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The Black Cat Analysis



Author: Prose of Edgar Allen Poe Type: Prose Views: 6373

FOR the most wild, yet most homely narrative which I am about to pen, I neither expect nor solicit belief. Mad indeed would I be to expect it, in a case where my very senses reject their own evidence. Yet, mad am I not --and very surely do I not dream. But to-morrow I die, and to-day I would unburthen my soul. My immediate purpose is to place before the world, plainly, succinctly, and without comment, a series of mere household events. In their consequences, these events have terrified --have tortured --have destroyed me. Yet I will not attempt to expound them. To me, they have presented little but Horror --to many they will seem less terrible than baroques. Hereafter, perhaps, some intellect may be found which will reduce my phantasm to the common-place --some intellect more calm, more logical, and far less excitable than my own, which will perceive, in the circumstances I detail with awe, nothing more than an ordinary succession of very natural causes and effects.
From my infancy I was noted for the docility and humanity of my disposition. My tenderness of heart was even so conspicuous as to make me the jest of my companions. I was especially fond of animals, and was indulged by my parents with a great variety of pets. With these I spent most of my time, and never was so happy as when feeding and caressing them. This peculiar of character grew with my growth, and in my manhood, I derived from it one of my principal sources of pleasure. To those who have cherished an affection for a faithful and sagacious dog, I need hardly be at the trouble of explaining the nature or the intensity of the gratification thus derivable. There is something in the unselfish and self-sacrificing love of a brute, which goes directly to the heart of him who has had frequent occasion to test the paltry friendship and gossamer fidelity of mere Man.
I married early, and was happy to find in my wife a disposition not uncongenial with my own. Observing my partiality for domestic pets, she lost no opportunity of procuring those of the most agreeable kind. We had birds, gold fish, a fine dog, rabbits, a small monkey, and a cat.
This latter was a remarkably large and beautiful animal, entirely black, and sagacious to an astonishing degree. In speaking of his intelligence, my wife, who at heart was not a little tinctured with superstition, made frequent allusion to the ancient popular notion, which regarded all black cats as witches in disguise. Not that she was ever serious upon this point --and I mention the matter at all for no better reason than that it happens, just now, to be remembered.
Pluto --this was the cat's name --was my favorite pet and playmate. I alone fed him, and he attended me wherever I went about the house. It was even with difficulty that I could prevent him from following me through the streets.
Our friendship lasted, in this manner, for several years, during which my general temperament and character --through the instrumentality of the Fiend Intemperance --had (I blush to confess it) experienced a radical alteration for the worse. I grew, day by day, more moody, more irritable, more regardless of the feelings of others. I suffered myself to use intemperate language to my At length, I even offered her personal violence. My pets, of course, were made to feel the change in my disposition. I not only neglected, but ill-used them. For Pluto, however, I still retained sufficient regard to restrain me from maltreating him, as I made no scruple of maltreating the rabbits, the monkey, or even the dog, when by accident, or through affection, they came in my way. But my disease grew upon me --for what disease is like Alcohol! --and at length even Pluto, who was now becoming old, and consequently somewhat peevish --even Pluto began to experience the effects of my ill temper.
One night, returning home, much intoxicated, from one of my haunts about town, I fancied that the cat avoided my presence. I seized him; when, in his fright at my violence, he inflicted a slight wound upon my hand with his teeth. The fury of a demon instantly possessed me. I knew myself no longer. My original soul seemed, at once, to take its flight from my body; and a more than fiendish malevolence, gin-nurtured, thrilled every fibre of my frame. I took from my waistcoat-pocket a pen-knife, opened it, grasped the poor beast by the throat, and deliberately cut one of its eyes from the socket! I blush, I burn, I shudder, while I pen the damnable atrocity.
When reason returned with the morning --when I had slept off the fumes of the night's debauch --I experienced a sentiment half of horror, half of remorse, for the crime of which I had been guilty; but it was, at best, a feeble and equivocal feeling, and the soul remained untouched. I again plunged into excess, and soon drowned in wine all memory of the deed.
In the meantime the cat slowly recovered. The socket of the lost eye presented, it is true, a frightful appearance, but he no longer appeared to suffer any pain. He went about the house as usual, but, as might be expected, fled in extreme terror at my approach. I had so much of my old heart left, as to be at first grieved by this evident dislike on the part of a creature which had once so loved me. But this feeling soon gave place to irritation. And then came, as if to my final and irrevocable overthrow, the spirit of PERVERSENESS. Of this spirit philosophy takes no account. Yet I am not more sure that my soul lives, than I am that perverseness is one of the primitive impulses of the human heart --one of the indivisible primary faculties, or sentiments, which give direction to the character of Man. Who has not, a hundred times, found himself committing a vile or a silly action, for no other reason than because he knows he should not? Have we not a perpetual inclination, in the teeth of our best judgment, to violate that which is Law, merely because we understand it to be such? This spirit of perverseness, I say, came to my final overthrow. It was this unfathomable longing of the soul to vex itself --to offer violence to its own nature --to do wrong for the wrong's sake only --that urged me to continue and finally to consummate the injury I had inflicted upon the unoffending brute. One morning, in cool blood, I slipped a noose about its neck and hung it to the limb of a tree; --hung it with the tears streaming from my eyes, and with the bitterest remorse at my heart; --hung it because I knew that it had loved me, and because I felt it had given me no reason of offence; --hung it because I knew that in so doing I was committing a sin --a deadly sin that would so jeopardize my immortal soul as to place it --if such a thing were possible --even beyond the reach of the infinite mercy of the Most Merciful and Most Terrible God.
On the night of the day on which this cruel deed was done, I was aroused from sleep by the cry of fire. The curtains of my bed were in flames. The whole house was blazing. It was with great difficulty that my wife, a servant, and myself, made our escape from the conflagration. The destruction was complete. My entire worldly wealth was swallowed up, and I resigned myself thenceforward to despair.
I am above the weakness of seeking to establish a sequence of cause and effect, between the disaster and the atrocity. But I am detailing a chain of facts --and wish not to leave even a possible link imperfect. On the day succeeding the fire, I visited the ruins. The walls, with one exception, had fallen in. This exception was found in a compartment wall, not very thick, which stood about the middle of the house, and against which had rested the head of my bed. The plastering had here, in great measure, resisted the action of the fire --a fact which I attributed to its having been recently spread. About this wall a dense crowd were collected, and many persons seemed to be examining a particular portion of it with every minute and eager attention. The words "strange!" "singular!" and other similar expressions, excited my curiosity. I approached and saw, as if graven in bas relief upon the white surface, the figure of a gigantic cat. The impression was given with an accuracy truly marvellous. There was a rope about the animal's neck.
When I first beheld this apparition --for I could scarcely regard it as less --my wonder and my terror were extreme. But at length reflection came to my aid. The cat, I remembered, had been hung in a garden adjacent to the house. Upon the alarm of fire, this garden had been immediately filled by the crowd --by some one of whom the animal must have been cut from the tree and thrown, through an open window, into my chamber. This had probably been done with the view of arousing me from sleep. The falling of other walls had compressed the victim of my cruelty into the substance of the freshly-spread plaster; the lime of which, had then with the flames, and the ammonia from the carcass, accomplished the portraiture as I saw it.
Although I thus readily accounted to my reason, if not altogether to my conscience, for the startling fact 'just detailed, it did not the less fall to make a deep impression upon my fancy. For months I could not rid myself of the phantasm of the cat; and, during this period, there came back into my spirit a half-sentiment that seemed, but was not, remorse. I went so far as to regret the loss of the animal, and to look about me, among the vile haunts which I now habitually frequented, for another pet of the same species, and of somewhat similar appearance, with which to supply its place.
One night as I sat, half stupefied, in a den of more than infamy, my attention was suddenly drawn to some black object, reposing upon the head of one of the immense hogsheads of Gin, or of Rum, which constituted the chief furniture of the apartment. I had been looking steadily at the top of this hogshead for some minutes, and what now caused me surprise was the fact that I had not sooner perceived the object thereupon. I approached it, and touched it with my hand. It was a black cat --a very large one --fully as large as Pluto, and closely resembling him in every respect but one. Pluto had not a white hair upon any portion of his body; but this cat had a large, although indefinite splotch of white, covering nearly the whole region of the breast.
Upon my touching him, he immediately arose, purred loudly, rubbed against my hand, and appeared delighted with my notice. This, then, was the very creature of which I was in search. I at once offered to purchase it of the landlord; but this person made no claim to it --knew nothing of it --had never seen it before.
I continued my caresses, and, when I prepared to go home, the animal evinced a disposition to accompany me. I permitted it to do so; occasionally stooping and patting it as I proceeded. When it reached the house it domesticated itself at once, and became immediately a great favorite with my wife.
For my own part, I soon found a dislike to it arising within me. This was just the reverse of what I had anticipated; but I know not how or why it was --its evident fondness for myself rather disgusted and annoyed. By slow degrees, these feelings of disgust and annoyance rose into the bitterness of hatred. I avoided the creature; a certain sense of shame, and the remembrance of my former deed of cruelty, preventing me from physically abusing it. I did not, for some weeks, strike, or otherwise violently ill use it; but gradually --very gradually --I came to look upon it with unutterable loathing, and to flee silently from its odious presence, as from the breath of a pestilence.
What added, no doubt, to my hatred of the beast, was the discovery, on the morning after I brought it home, that, like Pluto, it also had been deprived of one of its eyes. This circumstance, however, only endeared it to my wife, who, as I have already said, possessed, in a high degree, that humanity of feeling which had once been my distinguishing trait, and the source of many of my simplest and purest pleasures.
With my aversion to this cat, however, its partiality for myself seemed to increase. It followed my footsteps with a pertinacity which it would be difficult to make the reader comprehend. Whenever I sat, it would crouch beneath my chair, or spring upon my knees, covering me with its loathsome caresses. If I arose to walk it would get between my feet and thus nearly throw me down, or, fastening its long and sharp claws in my dress, clamber, in this manner, to my breast. At such times, although I longed to destroy it with a blow, I was yet withheld from so doing, partly it at by a memory of my former crime, but chiefly --let me confess it at once --by absolute dread of the beast.
This dread was not exactly a dread of physical evil-and yet I should be at a loss how otherwise to define it. I am almost ashamed to own --yes, even in this felon's cell, I am almost ashamed to own --that the terror and horror with which the animal inspired me, had been heightened by one of the merest chimaeras it would be possible to conceive. My wife had called my attention, more than once, to the character of the mark of white hair, of which I have spoken, and which constituted the sole visible difference between the strange beast and the one I had y si destroyed. The reader will remember that this mark, although large, had been originally very indefinite; but, by slow degrees --degrees nearly imperceptible, and which for a long time my Reason struggled to reject as fanciful --it had, at length, assumed a rigorous distinctness of outline. It was now the representation of an object that I shudder to name --and for this, above all, I loathed, and dreaded, and would have rid myself of the monster had I dared --it was now, I say, the image of a hideous --of a ghastly thing --of the GALLOWS! --oh, mournful and terrible engine of Horror and of Crime --of Agony and of Death!
And now was I indeed wretched beyond the wretchedness of mere Humanity. And a brute beast --whose fellow I had contemptuously destroyed --a brute beast to work out for me --for me a man, fashioned in the image of the High God --so much of insufferable wo! Alas! neither by day nor by night knew I the blessing of Rest any more! During the former the creature left me no moment alone; and, in the latter, I started, hourly, from dreams of unutterable fear, to find the hot breath of the thing upon my face, and its vast weight --an incarnate Night-Mare that I had no power to shake off --incumbent eternally upon my heart!
Beneath the pressure of torments such as these, the feeble remnant of the good within me succumbed. Evil thoughts became my sole intimates --the darkest and most evil of thoughts. The moodiness of my usual temper increased to hatred of all things and of all mankind; while, from the sudden, frequent, and ungovernable outbursts of a fury to which I now blindly abandoned myself, my uncomplaining wife, alas! was the most usual and the most patient of sufferers.
One day she accompanied me, upon some household errand, into the cellar of the old building which our poverty compelled us to inhabit. The cat followed me down the steep stairs, and, nearly throwing me headlong, exasperated me to madness. Uplifting an axe, and forgetting, in my wrath, the childish dread which had hitherto stayed my hand, I aimed a blow at the animal which, of course, would have proved instantly fatal had it descended as I wished. But this blow was arrested by the hand of my wife. Goaded, by the interference, into a rage more than demoniacal, I withdrew my arm from her grasp and buried the axe in her brain. She fell dead upon the spot, without a groan.
This hideous murder accomplished, I set myself forthwith, and with entire deliberation, to the task of concealing the body. I knew that I could not remove it from the house, either by day or by night, without the risk of being observed by the neighbors. Many projects entered my mind. At one period I thought of cutting the corpse into minute fragments, and destroying them by fire. At another, I resolved to dig a grave for it in the floor of the cellar. Again, I deliberated about casting it in the well in the yard --about packing it in a box, as if merchandize, with the usual arrangements, and so getting a porter to take it from the house. Finally I hit upon what I considered a far better expedient than either of these. I determined to wall it up in the cellar --as the monks of the middle ages are recorded to have walled up their victims.
For a purpose such as this the cellar was well adapted. Its walls were loosely constructed, and had lately been plastered throughout with a rough plaster, which the dampness of the atmosphere had prevented from hardening. Moreover, in one of the walls was a projection, caused by a false chimney, or fireplace, that had been filled up, and made to resemble the rest of the cellar. I made no doubt that I could readily displace the at this point, insert the corpse, and wall the whole up as before, so that no eye could detect anything suspicious.
And in this calculation I was not deceived. By means of a crow-bar I easily dislodged the bricks, and, having carefully deposited the body against the inner wall, I propped it in that position, while, with little trouble, I re-laid the whole structure as it originally stood. Having procured mortar, sand, and hair, with every possible precaution, I prepared a plaster could not every poss be distinguished from the old, and with this I very carefully went over the new brick-work. When I had finished, I felt satisfied that all was right. The wall did not present the slightest appearance of having been disturbed. The rubbish on the floor was picked up with the minutest care. I looked around triumphantly, and said to myself --"Here at least, then, my labor has not been in vain."
My next step was to look for the beast which had been the cause of so much wretchedness; for I had, at length, firmly resolved to put it to death. Had I been able to meet with it, at the moment, there could have been no doubt of its fate; but it appeared that the crafty animal had been alarmed at the violence of my previous anger, and forebore to present itself in my present mood. It is impossible to describe, or to imagine, the deep, the blissful sense of relief which the absence of the detested creature occasioned in my bosom. It did not make its appearance during the night --and thus for one night at least, since its introduction into the house, I soundly and tranquilly slept; aye, slept even with the burden of murder upon my soul!
The second and the third day passed, and still my tormentor came not. Once again I breathed as a free-man. The monster, in terror, had fled the premises forever! I should behold it no more! My happiness was supreme! The guilt of my dark deed disturbed me but little. Some few inquiries had been made, but these had been readily answered. Even a search had been instituted --but of course nothing was to be discovered. I looked upon my future felicity as secured.
Upon the fourth day of the assassination, a party of the police came, very unexpectedly, into the house, and proceeded again to make rigorous investigation of the premises. Secure, however, in the inscrutability of my place of concealment, I felt no embarrassment whatever. The officers bade me accompany them in their search. They left no nook or corner unexplored. At length, for the third or fourth time, they descended into the cellar. I quivered not in a muscle. My heart beat calmly as that of one who slumbers in innocence. I walked the cellar from end to end. I folded my arms upon my bosom, and roamed easily to and fro. The police were thoroughly satisfied and prepared to depart. The glee at my heart was too strong to be restrained. I burned to say if but one word, by way of triumph, and to render doubly sure their assurance of my guiltlessness.
"Gentlemen," I said at last, as the party ascended the steps, "I delight to have allayed your suspicions. I wish you all health, and a little more courtesy. By the bye, gentlemen, this --this is a very well constructed house." (In the rabid desire to say something easily, I scarcely knew what I uttered at all.) --"I may say an excellently well constructed house. These walls --are you going, gentlemen? --these walls are solidly put together"; and here, through the mere phrenzy of bravado, I rapped heavily, with a cane which I held in my hand, upon that very portion of the brick-work behind which stood the corpse of the wife of my bosom.
But may God shield and deliver me from the fangs of the Arch-Fiend! No sooner had the reverberation of my blows sunk into silence than I was answered by a voice from within the tomb! --by a cry, at first muffled and broken, like the sobbing of a child, and then quickly swelling into one long, loud, and continuous scream, utterly anomalous and inhuman --a howl --a wailing shriek, half of horror and half of triumph, such as might have arisen only out of hell, conjointly from the throats of the damned in their agony and of the demons that exult in the damnation.
Of my own thoughts it is folly to speak. Swooning, I staggered to the opposite wall. For one instant the party upon the stairs remained motionless, through extremity of terror and of awe. In the next, a dozen stout arms were tolling at the wall. It fell bodily. The corpse, already greatly decayed and clotted with gore, stood erect before the eyes of the spectators. Upon its head, with red extended mouth and solitary eye of fire, sat the hideous beast whose craft had seduced me into murder, and whose informing voice had consigned me to the hangman. I had walled the monster up within the tomb!





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||| Analysis | Critique | Overview Below |||

.: :.

the spirit of perverseness is somewhat like doing something evil but no apparent motive,you knew that it was wrong but you don\'t know why you still doing it...
-nish-

| Posted on 2011-08-27 | by a guest


.: :.

okay i am having to do a ton of questions for this short story. i hate reading. so this short story is a pain in the rear.. okay so my quesetion is what is the signifigance of the fire?? no one has commented on that. how does he explain the phenomenon he discovers after teh fire?? and what does the phenomenon symbolize.? help!!!

| Posted on 2010-09-27 | by a guest


.: :.

From a purely analytical perspective, this story appears to me to be about how within every person, even the most gentle, is the spirit of 'peverseness', which is basically the instinct to destroy, to create chaos and anarchy. I find it particularly telling that he finds that he cannot stop himself from hanging the cat, he cries as he does so; once he has given into this spirit of peverseness, he cannot resist even as he feels guilty; as he progresses further into to the control of this peverseness, he sinks into madness. In the beginning, he assures the reader that he is not mad, but by the end of the story it is plain that his actions are illogical and in fact mad; he is trying to justify his actions but cannot.

| Posted on 2010-03-09 | by a guest


.: :.

I believe this story is about Poe's alcoholism; how you can feel like a completely different person, becoming who you truly are not when it is drunk. This is where doppelganger comes in; another personality comes out which is that of the devil... KLD

| Posted on 2010-02-03 | by a guest


.: :.

Just a fun thought:
I am currently writing a critique on this story in which I make the assertion that the pets in this story are actually metaphors for the narrator's children. The Black Cat (pluto) being the youngest of his children. I then say that all the violent events are just metaphors for how he emotionally and physically destroys his family.
Pets=Kids
taking eye=permanent emotional damage
Killing Pluto= withdrawal from his last loving child
fire=chaotic confusing life amidst alcoholic daze
second cat= youngest child forgiving him for years of abuse
killing of wife and cat= literal murder of his family
Just trying to stir the pot. tell me what you think.

| Posted on 2009-12-08 | by a guest


.: :.

In my opinion this story is about a man driven crazy by himself and then the anger at himself turned outward. He feels no remorse for what he did because he feels nothing for human or animal kind anymore. His arrogance and the belief that everything he does is not at all wrong makes me think he not only was mentally unstable but cruel. The cat is a symbol of his conscience that has taken a tangible form out of his body since he doesn't have one. He believes the cat is a demon but really it is just his conscience in another form haunting him.

| Posted on 2009-11-03 | by a guest


.: :.

I think this storie relates strongly to poes alcholism in real life and that being pluto.It shows how he battles it his entire life and in the end it gets the better of him. if poe had gone with his first idea of cutting her into pieces then the chacter might not have died but in the end the chacters own arrogance was his own down fall really.
Death due us Part. :-)

| Posted on 2009-11-01 | by a guest


.: :.

I still believe that feces are an exquisite delicacy's. Even in these modern times.

| Posted on 2009-10-25 | by a guest


.: :.

I believe that the story has to be read in context with the time it was written.It is a succint moral tale that takes advantage of the era's superstitious leanings in a time of rapid modernisation.Poe knew his audience,and there weaknesses. Jeff.

| Posted on 2009-06-21 | by a guest


.: :.

do you all like poe this much, then there should be more talk about his work rather than how you feel of the story!

| Posted on 2009-05-16 | by a guest


.: :.

Serisously guys im in year 12 and i know more than you do.
The second Cat is somewhat a doppelganger of himself, in that he is obsessed with it being the beast, and that he is turning into a beast.
It is not about alchoholism but instead shows the way in which the narrator avoids taking responsibility for anything he does, instead blaming it on the alchohol and the cat. as insanity and criminal minds come to think.
duhh

| Posted on 2009-04-26 | by a guest


.: :.

there are many theories as to what the exact caus eof this writting is. i myself believe it is a topic of guilt. think of how guilty he was after he hung the first cat that he started to see things that drove him to the point of madness. or how he could only focus on the cat for the fact that it resembled pluto so much. or how he thought the white mark on his neck resembled the gallows. and how his guilty concious led him to tap the wall where he had hidden his wife.
un related to this topic, the story is one of my favorites and is very well knon. i love the story and even if it is gory i still like the whole idea of trying to analyze him. (its fun)

| Posted on 2009-02-26 | by a guest


.: :.

I think the Black Cat is a clever way of saying that Poe is explainging how drinking affects how people act over time. The narrator at first love animals, loves caring for him, as well as his wife. Then, when he drinks, he is harsh, cruel, and thoughtless.

| Posted on 2009-02-20 | by a guest


.: :.

I think that poe was trying to convey that he hates animals and people and himself this isnt a joke please do not take it as one

| Posted on 2009-01-14 | by a guest


.: :.

Only problem with the post "Romanticism" and the citing of this connection with animals in "Nature" by Emerson, is that Poe really, really doesn't get along with transcendentalism. He makes fun of it all the time.

| Posted on 2008-11-24 | by a guest


.: :.

some people who posted shit on here need a damn spell check...

| Posted on 2008-10-29 | by a guest


.: Awante Poe!!!! :.

Al principio no kaxe de ke mierda se trataba la historia, hasta ke vi lo estos weones eskribieron

| Posted on 2008-05-05 | by a guest


.: Awante Poe!!!! :.

Al principio no kaxe de ke mierda se trataba la historia, hasta ke vi lo estos weones eskribieron

| Posted on 2008-05-05 | by a guest


.: black cat :.

It seems to be that everyone thinks this story is about alcoholism...
but is it really? Read "the imp of the perverse" This has many parallels, i.e. the drive to do what is perverse, the way he describes it as a human drive. The main linking force is the way he describes the cat, why he killed it... which i basically because its such a disgusting act... to do what is perverse
Its basically a psych theory, about how one of our natural instincts is to go against, to rebel about everything. Its an impulse that grows in force, and in the end destroys the protagonist.

| Posted on 2008-04-05 | by a guest


.: Poe and his writings :.

Those who believe that Poe's writings are horrible and vile do not completely see the meaning behind it, nor appreciate it for its beautiful structure and plot. It really takes critical analysis to truly understand it, and those who just see it for its gore and violence should not be reading stories like this. Yes, perhaps in Poe's The Black Cat, the act of cutting out the cat's eye is truly unforgivable, but it adds to the plot and ultimately symbolizes the protagonist's strive to end an addiction. There is a reason as to why he does it, and it is not as if he wants to cut the eye out for fun...
But really, try to appreciate it. Poe himself and his writings would not have been remembered as much as it is today if people read it, pushed it aside, and said "e

| Posted on 2008-03-15 | by a guest


.: pluto :.

pluto, the black cat, may be a double meaning refering to the god of the under world. poe was a person who liked these sorts of things.... the grotesk and supernatural

| Posted on 2008-02-16 | by a guest


.: :.

omg this story is soo disturbing.. i read it nd i almost like died cuz i own a black cat:P poe was soo insane...

| Posted on 2008-02-14 | by a guest


.: Romanticism :.

First off, let's not forget the fact that Poe is an amazing writer. His writing would not solely be about alcoholism. It's incredibaly closed minded for one to only believe Poe's writing could be so shallow. He uses alcoholism because it's something he very much relates to. He uses alcoholism as an example of how the narrator loses touch with his inner self. He turns to alcohol and turns away from himself. This is where the narrator's downfall lies, in his disconnection from his inner self. In many instances he describes how he has become disconnected from how he truly was when he let an outside source take control of him. He goes from being introverted and content (romantic), to being spitefull, short-tempered, and quite disconnected from everything. He also had an important treasured connection with animals (importance of nature to Romantics-- See "Nature" by Ralph Waldo Emerson) which he soon destroyed with his disconnection from himself, leaving him in ruins. All of this makes complete sense from a Romantic perspective. And if you're still unconvinced it's a Romantic piece of literature, look at the year it was written. All of the great Romantic writers were writing in the same era (Herman Melville- Moby Dick, Nathaniel Hawthorne- Ethan Brand, Goodman Brown, etc.) and he grew up reading their works.

| Posted on 2007-12-08 | by a guest


.: the black cat :.

The black cat is a true tale of self hate. the moment that the narrorator kills his wife, it is true jelousy of the loss of his former self. As a child the narrorator is ridiculed for his feminin like attributes, this forces his sensitive interior to be masked and hidden for the rest of his life. As his wife attempts to protect the cat he is unable to restrain himself and in an act of self hate destroys himself by killing his wife.

| Posted on 2007-11-25 | by a guest


.: "Black Cat" :.


The “Black cat” by Edgar Allan Poe, shows us how someone can change for the worse due to drinking. At the beginning he is a compassionate man. He enjoys taking care of his animal friends. He’s also introverted because he enjoyed spending time on his own. Last, he is naive and immature. He married young and is happy at home with his wife and animals. Especially, the black cat. He had other pets but he loved the cat the most, much like we have other things to do but the one thing we enjoy doing the most takes over.

Later on his life he meets Alcohol. He becomes addicted to it and traits such as moody and irritable arise in him. He showed us he has these traits because he becomes careless to the feelings of others. He becomes abusive to the animals. He treats his black cat badly, the cat bites him. He reacts by cutting the black cat’s eye out. He becomes paranoid, and violent. He comes to the conclusion that the cat is getting in his way, therefore he hangs the cat. He kills the cat, symbolic of his addiction with it, but another cat comes back, like a setback. Near the ends up killing his wife, and hiding her body. Then bragging to the police about it. The police eventually take him away to pay for his crimes. This all goes back to the theme “A relatively naïve, innocent person allows alcohol to take over his life”.

The lesson taught in “Black Cat” is a person’s acts will eventually come back to haunt them or vice versa. Alcohol has completely ruined this man’s life. He lost his wife and animal friends he held so dear to become a psychotic killer due to alcohol.


| Posted on 2007-10-07 | by a guest


.: Kaylin's Confused. :.

I have to do a summary & answer 100 questions on this short story. We're studying Poe in school & he is an amazing writer. As much as I like this story, I don't really understand the words. I get lost so easily, but when I look at other summaries online, I understand it a little better. I know this is about the drinking, & he killed the cat & his wife as a way to get rid of his anger & issues, but this story is just so sad. I love it but hate it at the same time. Does that make sense?

| Posted on 2007-09-11 | by a guest


.: :.

We are all crazzy on some certain level. For some of us it is greed for wealth, others the need for a promotion, others drugs and alcohol. What ever "IT" is we all have one, a charicter flaw or vice. In this story the black cat embidies the "IT". He had other pets but he loved the cat the most, much like we have other things to do but that one thing tends to take over. Poe kills the cat, symbolic of ending an addiction, but it comes back, like a relapse. In the end he inadvertantly kills his wife wile tying to break the habit. Like maybe a divorce as a result of an addiction, or loss of friends due to stepping on them for a promtion. He tries to cover up what he had done but he must pay for his crime. I love the black cat becaue it makes me think of myself and what my "Pluto" could possibly be.

Happy insanity,
Dru NE

| Posted on 2006-04-20 | by Approved Guest


.: "The Black Cat" Analysis :.

I think this story is rather disturbing. Poe says that he is not mad yet how could he not be, he kills his wife and shows no shame! I think perhaps he was insane. I also think that Pluto, the Black Cat, was a metaphor for Poe's drinking problem. Lastly I think that Poe wrote this story to unburden his soul as he was awaiting his exicution in jail. However he never showed signs of guilt or remorse! Poe is an excellent writer however I find his wrightings to be very vile!
-Nana in TN

| Posted on 2005-11-17 | by Approved Guest


.: :.

this storie is sick and vial! But i think the story meant that alcohol is not good for yuor body and mind. I also thought that since the cat was haunting him it was like the alcohol that he drank during his life. He would stop then he would start up again and the whole time it got the better of him in the end. But overall i think that this story is sick and don't get me wrong! poe was a very good writter but there was something about him that made people dislike him because of the stuff he wrote.

| Posted on 2005-11-07 | by Approved Guest


.: alcholism :.

I think this storie relates strongly to poes alcholism in real life and that being pluto.It shows how he battles it his entire life and in the end it gets the better of him. if poe had gone with his first idea of cutting her into pieces then the chacter might not have died but in the end the chacters own arrogance was his own down fall really.In short this is a grusome storie relating directly to poes life. This is one of poes more popular stories because poe wrote about his own life so much that i truly belive that poe wrote this storie about his alcholism

| Posted on 2005-11-04 | by Approved Guest




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