bore;

For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being

Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door-

Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,

With such name as "Nevermore."

The effect of the denouement being thus provided for, I immediately drop the fantastic for a tone

of the most profound seriousness- this tone commencing in the stanza directly following the one

last quoted, with the line,

But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only, etc.

From this epoch the lover no longer jests- no longer sees anything even of the fantastic in the

Raven's demeanour. He speaks of him as a "grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of

yore," and feels the "fiery eyes" burning into his "bosom's core." This revolution of thought, or fancy, on the lover's part, is intended to induce a similar one on the part of the reader- to bring

the mind into a proper frame for the denouement- which is now brought about as rapidly and as

directly as possible.

With the denouement proper- with the Raven's reply, "Nevermore," to the lover's final demand if

he shall meet his mistress in another world- the poem, in its obvious phase, that of a simple

narrative, may be said to have its completion. So far, everything is within the limits of the

accountable- of the real. A raven, having learned by rote the single word "Nevermore," and

having escaped from the custody of its owner, is driven at midnight, through the violence of a

storm, to seek admission at a window from which a light still gleams- the chamber-window of a

student, occupied half in poring over a volume, half in dreaming of a beloved mistress deceased.

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. The raven addressed, answers with its customary word, "Nevermore"- a word which

finds immediate echo in the melancholy heart of the student, who, giving utterance aloud to

certain thoughts suggested by the occasion, is again startled by the fowl's repetition of

"Nevermore." The student now guesses the state of the case, but is impelled, as I have before

explained, by the human thirst for self-torture, and in part by superstition, to propound such

queries to the bird as will bring him, the lover, the most of the luxury of sorrow, through the

anticipated answer, "Nevermore." With the indulgence, to the extreme, of this self-torture, the

narration, in what I have termed its first or obvious phase, has a natural termination, and so far

there has been no overstepping of the limits of the real.

But in subjects so handled, however skillfully, or with however vivid an array of incident, there

is always a certain hardness or nakedness which repels the artistical eye. Two things are

invariably required- first, some amount of complexity, or more properly, adaptation; and,

secondly, some amount of suggestiveness- some under-current, however indefinite, of meaning.

It is this latter, in especial, which imparts to a work of art so much of that richness (to borrow

from colloquy a forcible term), which we are too fond of confounding with the ideal. It is the

excess of the suggested meaning- it is the rendering this the upper instead of the under-current of

the theme- which turns into prose (and that of the very flattest kind), the so-called poetry of the

so-called transcendentalists.

Holding these opinions, I added the two concluding stanzas of the poem- their suggestiveness

being thus made to pervade all the narrative which has preceded them. The under-current of

meaning is rendered first apparent in the line-

"Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my

door!"

Quoth the Raven "Nevermore!"

It will be observed that the words, "from out my heart," involve the first metaphorical expression

in the poem. They, with the answer, "Nevermore," dispose the mind to seek a moral in all that

has been previously narrated. The reader begins now to regard the Raven as emblematical- but it

is not until the very last line of the very last stanza that the intention of making him emblematical

of Mournful and never ending Remembrance is permitted distinctly to be seen:

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting,

On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;

And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon that is dreaming,

And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;

And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor

Shall be lifted- nevermore.