How "The Raven" was written

I don’t mean to boast, but my ancestors have always been fairly inspiring to many of the greatest writers. Without some Italian great uncle of mine having ousted Dante, The Divine Comedy would not have been written. (Of course, after the work gained considerable fame, my family removed the uncle about three or four times.) It was actually one of my grandmothers—there are so many great ones that I lost track—was hopelessly smitten with Shakespeare. (It only goes to prove that love of theater people goes back a long ways.) Therefore, she, not being one of the London beauties’ at the time, drove Shakespeare to use his immortal words “get thee to a nunnery.” And a mischievous cousin tossed a stone through the box office window at the Globe also inspiring the great master to say, “What through yonder window breaks?”

In the more modern literary circles, my relatives were not slack. One of my brothers’ wife’s aunt modeled for Moby Dick. And my great-grandfather’s facial feature moved a fellow called Graham to write about a toad. Furthermore, my fisherman uncle, who lost an arm to a shark just before the Great War, encouraged Hemingway to write his autobiography, and he called it “Farewell to Arms.”

While all of these kinfolk were achieving some fame through inspiring literary figures, I thought I would be forced out of the business. I was already pushing thirty-five and going on thirty and still had not helped a writer to his great work of genius. I myself was an aspiring writer with little proof of aspiring and littler proof of being a writer. (The only publications I had to my name were two letters to an editor. I had sent twenty-nine letters, but only two were accepted.)

I was meandering down the street on autumnal day. (As a rule of thumb, great literary figures or great aspiring figures—even when the greatness is not literary—always meander. They must never be rushed. Furthermore, everything in literature happens either in spring or autumn.) As I said, I was meandering when I bumped into a tall thin man with a scrawny mustache.

“Ah, you are Mr. Murtha, I presume,” he said. “I’m Mr. Poe of Virginia. Perhaps you’ve heard of me.” (His southern accent—it was clear he was either a fraud or had spent too much time in Boston—was on its way out the door.)

As always my family hereditary spirit came into form here, I looked him up and down and knew he needed help. And so, I became condescending.

“Yes, I do believe I have. I hope you don’t take my condescending attitude too personally,” I continued. “I know you artsy people are so miserable and self-deprecating. But it’s simply the attitude of the trade.”

“Don’t worry. I understand completely. I’m a bit that way myself when I am editing a work. One has to be to keep his audience.”

“Well, Ed,” I said, “what seems to be the issue?”

“I am working on this poem,” E. A. explained, “and I just can’t seem to figure out how to make it work.”

“What’s the plot?”

“I have this girl, you see. She died. Well, actually, for all the reader knows, she could have run away or eloped with this other fellow. But it is no matter.”

“What’s her name?”

“I thought of calling her Jezebel. It was a fairly popular name at one…”

“Lenore.”

“What’s that?”

“Call her Lenore. It’s more poetic than Jezebel, and attractive.”

“Yes, Lenore. Okay. Well, I have this fellow—he has no name—dejected and despairing of ever seeing her again. And he hears a noise. He opens a door and—nothing! He goes to the window and in walks a parrot and tells him he might see her again.”

“A parrot?”

“Yes. What’s wrong with a parrot? They talk, don’t they? And the parrot repeats itself, “Says, the Parrot, ‘Perhaps.’ A two word alliteration. I think it’s very nice.”

“Eddy, Eddy,” I groaned. “This will not do. A parrot saying ‘perhaps’ will definitely not stir any feelings in anyone.”

“That’s what I thought. But what can I do? I thought of an ape or an elephant. But nothing fits the meter. And sparrows are simply out of the question. They’re too common.”

“Yes, you’re right. But have the parrot say, ‘nevermore’ or something like that. It rhymes with Lenore and it’s foreboding like.”

“Ah! Yes, thank you.”

“And say, ‘quoth.’ It’s more archaic and not too many people will plagiarize out-of-date terminology.”

“Right! This wonderful! ‘Quoth the parrot, ‘Nevermore!’ You know, I like it. It has a ring to it.”

“Yes,” I said, “now if you don’t mind, I think I’ll let some light in.”

Here I opened wide the shutters when, with many a flirt and flutter in there stepped a stately raven. And the rest was history.