michael kors outlet uk a 100 burnt out light bulb

Edgar Allan Poe’s Unity Of Impression

When I sat down to write my mini story on "Alzheimer’s" I pretty much had on mind Edgar Allan Poe’s writing principle: Unity of impression. To bind the story together I used an object (a 100 burnt out light bulb) that would mirror and symbolize human life: that it eventually burns out.

Poe held that a good work has to be short enough to be read in one sitting. If it requires two sittings, the unity of impression and effect is damaged. That is why he was so critical of Milton’s long poem "Paradise Lost."

Because of that long held belief, Poe wrote only one novel: "The Narrative of A. Gordon Pym." A novel must be read by taking human bites of a few chapters at a time. He is particularly well known for his short stories of horror and terror, and also for his long poem, the Raven. Poe began his career writing Gothic fiction, especially through the tales of the macabre for which he is now so famous. In all his tales Poe never deviates from the "Unity" principle. In one of his letters, he writes: "In writing these Tales . at long intervals, I have kept the book unity always in mind . with reference to its effect as part of a whole."

The narrator of "Ligeia" at one point cites Lord Bacon’s dictum: "There is no exquisite beauty says Bacon, Lord Verulam, speaking truly of all the forms and genera of beauty, without some strangeness in the proportion." On the surface this seems to paradoxical, but on deeper reflection is holds some truth. In addition, Poe also observed that "The death . of a beautiful woman is unquestionably the most poetical topic in the world."

With the above two observations, together with the "Unity" principle I wrote my story in one sitting. For those of you who have not read it, here it is:

Alzheimer, Love, and Mercy the Death of a Beautiful Woman

Glancing through my bookshelves I noticed a book entitled, The Things They Carried.

To fix the remembrances we value we carry or keep our favorite things. In my case, I value a 100 watt burnt out light bulb more than anything else I can think of. I will explain in a moment.

In the mid sixties, as both Mary Patricia and I were pursuing our separate careers, we had to juggle our time to hold our marriage together and to spend quality time with our first born daughter. As a budding concert pianist, Mary Patricia’s schedule was filled with auditions, recitals, and long practice hours. To pay bills I took a break from school and got a job. We needed help desperately.

One good day, it occurred to me that my mother in law a widow for many years who lived all by herself in a big house in Boston, perhaps should move in to live with us here in Manhattan.

"With Jim now in the Marines," I said to Mary Patricia, "she must be lonely."

"Mom misses Jim a lot." With a melancholy voice Mary Patricia went on, "I must admit she favored my brother. Sometimes I felt like I was a glass pane that she’d look through me. But not with Jim oh, no. Her gaze would always linger on him."

"You’re imagining things," I would say to soother her. "Moms love their children equally."

Mary Patricia agreed to talk to her mom. And to our relief, Portia welcome the idea and soon she moved in with us. For fourteen precious years Portia enriched and sweetened our lives, for in my long years of existence besides my wife I haven’t met anyone as noble and kind hearted as my mother in law.

Endowed with an eye for colors and patterns, in her mild manner, she would suggest that I change ties, that a particular jacket or shoes were more appropriate. Never for a single day or moment did I have to worry about loose buttons, frayed cuffs, or soiled or spotted garments. Portia inspected and maintained my personal attire, just as she had with her husband’s (a distinguished and famed Boston attorney).

While the war in Vietnam was raging and seemed distant to many, in our household it was a daily threat. Jim Mary Patricia’s brother, Portia’s son was there. An occasional letter from Jim would relieve Portia’s anxiety. But the specter of doom filled her days.

Having lost my student deferment, I had no choice but to accept a commission as a second lieutenant in the US Army. After advanced training in Fort Benning, Georgia, and Fort Lawton in Oklahoma, I soon received my orders and shipped out to Vietnam.

While I came back from the war, Jim never did.

Yet Portia never begrudged her loss. She accepted Jim’s fate and his memory became a constant source of pride, for Jim had fallen with the gallantry of a true American hero in the battle for Khe Sanh. And many were the posthumous citations and medals that the Marines awarded him.

With my nerves shattered and suffering from hallucinations and nightmares, for a couple of years, Mary Patricia and Portia nursed me back to life. Like a divine angel of mercy Portia ministered to my shredded soul and body. My return to civilian life wasn’t easy, and had it not been for Portia, God knows what dark impulses would have seized my feeble reason.

When I got well and started working again, Portia once again looked after me with motherly love, respect, and sweetness. It seemed to me that she waited for the hours of the day to pass so that when I came home from work, she could greet me with a cup of hot tea and cookies.

At times I felt bad for Mary Patricia, for Portia’s attentions to her were not as expressive. Having grown up during the Great Depression, Portia was thrifty and not given to frivolous spending. Many a time, as I saw Portia use her 100 watt burnt out light bulb to mend my socks, I would ask Mary Patricia: "Wouldn’t it be more economical if I buy new socks? In today’s economy no one mends socks anymore."

"She did that for that dad. Let her be," Mary Patricia would reply.

Then one ill starred day an incident happened that was the harbinger of bad things to come.

Hot tea and cookies on the table by my side, I watched the 6 PM news. In the next instant, Portia walks in with another tray with cookies and hot tea. An awkward moment it was, for I was just as confused as she was. Realizing her duplicate action, Portia retreated to the kitchen carrying the tray, eyes filled with tears. I never gave it another thought until other little things started to become obvious that something was amiss.

Faced with the unmistakable facts that Portia wasn’t well mentally, we took her to a specialist. The diagnosis was ‘dementia caused by Alzheimer’s loss of memory.’

Portia became adamant and wanted to return to Boston to live in her own house again. But she no longer owned that house, for she had sold it when she moved in with us. And since her illness was progressing at a rapid pace, we had no choice but to install her in a facility that specialized in Alzheimer’s patients.

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