Lou Reed: Prologue

In the science of the mind there is no pointmore thrilling than to notice which I never noticed in schools that in our endeavorsto recall to memory something long-forgottenwe often find ourselves upon the very verge of remembrancewithout being in the end able to rememberUnder the intense scrutiny of Ligeia's eyesI have felt the full knowledgeand force of their expressionand yet been unable to possess itand have felt it leave me as so many other things have leftthe letter half-read, the bottle half-drunkfinding in the commonest objectsof the universe a circle of analogiesof metaphors for that expressionwhich has been willfully withheld from methe access to the inner soul deniedEyes blazed with a too-glorious effulgencepale fingers transparent, waxen, the hue of the graveBlue veins upon the lofty forehead swelledand sunk impetuously with the tides of deep emotionand I saw that she must diethat she was wresting with the dark shadowHer stern nature had impressed mewith the belief that, to herdeath would come without its terrorsbut not soI groaned in anguish at the pitiable spectacleI would have soothedI would have reasonedBut she was amid the most convulsive of writhingsOh, pitiful soulHer voice more gentlemore low, and yet her words grew wilder of meaningI reeled, entranced, to a melody more than mortalShe loved me, no doubtand in her bosomlove reigned as no ordinary passionBut in death only was I impressedwith the intensity of her affectionHer more than passionate devotion amounted to idolatryHow had I deserved to be so blessedand then cursed with the removal of my belovedupon the hour of her most delirious musingsIn her more than womanly abandonment to a loveall unmerited and unworthily bestowedI came to realize the principle of her longingIt was a yearning for lifean eager, intense desire for lifewhich was now fleeing so rapidly awayas she returned solemnly to her bed of deathAnd I had no utterance capable of expressing itexcept to sayMan doth not yield to the angelsnor unto death utterlysave only through the weakness of his feeble willI became wild with the excitementof an immoderate does of opiumI saw her raising wine to her lipsor may have dreamed that I saw fall within a gobletas if from some invisible springin the atmosphere of the roomthree of four large dropsof a brilliant and ruby-colored fluidFallingWhile Ligeia lay in her bed of ebonythe bed of deathwith mine eyes riveted upon her bodyThen came a moana sob low and gentle but onceI listened in superstitious terror but heard it not againI strained vision to see any motion in the corpsebut here was not the slightest perceptibleYet I had heard the noiseand my whole soul was awakened within meThe red liquid fell and I thought, Ligeia livesand I felt my brain reelmy heart cease to beatand my limbs go rigid where I satIn extremity of horrorI heard a vague sound issuing from the region of the bedRushing to her I sawI distinctly sawa tremor upon her lipsI sprang to my feet and chafedand bathed the temples and hands but in vainall color fledall pulsation ceasedHer lips resumed the expression of the deadthe icy hue, the sunken outlineand all the loathsome peculiarities of thatwhich for many days has been the tenant of the tombAnd again I sank into visions of LigeiaAnd again I heard a low sobAs I looked she seemed to grow tallerWhat inexpressible madness seized me with that thought?I ran to touch herHer head fell, and her clothing crumbledand there streamed forth huge masses of long disheveled hairIt was blackerthan the raven wings of midnight