Beauty and horror share a corpse

Where does "Tear Up the Planks" come from?

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I’ve been fascinated with the idea of duality in many aspects for a long time; it seems like every quality, ideal, characteristic, meaning, etc. has a dark twin or inverse of some kind. But I don’t exactly mean an opposite; more like an image in a mirror where one side reveals and examines the other. I’m not a philosopher and I don’t believe anything is binary, but this concept of the mirror is foundational for me; it has influenced everything from my tattoos and book characters to cocktail ingredients. Likewise, beauty and horror may seem diametrical, but one does not exist without the other, and we find plenty of shared aspects. So what does this have to do with the name of my newsletter

?

When I was a teenager, I happened upon a collection of stories and poems by Edgar Allan Poe, and I was absolutely enraptured by “The Tell-Tale Heart.” I had never been more moved by a work of fiction before. The delusional narrator’s obsession with the old man’s vulture eye, the distortion of the love dynamic, the appallingly gory crime and subsequent paranoia–it’s brilliantly executed. Maybe because of my own lifelong struggles with anxiety and depression and the cognitive distortions made worse by both, I found I could relate to the character and the author who created him. This might be my earliest memory of discovering the beauty of a horror story.

It may seem like a given that beauty would be the goal of good literature, but Poe is an American Romantic. He wrote during a time when authors pursued the sublime–an elevation of the spirit attained by intense feelings and experiences achieved through a spiritual journey, a stunning natural landscape, or physical and emotional suffering. So in many works of the Romantic period, beauty and horror are linked in the quest for the sublime since both can inspire the desired ecstatic feelings. But Poe is unique in his approach–few other authors dared to pen such grisly, terrifying, and honest stories. Poe drew on his own inner horrors and grim circumstances to color his work; his life was tragic and difficult, but he reflected his fears and pain onto the page in beautiful ways. He was a masterful poet and storyteller, and his works are a gorgeous rendering of the human horrors we all face.

In “The Tell-Tale Heart,” the narrator attempts to conceal his crime of murder and is so confident in his methods that he invites the authorities to sit above the makeshift grave under the floor. But despite his meticulous execution of the deed, he can’t escape the dread of what he’s done; the growing sound of his victim’s heartbeat tortures him until he loses his wits and begs for the truth to be exposed:

…and now –again! –hark! louder! louder! louder! louder! “Villains!” I shrieked, “dissemble no more! I admit the deed! –tear up the planks! here, here! –It is the beating of his hideous heart!”

That crescendo of panicked ecstasy is what captured my young imagination and felt so relatable—the coiling of terror until the wild release of a hard-won truth breaking free. It is profound to me that one can never truly find peace until we excavate what we’ve buried in our minds and souls–the fear, the shame, the pain. We must exhume these things in order to exorcise them, to bring ourselves back to a sense of equilibrium. Art is the mirror of our souls in which we find ourselves and each other.

In the process of exploring what horrifies us, like with Poe’s story, we have the choice to lose ourselves completely or to learn and create something beautiful. Perhaps the person we become–mad, sane, or in between (where is the line really drawn, anyway?)–will be wiser, more empathetic, and more open, however frightening it may be. Maybe someone else will relate to our journey and feel less alone.

So don’t be afraid to listen to your pounding heart, that inexorable ticking of time. Be free to scream and confess and weep. Pry up the floorboards, confront your demons, and gaze at your soul laid bare. Tear up the planks, and revel in what lies beneath. Why else do any of us write? Not even god makes beauty out of nothing. The darkness was there first.