Reader-response theory recognizes the reader as an active agent who imparts "real existence" to the work and completes its meaning through interpretation. Reader-response criticism argues that literature should be viewed as a performing art in which each reader creates his or her own, possibly unique, text-related performance. It stands in total opposition to the theories of formalism and the New Criticism, in which the reader's role in re-creating literary works is ignored. New Criticism had emphasized that only that which is within a text is part of the meaning of a text. No appeal to the authority or intention of the author, nor to the psychology of the reader, was allowed in the discussions of orthodox New Critics.
(courtesy of: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Reader-response_criticism)
The Text:
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| courtesy of: http://api.ning.com/files/88592DT4XU9BgSQA8*5Usxpf7EVSMr-s7AXLGNTi6Ii7IfPeepJqrOMlo0SssSOLXiUpTM96McnZ5zJD6LF5k5iwP-J0QxzI/nevermoretheraven.jpg |
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
`'Tis some visitor,' I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door -
Only this, and nothing more.'
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore -
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
`'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door -
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; -
This it is, and nothing more,'
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
`Sir,' said I, `or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you' - here I opened wide the door; -
Darkness there, and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, `Lenore!'
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, `Lenore!'
Merely this and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
`Surely,' said I, `surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore -
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; -
'Tis the wind and nothing more!'
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door -
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door -
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
`Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,' I said, `art sure no craven.
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore -
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning - little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door -
Bird or beast above the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as `Nevermore.'
But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only,
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered - not a feather then he fluttered -
Till I scarcely more than muttered `Other friends have flown before -
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.'
Then the bird said, `Nevermore.'
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
`Doubtless,' said I, `what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore -
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore
Of "Never-nevermore."'
But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore -
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking `Nevermore.'
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
`Wretch,' I cried, `thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he has sent thee
Respite - respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'
`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! -
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted -
On this home by horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore -
Is there - is there balm in Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'
`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore -
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Lenore?'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'
`Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!' I shrieked upstarting -
`Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'
And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted - nevermore!
(courtesy of: http://www.heise.de/ix/raven/Literature/Lore/TheRaven.html)
The Criticism:
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| courtesy of: http://www.sammyhksmith.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/06/swc_theraven.png |
The poem is about a man grieving the loss of a woman named Lenore when a raven arrives at his house and, through discourse much to the amazement of the man, makes him realize that Lenore is lost forever. The poem is basically a metaphor for the stages of sorrow a human being experiences. It is a poem about death and acceptance of the things lost through situations. The poem recreates a familiar scenario experienced by someone left behind by a loved one through the usage of characters (the man, the raven, Lenore) placed in an ideal setting (a dreary midnight in bleak December).
It is humanistic nature to express sadness and grief when something or someone we have loved is taken from us. Poe expresses this emotion in the opening lines, where he depicts a man in deep sorrow over the loss of the woman named Lenore. The environment created by the lines (the dreary midnight, a bleak December and the dying embers) suit perfectly the emotion being conveyed. The start of the poem is more or less monotonous in nature, blank as the expressions of a grieving person.
Something comes from out of nowhere. It tries to make you realize the things you lost are never coming back. But there is initial doubt. You might even try to argue with your beliefs. You might try to disprove what the eyes need to see. The raven is perfectly used as the turning point of the poem. Just as the man was falling to sleep, the raven came rapping and tapping on the window while he was napping. The action of the man opening the door to see who was tapping mirrors the actions of someone left behind: he is open to new ideas to hasten the grieving but is still wary. The doubt manifests on the fifth stanza where the man calls out Lenore's name into the darkness, hoping that somehow, she is still there. Instead, the raven appears before the man, seeming to present itself. And as the man tries to converse to the bird, to his amazement, the bird replies, but with a message so short and ambiguous that the man is left confused. This scene resembles the confusion of man over events after the loss, wherein he is dazed and seeking for answers, and whatever answers he may find, he tries to make use of.
The man continues to ask the raven more pressing questions, to which the raven only responds: "Nevermore." The man started out as curious in his manner of asking, but slowly becomes desperate and angered especially when he asks about Lenore and when he realizes that Lenore is lost forever. This swift realization hits much like real-life epiphany on the subject of a loved one's death. One moment we are thinking that there maybe, just maybe, a little tinge of hope, the next we are left to realize that the loss is permanent and not much can be done. The man realizes that, for the longest time he was conversing with the raven, and the longest time the raven only answered "nevermore", there is no hope of having Lenore back.
This work of Edgar Allan Poe is wondrous yet sad, depressing even, but hits the right notes and dances perfectly all over the boundaries of fantasy and tragedy.
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