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    The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym of Nantucket
    The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym of Nantucket
    The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym of Nantucket
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    The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym of Nantucket

    By Edgar Allan Poe

    3.5/5

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    HarperCollins is proud to present its incredible range of best-loved, essential classics.

    ‘It was unnecessary for all to perish, when, by the death of one, it was possible, and even probable, that the rest might be finally preserved.’

    Travelling aboard a whaling vessel, a young stowaway is swept up in myriad misadventures – mutiny, shipwreck, cannibalism – narrowly escaping numerous brushes with death. This rousing story of a daring sea voyage also presents its antihero with a host of psychological dilemmas, and offers an important insight into Poe’s work as a whole.

    The only complete novel by infamous gothic horror writer Edgar Allan Poe, ‘The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym of Nantucket’ has inspired other classic tales of maritime adventure, such as Herman Melville’s ‘Moby-Dick’ and Jules Verne’s ‘Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea’.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherHarperCollins UK
    Release dateJan 14, 2016
    ISBN9780008166786
    Author

    Edgar Allan Poe

    Edgar Allan Poe was born in Boston in 1809. His parents, both touring actors, died before he was three. He was raised by John Allan, a prosperous Virginian merchant. Poe published his first volume of poetry while still a teenager. He worked as an editor for magazines in Philadelphia, Richmond and New York, and achieved respect as a literary critic. In 1836, he married his thirteen year-old cousin. It was only with the publication of The Raven and other Poems in 1845 that he achieved national fame as a writer. Poe died in mysterious circumstances in 1849.

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    Reviews for The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym of Nantucket

    3.5/5

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    • 3/5
      Okay, I read this book for mostly two reasons: 1) I bought the book Pym by Mat Johnson, and figured I should read the book it is referencing first, and 2) Melville House published it in their novella series and you know I'm a sucker for Melville House.

      Of course, in what should probably be embarrassing for someone in love with a publisher who has named themselves after Melville, I can't really stand nautical writing. I mean, there's nothing really wrong with books that take place at sea, but inevitably there are multiple scenes all about rigging the jib sail and something the mizzen deck and I have no reference for any of these things and can't be bothered and it makes me batty. My strategy for this book was basically just to cross my eyes and skim through all those sections, which was pretty okay for getting me the background I need in order to appreciate Pym.

      This is a strange book. Of that tradition of adventure books filled with peril after peril and a few unlikely escapes. Rather different from Poe's horror, but there are some bits of dread that do feel more familiar. Then there is the frighteningly racist depiction of the "natives" discovered in the Antarctic region. I am so incredibly curious to see Pym's updated version.

      Glad I read it, but not my fave.
    • 3/5
      In the only full length novel that Edgar Allan Poe ever wrote, he tells a tale set at sea of Arthur Gordon Pym. He sails around the globe, and during his misadventures at sea, he experiences a mutiny on board, a terrible storm resulting in a shipwreck, and a run-in with a tribe of cannibals. In order words, all sorts of madcap mayhem fun. As far as the novel itself goes, I wasn't wildly impressed. It seemed to ramble at times and most of it wasn't terribly compelling. I'm not the biggest fan of Poe's writing other than some of his classic stories and poems.On the other hand, there were many familiar elements in the story that other writers emulated in their stories. On that basis, I will give Poe credit for coming up with some innovative story lines that stood the test of time. Certain aspects of the novel stood out in that regards. One is the uncharted land with a savage tribe. Another is drawing the shortest straw to face one's death. There is a whole pirate element to it and some macabre aspects that I appreciated. Overall, although I wasn't overwhelmed by the novel, I can at least appreciate it.Carl Alves - author of Two For Eternity
    • 3/5
      I must say--this one is a strange one. When I first started reading it, I was thinking how beautiful Edgar Allan Poe's writing style was. But, the story is a slog at times. Sorry. It took me a month to read this short tale. The middle drags with too many longitude and latitude references and descriptions of bizarre animals. And Edgar Allan Poe--don't you just feel sorry for the guy? He had to be weird beyond measure. He is preoccupied with the human body, birds eating dead humans and people murdering and eating people. What is it with him and human flesh? (I'm thinking of the Telltale Heart, too, murdering and cutting up a body in small pieces and stuffing it under the floorboards.) Yuck.He also has this decided paranoia. You always wonder if he is just freaking out or if he's really in danger. (I'm thinking of The Raven, too.) Paranoia abounds in this work too. He has a preoccupation with being buried alive. He has a preoccupation with black and white. I really should read it again and look for all the references of black and white--they abound. One really needs to look at race relations through this novella, since it was written in 1838.So, why did I read it? I'm reading a series of 5 novellas from American authors to get a feel for the American writer and the development of American Literature. I've read Benito Cereno by Melville, Parnassus on Wheels by Morley and now The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym of Nantucket by Poe. Next up, Cather and Fitzgerald. Apparently, this little novel influenced American literature in a great way, including Melville and Lovecraft, and Jules Verne even wrote a sequel.This is a story of a young boy who runs away to the sea, and it is a classic shipwreck story with mutiny, deaths, storms, islands, animals, and longitude. Essentially it is a survival story multiple times over--but the ending is abrupt and very strange. I'm still trying to figure it out. Why is the water hot in the antarctic? There were a lot of loose ends in this story--where did that come from? How is that possible? Is he paranoid or is something really freaky here?
    • 4/5
      Poe never ceases to fascinate. His only novel starts like a realistic narrative of life at sea, then turns into a horrific story of survival, and then morphs into a fantasy about aboriginal island tribes and an imaginary trip to a completely-divorced-from-reality version of the south pole. Quite different from the short stories and poems by which he is known, but still an intriguing read.
    • 5/5
      This book is "Moby-Dick" decades before "Moby-Dick." What begins as a jaunty sea adventure tale takes a turn for a somewhat more frightening struggle at sea. Interspersed are descriptions of maritime history, the geography of islands, flora and fauna, and other over-the-top detailed "true" accounts which are not always accurate. As the novel progresses, it gets less and less realistic despite these pseudo-realistic, pseudo-scientific soliloquies. Eventually, the novel descends to a point of senselessness, fantastic beyond reason, symbolically deep beyond comprehension, and confusing beyond serious analysis. And that's the point, folks. Sometimes life doesn't have a happy ending, nor does it end successfully wrapped up with a cute bow tied on top. "The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym of Nantucket" is a fun, confusing, hectic, strange book of unrecognized genius.One comment on here notes it wasn't very scary. I'd note that this book was not meant to be in the horror genre.
    • 4/5
      echt hallucinant, zeer gedetailleerd, pseudorealisme, versterkt door wetenschappelijk aandoende beschrijvingen.
    • 3/5
      Growing up, Poe was an athor I really liked--while I can't say that I have read ALL of his works, I am happy to report reading most of his short stories, and of course some of his poetry. Throughout school, whenever we studied Poe, those two genres were mentioned: poetry and short stories. It wasn't until a few weeks ago when I was told Poe had written a novel--this one. I was shocked! How had I never learned of this?!

      Better late than never and I am happy to report my local library had a copy.

      The plot of this novel is pretty interesting: a boy hides out on a boat becuase his family won't let him leave, but then the boy suffers from a mutany (maybe his family was right?) and eventually only 4 people remain on the boat...next problem, food and water. It gets so bad that the four draw straws to see who will make the ultimate sacrifice so others may eat him. After barely hanging on for weeks, they are finally seen and rescued by a boat. Only to be taken on another adventure to find the south pole...where savages await them.

      Poor Pym...I think he really might have been better off listening to his grandpa.
    • 3/5
      Interesting book. A narrative on an expedition to the southern seas. Despite being the work of E.A Poe and a potentially good story, the book is childish at times and has got too many loose ends. Hope the continuation by Jules Verne is better.
    • 3/5
      Although too rough, inconsistent, and episodic to really work as a novel, there are some truly chilling images and fascinating scenarios.
    • 4/5
      What a cliffhanger! Overall, the book is pretty interesting - there are some long and dry digressions but also some moments of pants-crapping intensity to liven it up.
    • 2/5
      I'm not really sure what to write about this, the only novel by Edgar Allen Poe - mostly famous for his imaginative short stories of the grotesque. This novel starts out as a real boy-adventure story at sea - mutiny, shipwreck etc. but it quickly turns very brutal and horrific. Most of the story the narrator is dazed and confused - either from lack of sleep or lack of food and water - and it gives the tale a dreamlike quality - his turmoils seems never ending and I must admit too much for my stomach. It's also very detailed in its description of various things the main character encounters - which slows down the action considerable. I didn't understand the ending either - which made me a little irritated. Well, I have read some of his short stories and they are much better. This novel was a disappointment.
    • 4/5
      A peculiar book, much of it feels derivative (although, admittedly, a somewhat unfair charge because some of it is derivative of more familiar books that were written later and themselves may have derived from this), much of it fails to hang together and the ending is completely abrupt. It features many of the standard nautical devices, a stowaway, a mutiny, a storm at sea, cannibalism, a shipwreck, a previously unknown island--all that plus a mysterious large white humanoid creature that is introduced but not explained in the final sentence of the book.The book begins with Arthur Gordon Pym's boyhood sailing trip gone awry, followed by his stowing away on an adult voyage that goes wrong in just about every way. Much of the novel is in the form of a journal and it provides minimal descriptions of a few characters and just about no description of anyone else. It is part bildingsroman, part adventure, part science fiction, and depicts equal parts fear and wonder, horror and delight. OK, maybe not equal parts--it is certainly weighted towards the fear and horror side.I have not read any of Poe's short stories in a long time, but my memory is that the best of them come much closer to perfection than this, his only novel.
    • 4/5
      A peculiar book, much of it feels derivative (although, admittedly, a somewhat unfair charge because some of it is derivative of more familiar books that were written later and themselves may have derived from this), much of it fails to hang together and the ending is completely abrupt. It features many of the standard nautical devices, a stowaway, a mutiny, a storm at sea, cannibalism, a shipwreck, a previously unknown island--all that plus a mysterious large white humanoid creature that is introduced but not explained in the final sentence of the book.

      The book begins with Arthur Gordon Pym's boyhood sailing trip gone awry, followed by his stowing away on an adult voyage that goes wrong in just about every way. Much of the novel is in the form of a journal and it provides minimal descriptions of a few characters and just about no description of anyone else. It is part bildingsroman, part adventure, part science fiction, and depicts equal parts fear and wonder, horror and delight. OK, maybe not equal parts--it is certainly weighted towards the fear and horror side.

      I have not read any of Poe's short stories in a long time, but my memory is that the best of them come much closer to perfection than this, his only novel.
    • 3/5
      This was Poe's only full length novel, and its episodic nature and very abrupt ending seems to indicate he was probably right to focus on short stories, of which he is in my view one of the prime exponents. This is a long-winded story of shipwrecks, storms, cannibalism, burial alive (of course), and exploring new lands at the southern extremity of the world. The book's abrupt end seems to come when the narrator and his sole surviving shipmate are about to discover a mystery near the south pole, that is held to be a vindication of the "hollow Earth" theory, which still had some traction in the early 19th century when exploration of the polar regions was still in its relative infancy. This story is a curiosity rather than anything else.
    • 3/5
      Ich hätte mir mehr erhoftt, ist E. A. Poes einziger längerer Roman und das Thema an sich hat mich immer schon gefesselt... Das Buch war zwar spannend, aber letztlich derart mit Seefahrtsausdrücken durchsetzt, dass man es ohne erläuternde Fussnoten (die Diogenes in der vorliegenden Ausgabe blöderweise nicht dazuliefert), nur bedingt versteht. Last but not least ärgert mich das (offene und nicht im Kontext der Resterzählung zu verstehende) Ende... Dem diesem vorangegangene "phantastischen" Teil fehlt es mE an Hintergründigem, sodass letztlich vieles der Story rätselhaft bleibt...Hinsichtlich des "phantastischen Teils" (warme Strömungen in antarktischen Gewässern) sollte man meiner Ansicht nicht außer Acht lassen, dass Poe lediglich die Mitte des 19. Jahrhunderts außerordentlich populäre Theorie vom eisfreien Nordpolarmeer auf die Südsee umlegt...
    • 4/5
      Claimed to be Edgar Alan Poe’s only novel, but it reads to me like a collection of three, possibly four, short stories. It was published in 1838 before he had achieved significant sales as an author, he was making a living as a critic, reviewer and writer of articles and stories. A year later he published a two volume collection of his short stories: ‘Tales of the Grotesque and the Arabesque’ and the stories in The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym would not have been out off place had they been included.The frontispiece to the “novel” gives the game away almost at once:COMPRISING THE DETAILS OF A MUTINY AND ATROCIOUS BUTCHERY ON BOARD THE AMERICAN BRIG GRAMPUS, ON HER WAY TO THE SOUTH SEAS, IN THE MONTH OF JUNE, 1827WITH AN ACCOUNT OF THE RECAPTURE OF THE VESSEL BY THE SURVIVORS; THEIR SHIPWRECK AND SUBSEQUENT HORRIBLE SUFFERINGS FROM FAMINE; THEIT DELIVERANCE BY MEANS OF THE BRITISH SCHOONER JANE GUY; THE BRIEF CRUISE OF THIS LATTER VESSEL IN THE ANTARCTIC OCEAN; HER CAPTURE AND THE MASSACRE OF HER CREW AMONG A GROUP OF ISLANDS IN THE EIGHTY-FOURTH PARALLEL OF SOUTHERN LATTITUDE;TOGETHER WITH THE INCREDIBLE ADVENTURE AND DISCOVERIES STILL FURTHER SOUTH TO WHICH THAT DISTRESSING CALAMITY GAVE RISE. If this all sounds like a blurb to suck in readers to an adventure story which will titillate and excite then it would not be far wrong from my reading of the book. The titillation is provided by the reference to horrible sufferings and atrocious butchery, while the excitement is the fantasy of what lies beyond the eighty-fourth parallel which remained uncharted at the time. It would be another 60 years before Robert Falcon Scott in the ship Discovery got passed 82 degrees South and discovered the Polar plateau.The continuity between the three stories is provided by Arthur Gordon Pym who in each of the tales is in danger of death by starvation; first on board the American Brig the Grampus where he is a stowaway locked in the hold and must survive a mutiny taking place above him and his reliance on a friend who can no longer get to him with food and water, then on the hull of the brig where he and three companions are marooned following the retaking of the vessel and its near destruction through violent storms, finally on an island in the warmer waters beyond the 84th parallel where he is trapped by hostile savages. Poe is at his best when describing the sufferings and and vicissitudes of people in a desperate situation and where there appears little hope of survival. He has a way of communicating the desperation of his characters plight that is both macabre and exciting. The Cruise on the British Schooner the Jane Guy in little known waters and which visits some of the remotest known islands like The Kerguelen Islands and Tristan D’acuna reads like a travelogue, something that might appear in the National Geographical magazine and has given rise to some people thinking it could have been inspiration for Herman Melville’s style of writing in Moby-Dick. The final section/story in the novel is the discovery of a mysterious group of islands in the warmer waters that Poe tells us lie beyond the ice towards the South Pole. We are now reading a fantasy, a story that has led to this book being heralded as early science fiction. Poe provides us with a surprise ending that takes into consideration the events of the final section, but bears little relation to what has gone before. This is a collection of nautical adventure stories that are well written and very readable. Poe is able to provide plenty of atmosphere in stories that kept me wanting to turn the pages (can you say that when reading on a Kindle?). I just don’t see it as a novel and so as a collection of short stories it is rated as 3.5 stars and as a novel 2 stars.
    • 4/5
      In his book 'The Old Patagonian Express,' Paul Theroux praised Edgar Allan Poe's one novel, and wrote at length about the mysterious atmosphere that pervaded the text. I felt it too - there is something both magical and macabre in here, and I wonder, now that I've finished the book, if a great part of the magic comes from the fact that rather a lot - around the middle especially - tends to sag. The adventures suffered by the narrator sit right at the limit of what could ever be believed, and sometimes stray further across the border even than that, but of all the 'adventure' novels I have read, none have focused my attention quite like this one.

    Book preview

    The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym of Nantucket - Edgar Allan Poe

    THE NARRATIVE OF ARTHUR GORDON PYM OF NANTUCKET

    Edgar Allan Poe

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    Cover image: Catching Whales, 1875, Rasmussen, J. E. Carl (1841 – 93) / Private Collection / Photo © Gavin Graham Gallery, London, UK / Bridgeman Images

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    History of Collins

    In 1819, millworker William Collins from Glasgow, Scotland, set up a company for printing and publishing pamphlets, sermons, hymn books, and prayer books. That company was Collins and was to mark the birth of HarperCollins Publishers as we know it today. The long tradition of Collins dictionary publishing can be traced back to the first dictionary William published in 1824, Greek and English Lexicon. Indeed, from 1840 onwards, he began to produce illustrated dictionaries and even obtained a licence to print and publish the Bible.

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    Life & Times

    About the Author

    Edgar Allan Poe was an American writer of fantastical, bizarre and sometimes disturbing short stories. He lived and worked in the first half of the 19th century and died a mysterious death, many believe caused by an overdose of drugs, at the age of 40. It seems likely that Poe was himself inclined towards obsessive and unbalanced behaviour. As a child his father abandoned the family and his mother died shortly thereafter, leaving him an orphan. He was taken in by the Allan family; however, they endured a strained relationship and he became estranged from them when he failed to complete university and then to become an army officer. For the years that followed, he wrote poetry and then prose, contributing to and working for many periodicals and journals of the time. For the most part of his career, Poe was known for being a literary critic rather than an author. In 1835, Poe married his 13-year-old cousin in secret, and 10 years later wrote perhaps his most well-known poem, ‘The Raven’.

    Poe’s work is usually described as ‘Gothic’ in style, as he alludes to the macabre, grotesque and horrifying. Poe used the phrase ‘terrors of the soul’ in explaining the primary focus of investigation in his prose and poetry. He was clearly preoccupied with delving into the darker reaches of the human psyche to see what he could find.

    In the 1960s he became an influence on British pop music due to his highly imaginative literary imagery. The Beatles included a portrait of Poe on the cover of their 1967 album Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band and John Lennon mentions Poe in the song ‘I Am The Walrus’, released later that same year. The Beatles were heavily influenced by experimentation with hallucinogenic drugs such as LSD (lysergic acid diethylamide) and many felt that reading Poe’s work was akin to the kind of psychological experiences elicited by hallucinogens. It may have been that Poe used them himself to enter his unique literary realm.

    His Works

    Tales of Mystery and Imagination was first compiled and published in 1908, some 59 years after Poe’s untimely death. There had been other canons of his writing, but this one focused specifically on the darker side of his work, omitting poetry and comic prose. Perhaps the most regarded of the short stories therein is The Murders in the Rue Morgue, originally published in 1841. In this story Poe invents the first literary detective, named Auguste Dupin, who sets about solving the mysterious double murder of a Parisian lady and her daughter in a street named Rue Morgue (Mortuary Street). A man has been wrongly accused and Dupin, having found an auburn-coloured hair, deduces a most unlikely culprit. Further investigation shows Dupin to be correct. The story is the first example of a fictional crime solved by the principle of deduction based on ingenuity, evidence and reason. It set the benchmark for later literary detectives, such as Sherlock Holmes and Hercule Poirot.

    In The Fall of the House of Usher, originally published in 1839, Poe delves into matters of psychological illness, with the central character Roderick Usher, suffering from all manner of mental disturbances. In Poe’s day, psychiatry had not yet defined specific conditions, but Roderick Usher had overly sensitive physical senses, an obsession with getting ill and was filled with extreme angst and anxiety about life. These days these symptoms would be classified respectively as hyperaesthesia, hypochondria and hysteria. Roderick Usher lives in large house, where his sister has recently died and awaits being interred in the family tomb. The narrator of the story has come to stay with Roderick and witnesses various spooky events, whilst Roderick himself grows increasingly disturbed. The narrator reads Roderick a story to distract him, but this only serves to make things worse as the events in the story seem to embody themselves elsewhere in the house, and the narrator flees in fright.

    His first critical success came when he published his famous narrative poem ‘The Raven’ in 1845. Again, it was an exploration into mental illness and madness. In 1847 his wife Clemm died of tuberculosis. She had been with Poe for 12 years and when she died Poe went into a decline. He became depressed and apathetic, turned to alcohol, and only a few years later came to the end of his own life. A man named Joseph Walker had found Poe walking the streets of Baltimore in an incoherent and distressed condition. He was taken to hospital but his condition worsened and he died four days later. He had never been lucid enough to explain what had happened to him just prior to his death.

    The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym of Nantucket

    The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym of Nantucket is Edgar Allan Poe’s only completed novel, a collection of ponderings which form an adventurous ocean journey.

    Published in 1838, the novel is now regarded as a prototype for the genre, influencing authors such as Jules Verne and Herman Melville. Poe was writing in the mid-nineteenth century, when explorers were expanding the limits of the known world and sharing exotic myths, legends and artifacts from their travels. The interiors of Africa and South America were not yet mapped, and Antarctica was yet to be explored at all. To many readers, and especially to those of the nineteenth-century, there is something thrilling about the idea of embarking on an expedition into the unknown.

    The novel structure was not yet fully established when Poe was writing, and this gave an opportunity for experimentation with form and style. The novel is written in a free-form manner, almost as if the tale is a sequence of dreams hurriedly scribbled down upon awaking. Poe eventually found that the short-story format was better suited to his style (see ‘His Works’), and he is probably best known for these, and for his narrative poem ‘The Raven’.

    Some regarded The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym of Nantucket as the work of genius, while others dismissed it as the ramblings of madness, and this polarized view of the novel persists to this day. Poe himself later disparagingly mentioned his novel in a letter: ‘You once wrote in your magazine a sharp critique upon a book of mine – a very silly book – Pym.’

    CONTENTS

    Cover

    Title Page

    Copyright

    History of Collins

    Life & Times

    Preface

    Chapter 1

    Chapter 2

    Chapter 3

    Chapter 4

    Chapter 5

    Chapter 6

    Chapter 7

    Chapter 8

    Chapter 9

    Chapter 10

    Chapter 11

    Chapter 12

    Chapter 13

    Chapter 14

    Chapter 15

    Chapter 16

    Chapter 17

    Chapter 18

    Chapter 19

    Chapter 20

    Chapter 21

    Chapter 22

    Chapter 23

    Chapter 24

    Chapter 25

    Note

    Notes

    Classic Literature: Words and Phrases

    About the Publisher

    PREFACE

    Upon my return to the United States a few months ago, after the extraordinary series of adventure in the South Seas and elsewhere, of which an account is given in the following pages, accident threw me into the society of several gentlemen in Richmond, Va., who felt deep interest in all matters relating to the regions I had visited, and who were constantly urging it upon me, as a duty, to give my narrative to the public. I had several reasons, however, for declining to do so, some of which were of a nature altogether private, and concern no person but myself; others not so much so. One consideration which deterred me was that, having kept no journal during a greater portion of the time in which I was absent, I feared I should not be able to write, from mere memory, a statement so minute and connected as to have the appearance of that truth it would really possess, barring only the natural and unavoidable exaggeration to which all of us are prone when detailing events which have had powerful influence in exciting the imaginative faculties. Another reason was, that the incidents to be narrated were of a nature so positively marvellous that, unsupported as my assertions must necessarily be (except by the evidence of a single individual, and he a half-breed Indian), I could only hope for belief among my family, and those of my friends who have had reason, through life, to put faith in my veracity-the probability being that the public at large would regard what I should put forth as merely an impudent and ingenious fiction. A distrust in my own abilities as a writer was, nevertheless, one of the principal causes which prevented me from complying with the suggestions of my advisers.

    Among those gentlemen in Virginia who expressed the greatest interest in my statement, more particularly in regard to that portion of it which related to the Antarctic Ocean, was Mr. Poe, lately editor of the Southern Literary Messenger, a monthly magazine, published by Mr. Thomas W. White, in the city of Richmond. He strongly advised me, among others, to prepare at once a full account of what I had seen and undergone, and trust to the shrewdness and common-sense of the public-insisting, with great plausibility, that however roughly, as regards mere authorship, my book should be got up, its very uncouthness, if there were any, would give it all the better chance of being received as truth.

    Notwithstanding this representation, I did not make up my mind to do as he suggested. He afterward proposed (finding that I would not stir in the matter) that I should allow him to draw up, in his own words, a narrative of the earlier portion of my adventures, from facts afforded by myself, publishing it in the Southern Messenger under the garb of fiction. To this, perceiving no objection, I consented, stipulating only that my real name should be retained. Two numbers of the pretended fiction appeared, consequently, in the Messenger for January and February (1837), and, in order that it might certainly be regarded as fiction, the name of Mr. Poe was affixed to the articles in the table of contents of the magazine.

    The manner in which this ruse was received has induced me at length to undertake a regular compilation and publication of the adventures in question; for I found that, in spite of the air of fable which had been so ingeniously thrown around that portion of my statement which appeared in the Messenger (without altering or distorting a single fact), the public were still not at all disposed to receive it as fable, and several letters were sent to Mr. P.’s address, distinctly expressing a conviction to the contrary. I thence concluded that the facts of my narrative would prove of such a nature as to carry with them sufficient evidence of their own authenticity, and that I had consequently little to fear on the score of popular incredulity.

    This exposé being made, it will be seen at once how much of what follows I claim to be my own writing; and it will also be understood that no fact is misrepresented in the first few pages which were written by Mr. Poe. Even to those readers who have not seen the Messenger, it will be unnecessary to point out where his portion ends and my own commences; the difference in point of style will be readily perceived.

    A. G. Pym

    New York, July, 1838

    CHAPTER 1

    My name is Arthur Gordon Pym. My father was a respectable trader in sea-stores at Nantucket, where I was born. My maternal grandfather was an attorney in good practice. He was fortunate in every thing, and had speculated very successfully in stocks of the Edgarton New Bank, as it was formerly called. By these and other means he had managed to lay by a tolerable sum of money. He was more attached to myself, I believe, than to any other person in the world, and I expected to inherit the most of his property at his death. He sent me, at six years of age, to the school of old Mr. Ricketts, a gentleman with only one arm and of eccentric manners—he is well known to almost every person who has visited New Bedford. I stayed at his school until I was sixteen, when I left him for Mr. E. Ronald’s academy on the hill. Here I became intimate with the son of Mr. Barnard, a sea-captain, who generally sailed in the employ of Lloyd and Vredenburgh—Mr. Barnard is also very well known in New Bedford, and has many relations, I am certain, in Edgarton. His son was named Augustus, and he was nearly two years older than myself. He had been on a whaling voyage with his father in the John Donaldson, and was always talking to me of his adventures in the South Pacific Ocean. I used frequently to go home with him, and remain all day, and sometimes all night. We occupied the same bed, and he would be sure to keep me awake until almost light, telling me stories of the natives of the Island of Tinian, and other places he had visited in his travels. At last I could not help being interested in what he said, and by degrees I felt the greatest desire to go to sea. I owned a sailboat called the Ariel, and worth about seventy-five dollars. She had a half-deck or cuddy, and was rigged sloop-fashion—I forget her tonnage, but she would hold ten persons without much crowding. In this boat we were in the habit of going on some of the maddest freaks in the world; and, when I now think of them, it appears to me a thousand wonders that I am alive to-day.

    I will relate one of these adventures by way of introduction to a longer and more momentous narrative. One night there was a party at Mr. Barnard’s, and both Augustus and myself were not a little intoxicated toward the close of it. As usual, in such cases, I took part of his bed in preference to going home. He went to sleep, as I thought, very quietly (it being near one when the party broke up), and without saying a word on his favorite topic. It might have been half an hour from the time of our getting in bed, and I was just about falling into a doze, when he suddenly started up, and swore with a terrible oath that he would not go to sleep for any Arthur Pym in Christendom, when there was so glorious a breeze from the southwest. I never was so astonished in my life, not knowing what he intended, and thinking that the wines and liquors he had drunk had set him entirely beside himself. He proceeded to talk very coolly, however, saying he knew that I supposed him intoxicated, but that he was never more sober in his life. He was only tired, he added, of lying in bed on such a fine night like a dog, and was determined to get up and dress, and go out on a frolic with the boat. I can hardly tell what possessed me, but the words were no sooner out of his mouth than I felt a thrill of the greatest excitement and pleasure, and thought his mad idea one of the most delightful and most reasonable things in the world. It was blowing almost a gale, and the weather was very cold—it being late in October. I sprang out of bed, nevertheless, in a kind of ecstasy, and told him I was quite as brave as himself, and quite as tired as he was of lying in bed like a dog, and quite as ready for any fun or frolic as any Augustus Barnard in Nantucket.

    We lost no time in getting on our clothes and hurrying down to the boat. She was lying at the old decayed wharf by the lumber-yard of Pankey & Co., and almost thumping her side out against the rough logs. Augustus got into her and bailed her, for she was nearly half full of water. This being done, we hoisted jib and mainsail, kept full, and started boldly out to sea.

    The wind, as I before said, blew freshly from the southwest. The night was very clear and cold. Augustus had taken the helm, and I stationed myself by the mast, on the deck of the cuddy. We flew along at a great rate—neither of us having said a word since casting loose from the wharf. I now asked my companion what course he intended to steer, and what time he thought it probable we should get back. He whistled for a few minutes, and then said crustily: "I am going to sea—you may go home if you think proper." Turning my eyes upon him, I perceived at once that, in spite of his assumed nonchalance, he was greatly agitated. I could see him distinctly by the light of the moon—his face was paler than any marble, and his hand shook so excessively that he could scarcely retain hold of the tiller. I found that something had gone wrong, and became seriously alarmed. At this period I knew little about the management of a boat, and was now depending entirely upon the nautical skill of my friend. The wind, too, had suddenly increased, as we were fast getting out of the lee of the land—still I was ashamed to betray any trepidation, and for almost half an hour maintained a resolute silence. I could stand it no longer, however, and spoke to Augustus about the propriety of turning back. As before, it was nearly a minute before he made answer, or took any notice of my suggestion. By-and-by, said he at length—time enough—home by-and-by. I had expected a similar reply, but there was something in the tone of these words which filled me with an indescribable feeling of dread. I again looked at the speaker attentively. His lips were perfectly livid, and his knees shook so violently together that he seemed scarcely able to stand. For God’s sake, Augustus, I screamed, now heartily frightened, "what ails you?—what is the matter?—what are you going to do? Matter! he stammered, in the greatest apparent surprise, letting go the tiller at the same moment, and falling forward into the bottom of the boat—matter—why, nothing is the—matter—going home—d—d—don’t you see?" The whole truth now flashed upon me. I flew to him and raised him up. He was drunk—beastly drunk—he could no longer either stand, speak, or see. His eyes were perfectly glazed; and as I let him go in the extremity of my despair, he rolled like a mere log into the bilge-water, from which I had lifted him. It was evident that, during the evening, he had drunk far more than I suspected, and that his conduct in bed had been the result of a highly-concentrated state of intoxication—a state which, like madness, frequently enables the victim to imitate the outward demeanour of one in perfect possession of his senses. The coolness of the night air, however, had had its usual effect—the mental energy began to yield before its influence—and the confused perception which he no doubt then had of his perilous situation had assisted in hastening the catastrophe. He was now thoroughly insensible, and there was no probability that he would be otherwise for many hours.

    It is hardly possible to conceive the extremity of my terror. The fumes of the wine lately taken had evaporated, leaving me doubly timid and irresolute. I knew that I was altogether incapable of managing the boat, and that a fierce wind and strong ebb tide were hurrying us to destruction. A storm was evidently gathering behind us; we had neither compass nor provisions; and it was clear that, if we held our present course, we should be out of sight of land before daybreak. These thoughts, with a crowd of others equally fearful, flashed through my mind with a bewildering rapidity, and for some moments paralyzed me beyond the possibility of making any exertion. The boat was going through the water at a terrible rate—full before the wind—no reef in either jib or mainsail—running her bows completely under the foam. It was a thousand wonders she did not broach to—Augustus having let go the tiller, as I said before, and I being too much agitated to think of taking it myself. By good luck, however, she kept steady, and gradually I recovered some degree of presence of mind. Still the wind was increasing fearfully, and whenever we rose from a plunge forward, the sea behind fell combing over our counter, and deluged us with water. I was so utterly benumbed, too, in every limb, as to be nearly unconscious of sensation. At length I summoned up the resolution of despair, and rushing to the mainsail let it go by the run. As might have been expected, it flew over the bows, and, getting drenched with water, carried away the mast short off by the board. This latter accident alone saved me from instant destruction. Under the jib only, I now boomed along before the wind, shipping heavy seas occasionally over the counter, but relieved from the terror of immediate death. I took the helm, and breathed with greater freedom as I found that there yet remained to us a chance of ultimate escape. Augustus still lay senseless in the bottom of the boat; and as there was imminent danger of his drowning (the water being nearly a foot deep just where he fell), I contrived to raise him partially up, and keep him in a sitting position, by passing a rope round his waist, and lashing it to a ringbolt in the deck of the cuddy. Having thus arranged every thing as well as I could in my chilled and agitated condition, I recommended myself to God, and made up my mind to bear whatever might happen with all the fortitude in my power.

    Hardly had I come to this resolution, when, suddenly, a loud and long scream or yell, as if from the throats of a thousand demons, seemed to pervade the whole atmosphere around and above the boat. Never while I live shall I forget the intense agony of terror I experienced at that moment. My hair stood erect on my head—I felt the blood congealing in my veins—my heart ceased utterly to beat, and without having once raised my eyes to learn the source of my alarm, I tumbled headlong and insensible upon the body of my fallen companion.

    I found myself, upon reviving, in the cabin of a large whaling-ship (the Penguin) bound to Nantucket. Several persons were standing over me, and Augustus, paler than death, was busily occupied in chafing my hands. Upon seeing me open my eyes, his exclamations of gratitude

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