Edgar Allan

Poe

Tales, Volume I

Erzählungen, Band I

Synchronisation und Ergänzungen © Doppeltext 2022

TITELBLATT

MS. FOUND IN A BOTTLE

THE ASSIGNATION

KING PEST

LIGEIA

THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER

WILLIAM WILSON

THE MAN OF THE CROWD

A DESCENT INTO THE MAELSTRÖM

THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE

IMPRESSUM

MS. FOUND IN A BOTTLE

Qui n’a plus qu’un mo­ment a vivre
N’a plus rien a dis­sim­uler.
Quin­ault — Atys.
Of my coun­try and of my fam­ily I have little to say.
Ill us­age and length of years have driv­en me from the one, and es­tranged me from the oth­er.
Hered­it­ary wealth af­forded me an edu­ca­tion of no com­mon or­der,
and a con­tem­plat­ive turn of mind en­abled me to meth­od­ise the stores which early study very di­li­gently garnered up.
Bey­ond all things, the works of the Ger­man mor­al­ists gave me great de­light;
not from any ill-ad­vised ad­mir­a­tion of their elo­quent mad­ness, but from the ease with which my habits of ri­gid thought en­abled me to de­tect their fals­it­ies.
I have of­ten been re­proached with the arid­ity of my geni­us; a de­fi­ciency of ima­gin­a­tion has been im­puted to me as a crime;
and the Pyrrhon­ism of my opin­ions has at all times rendered me no­tori­ous.
In­deed, a strong rel­ish for phys­ic­al philo­sophy has, I fear, tinc­tured my mind with a very com­mon er­ror of this age —
I mean the habit of re­fer­ring oc­cur­rences, even the least sus­cept­ible of such ref­er­ence, to the prin­ciples of that sci­ence.
Upon the whole, no per­son could be less li­able than my­self to be led away from the severe pre­cincts of truth by the ig­nes fatui of su­per­sti­tion. I have thought prop­er to premise thus much, lest the in­cred­ible tale I have to tell should be con­sidered rather the rav­ing of a crude ima­gin­a­tion, than the pos­it­ive ex­per­i­ence of a mind to which the rev­er­ies of fancy have been a dead let­ter and a nullity.
After many years spent in for­eign travel, I sailed in the year 18—, from the port of Batavia,
in the rich and pop­u­lous is­land of Java, on a voy­age to the Ar­chipelago of the Sunda is­lands.
I went as pas­sen­ger — hav­ing no oth­er in­duce­ment than a kind of nervous rest­less­ness which haunted me as a fiend.
Our ves­sel was a beau­ti­ful ship of about four hun­dred tons, cop­per-fastened, and built at Bom­bay of Malab­ar teak.
She was freighted with cot­ton-wool and oil, from the Lachadive is­lands.
We had also on board coir, jaggeree, ghee, co­coa-nuts, and a few cases of opi­um.
The stow­age was clum­sily done, and the ves­sel con­sequently crank.
We got un­der way with a mere breath of wind, and for many days stood along the east­ern coast of Java,
without any oth­er in­cid­ent to be­guile the mono­tony of our course than the oc­ca­sion­al meet­ing with some of the small grabs of the Ar­chipelago to which we were bound.
One even­ing, lean­ing over the taffrail, I ob­served a very sin­gu­lar, isol­ated cloud, to the N. W.
It was re­mark­able, as well for its col­or, as from its be­ing the first we had seen since our de­par­ture from Batavia.

Edgar Allan Poe
Tales, Volume I / Erzählungen, Band I
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