Poe, Edgar Allen / 2008-08-01 00:00:00

1839
WILLIAM WILSON
by Edgar Allan Poe
What say of it? what say (of) CONSCIENCE grim,
That spectre in my path?
Chamberlayne's Pharronida.
LET me call myself, for the present, William Wilson. The fair page
now lying before me need not be sullied with my real appellation. This
has been already too much an object for the scorn --for the horror
--for the detestation of my race. To the uttermost regions of the
globe have not the indignant winds bruited its unparalleled infamy?
Oh, outcast of all outcasts most abandoned! --to the earth art thou
not forever dead? to its honors, to its flowers, to its golden
aspirations? --and a cloud, dense, dismal, and limitless, does it
not hang eternally between thy hopes and heaven?
I would not, if I could, here or to-day, embody a record of my later
years of unspeakable misery, and unpardonable crime. This epoch
--these later years --took unto themselves a sudden elevation in
turpitude, whose origin alone it is my present purpose to assign.
Read more


Parts: 1 2 3