Book: "Ligeia'', is a strange tale of love and those who cross back from the realm of the dead. Written by author Edgar Allan Poe. This is an 1 hour long bed time read.




Suitable for teens and up. Explicit storytelling and events.
UHD book reading video TBA
Short story (One Evening Bed time read)
Ligeia is an hour long read, taking us through a haunted dream when the beloved dead will rise again and make the journey back across the river, from the realm of the dead. And perhaps in this story it is in truth that we get to meet the tormented man that was Edgar Allan Poe.
Enjoy the read!.

Photography and web adaptation: Mike Koontz
2017, a Norse View Imaging and Publishing



Music of the day
Void by Lorna Shore



To the daisy that is my sun and inspiration












Our chapters and pages, and library menu can always be found to the left of the screen








Watch & listen to this book, or continue reading at your leisure

4k UHD video, watch and listen to this book in beautiful UHD once it is made available.

















I cannot for my soul, remember how, when, or even precisely where, I first became acquainted with the lady Ligeia.
Long years have since elapsed, and my memory is feeble through much suffering.
Or, perhaps, I cannot now bring these points to mind, because, in truth, the character of my beloved, her rare learning, her singular yet placid cast of beauty, and the thrilling and enthralling eloquence of her low musical language, made their way into my heart by paces so steadily and stealthily progressive that they have been unnoticed and unknown.











Yet I believe that I met her first and most frequently in some large, old, decaying city near the Rhine.
Of her family — I have surely heard her speak.
That it is of a remotely ancient date cannot be doubted. Ligeia! Ligeia! in studies of a nature more than all else adapted to deaden impressions of the outward world, it is by that sweet word alone — by Ligeia — that I bring before mine eyes in fancy the image of her who is no more.
And now, while I write, a recollection flashes upon me that I have never known the paternal name of her who was my friend and my betrothed, and who became the partner of my studies, and finally the wife of my bosom.












A playful charge

Was it a playful charge on the part of my Ligeia? or was it a test of my strength of affection, that I should institute no inquiries upon this point?
Or was it rather a caprice of my own — a wildly romantic offering on the shrine of the most passionate devotion?
I but indistinctly recall the fact itself — what wonder that I have utterly forgotten the circumstances which originated or attended it?
And, indeed, if ever she, the wan and the misty-winged Ashtophet of idolatrous Egypt, presided, as they tell, over marriages ill-omened, then most surely she presided over mine.











There is one dear topic, however, on which my memory falls me not. It is the person of Ligeia.
In stature she was tall, somewhat slender, and, in her latter days, even emaciated. I would in vain attempt to portray the majesty, the quiet ease, of her demeanor, or the incomprehensible lightness and elasticity of her footfall.
She came and departed as a shadow.
I was never made aware of her entrance into my closed study save by the dear music of her low sweet voice, as she placed her marble hand upon my shoulder.
In beauty of face no maiden ever equalled her.
It was the radiance of an opium-dream — an airy and spirit-lifting vision more wildly divine than the phantasies which hovered vision about the slumbering souls of the daughters of Delos.
Yet her features were not of that regular mould which we have been falsely taught to worship in the classical labors of the heathen.















“There is no exquisite beauty,” says Bacon, Lord Verulam, speaking truly of all the forms and genera of beauty, without some strangeness in the proportion.”
Yet, although I saw that the features of Ligeia were not of a classic regularity — although I perceived that her loveliness was indeed “exquisite,” and felt that there was much of “strangeness” pervading it, yet I have tried in vain to detect the irregularity and to trace home my own perception of “the strange.”
I examined the contour of the lofty and pale forehead — it was faultless — how cold indeed that word when applied to a majesty so divine! — the skin rivalling the purest ivory, the commanding extent and repose, the gentle prominence of the regions above the temples; and then the raven-black, the glossy, the luxuriant and naturally-curling tresses, setting forth the full force of the Homeric epithet, “hyacinthine!” I looked at the delicate outlines of the nose — and nowhere but in the graceful medallions of the Hebrews had I beheld a similar perfection.















There were the same luxurious smoothness of surface, the same scarcely perceptible tendency to the aquiline, the same harmoniously curved nostrils speaking the free spirit. I regarded the sweet mouth.
Here was indeed the triumph of all things heavenly — the magnificent turn of the short upper lip — the soft, voluptuous slumber of the under — the dimples which sported, and the color which spoke — the teeth glancing back, with a brilliancy almost startling, every ray of the holy light which fell upon them in her serene and placid, yet most exultingly radiant of all smiles.
I scrutinized the formation of the chin — and here, too, I found the gentleness of breadth, the softness and the majesty, the fullness and the spirituality, of the Greek — the contour which the god Apollo revealed but in a dream, to Cleomenes, the son of the Athenian.
And then I peered into the large eves of Ligeia.











For eyes we have no models in the remotely antique.
It might have been, too, that in these eves of my beloved lay the secret to which Lord Verulam alludes.
They were, I must believe, far larger than the ordinary eyes of our own race.
They were even fuller than the fullest of the gazelle eyes of the tribe of the valley of Nourjahad.
Yet it was only at intervals — in moments of intense excitement — that this peculiarity became more than slightly noticeable in Ligeia.
And at such moments was her beauty — in my heated fancy thus it appeared perhaps — the beauty of beings either above or apart from the earth — the beauty of the fabulous Houri of the Turk.
The hue of the orbs was the most brilliant of black, and, far over them, hung jetty lashes of great length.
The brows, slightly irregular in outline, had the same tint.











The “strangeness,” however, which I found in the eyes, was of a nature distinct from the formation, or the color, or the brilliancy of the features, and must, after all, be referred to the expression.
Ah, word of no meaning! behind whose vast latitude of mere sound we intrench our ignorance of so much of the spiritual.
The expression of the eyes of Ligeia!
How for long hours have I pondered upon it!
How have I, through the whole of a midsummer night, struggled to fathom it! What was it — that something more profound than the well of Democritus — which lay far within the pupils of my beloved? What was it? I was possessed with a passion to discover.
Those eyes! those large, those shining, those divine orbs! they became to me twin stars of Leda, and I to them devoutest of astrologers.











There is no point, among the many incomprehensible anomalies of the science of mind, more thrillingly exciting than the fact — never, I believe, noticed in the schools — that, in our endeavors to recall to memory something long forgotten, we often find ourselves upon the very verge of remembrance, without being able, in the end, to remember.
And thus how frequently, in my intense scrutiny of Ligeia’s eyes, have I felt approaching the full knowledge of their expression — felt it approaching — yet not quite be mine — and so at length entirely depart!
And (strange, oh strangest mystery of all!) I found, in the commonest objects of the universe, a circle of analogies to theat expression.
I mean to say that, subsequently to the period when Ligeia’s beauty passed into my spirit, there dwelling as in a shrine, I derived, from many existences in the material world, a sentiment such as I felt always aroused within me by her large and luminous orbs.
Yet not the more could I define that sentiment, or analyze, or even steadily view it.
I recognized it, let me repeat, sometimes in the survey of a rapidly-growing vine — in the contemplation of a moth, a butterfly, a chrysalis, a stream of running water.











I have felt it in the ocean; in the falling of a meteor.
I have felt it in the glances of unusually aged people.
And there are one or two stars in heaven —(one especially, a star of the sixth magnitude, double and changeable, to be found near the large star in Lyra) in a telescopic scrutiny of which I have been made aware of the feeling.
I have been filled with it by certain sounds from stringed instruments, and not unfrequently by passages from books.
Among innumerable other instances, I well remember something in a volume of Joseph Glanvill, which (perhaps merely from its quaintness — who shall say?) never failed to inspire me with the sentiment;
—“And the will therein lieth, which dieth not. Who knoweth the mysteries of the will, with its vigor? For God is but a great will pervading all things by nature of its intentness.
Man doth not yield him to the angels, nor unto death utterly, save only through the weakness of his feeble will.”











Length of years, and subsequent reflection, have enabled me to trace, indeed, some remote connection between this passage in the English moralist and a portion of the character of Ligeia.
An intensity in thought, action, or speech, was possibly, in her, a result, or at least an index, of that gigantic volition which, during our long intercourse, failed to give other and more immediate evidence of its existence.
Of all the women whom I have ever known, she, the outwardly calm, the ever-placid Ligeia, was the most violently a prey to the tumultuous vultures of stern passion.
And of such passion I could form no estimate, save by the miraculous expansion of those eyes which at once so delighted and appalled me — by the almost magical melody, modulation, distinctness and placidity of her very low voice — and by the fierce energy (rendered doubly effective by contrast with her manner of utterance) of the wild words which she habitually uttered.











I have spoken of the learning of Ligeia: it was immense — such as I have never known in woman.
In the classical tongues was she deeply proficient, and as far as my own acquaintance extended in regard to the modern dialects of Europe, I have never known her at fault.
Indeed upon any theme of the most admired, because simply the most abstruse of the boasted erudition of the academy, have I ever found Ligeia at fault?
How singularly — how thrillingly, this one point in the nature of my wife has forced itself, at this late period only, upon my attention!
I said her knowledge was such as I have never known in woman — but where breathes the man who has traversed, and successfully, all the wide areas of moral, physical, and mathematical science?
I saw not then what I now clearly perceive, that the acquisitions of Ligeia were gigantic, were astounding; yet I was sufficiently aware of her infinite supremacy to resign myself, with a child-like confidence, to her guidance through the chaotic world of metaphysical investigation at which I was most busily occupied during the earlier years of our marriage.











With how vast a triumph — with how vivid a delight — with how much of all that is ethereal in hope — did I feel, as she bent over me in studies but little sought — but less known — that delicious vista by slow degrees expanding before me, down whose long, gorgeous, and all untrodden path, I might at length pass onward to the goal of a wisdom too divinely precious not to be forbidden!
How poignant, then, must have been the grief with which, after some years, I beheld my well-grounded expectations take wings to themselves and fly away! Without Ligeia I was but as a child groping benighted.
Her presence, her readings alone, rendered vividly luminous the many mysteries of the transcendentalism in which we were immersed.
Wanting the radiant lustre of her eyes, letters, lambent and golden, grew duller than Saturnian lead.
And now those eyes shone less and less frequently upon the pages over which I pored.
Ligeia grew ill.
The wild eyes blazed with a too — too glorious effulgence; the pale fingers became of the transparent waxen hue of the grave, and the blue veins upon the lofty forehead swelled and sank impetuously with the tides of the gentle emotion.
I saw that she must die — and I struggled desperately in spirit with the grim Azrael.
And the struggles of the passionate wife were, to my astonishment, even more energetic than my own.
















There had been much in her stern nature to impress me with the belief that, to her, death would have come without its terrors; — but not so.
Words are impotent to convey any just idea of the fierceness of resistance with which she wrestled with the Shadow.
I groaned in anguish at the pitiable spectacle.
Would have soothed — I would have reasoned; but, in the intensity of her wild desire for life — for life — but for life — solace and reason were the uttermost folly.
Yet not until the last instance, amid the most convulsive writhings of her fierce spirit, was shaken the external placidity of her demeanor.
Her voice grew more gentle — grew more low — yet I would not wish to dwell upon the wild meaning of the quietly uttered words.
My brain reeled as I hearkened entranced, to a melody more than mortal — to assumptions and aspirations which mortality had never before known.












The lost world





[ our,world

now lost

was

once born

in tomorrows

Dream, of yesterday

it,

changes

forever,

with

the birth

of

the growing

Dusk ]































































That she loved me I should not have doubted; and I might have been easily aware that, in a bosom such as hers, love would have reigned no ordinary passion.
But in death only, was I fully impressed with the strength of her affection.
For long hours, detaining my hand, would she pour out before me the overflowing of a heart whose more than passionate devotion amounted to idolatry.
How had I deserved to be so blessed by such confessions? — how had I deserved to be so cursed with the removal of my beloved in the hour of her making them.
But upon this subject I cannot bear to dilate.
Let me say only, that in Ligeia’s more than womanly abandonment to a love, alas! all unmerited, all unworthily bestowed, I at length recognized the principle of her longing with so wildly earnest a desire for the life which was now fleeing so rapidly away.
It is this wild longing — it is this eager vehemence of desire for life — but for life — that I have no power to portray — no utterance capable of expressing.
At high noon of the night in which she departed, beckoning me, peremptorily, to her side, she bade me repeat certain verses composed by herself not many days before.
I obeyed her.
They were these:







Lo! ’tis a gala night
Within the lonesome latter years!
An angel throng, bewinged, bedight
In veils, and drowned in tears,
Sit in a theatre, to see
A play of hopes and fears,
While the orchestra breathes fitfully
The music of the spheres.
Mimes, in the form of God on high,
Mutter and mumble low,
And hither and thither fly —
Mere puppets they, who come and go
At bidding of vast formless things
That shift the scenery to and fro,
Flapping from out their Condor wings
Invisible Wo!
That motley drama! — oh, be sure
It shall not be forgot!
With its Phantom chased forever more,
By a crowd that seize it not,
Through a circle that ever returneth in
To the self-same spot,
And much of Madness and more of Sin
And Horror the soul of the plot.
But see, amid the mimic rout,
A crawling shape intrude!
A blood-red thing that writhes from out
The scenic solitude!
It writhes! — it writhes! — with mortal pangs
The mimes become its food,
And the seraphs sob at vermin fangs
In human gore imbued.
Out — out are the lights — out all!
And over each quivering form,
The curtain, a funeral pall,
Comes down with the rush of a storm,
And the angels, all pallid and wan,
Uprising, unveiling, affirm
That the play is the tragedy, “Man,”
And its hero the Conqueror Worm.












“O God!” half shrieked Ligeia, leaping to her feet and extending her arms aloft with a spasmodic movement, as I made an end of these lines.
“O God! O Divine Father! — shall these things be undeviatingly so? — shall this Conqueror be not once conquered? Are we not part and parcel in Thee? Who — who knoweth the mysteries of the will with its vigor? Man doth not yield him to the angels, nor unto death utterly, save only through the weakness of his feeble will.”











She returned to her bed of death

And now, as if exhausted with emotion, she suffered her white arms to fall, and returned solemnly to her bed of death.
And as she breathed her last sighs, there came mingled with them a low murmur from her lips.
I bent to them my ear and distinguished, again, the concluding words of the passage in Glanvill —“Man doth not yield him to the angels, nor unto death utterly, save only through the weakness of his feeble will.”















Once more, she died

She died; — and I, crushed into the very dust with sorrow, could no longer endure the lonely desolation of my dwelling in the dim and decaying city by the Rhine. I had no lack of what the world calls wealth.
Ligeia had brought me far more, very far more than ordinarily falls to the lot of mortals.
After a few months, therefore, of weary and aimless wandering, I purchased, and put in some repair, an abbey, which I shall not name, in one of the wildest and least frequented portions of fair England.
The gloomy and dreary grandeur of the building, the almost savage aspect of the domain, the many melancholy and time-honored memories connected with both, had much in unison with the feelings of utter abandonment which had driven me into that remote and unsocial region of the country.
Yet although the external abbey, with its verdant decay hanging about it, suffered but little alteration, I gave way, with a child-like perversity, and perchance with a faint hope of alleviating my sorrows, to a display of more than regal magnificence within.















For such follies, even in childhood, I had imbibed a taste and now they came back to me as if in the dotage of grief.
Alas, I feel how much even of incipient madness might have been discovered in the gorgeous and fantastic draperies, in the solemn carvings of Egypt, in the wild cornices and furniture, in the Bedlam patterns of the carpets of tufted gold!
I had become a bounden slave in the trammels of opium, and my labors and my orders had taken a coloring from my dreams.
But these absurdities must not pause to detail.
Let me speak only of that one chamber, ever accursed, whither in a moment of mental alienation, I led from the altar as my bride — as the successor of the unforgotten Ligeia — the fair-haired and blue-eyed Lady Rowena Trevanion, of Tremaine.
There is no individual portion of the architecture and decoration of that bridal chamber which is not now visibly before me.
Where were the souls of the haughty family of the bride, when, through thirst of gold, they permitted to pass the threshold of an apartment so bedecked, a maiden and a daughter so beloved?
I have said that I minutely remember the details of the chamber — yet I am sadly forgetful on topics of deep moment — and here there was no system, no keeping, in the fantastic display, to take hold upon the memory.











The room lay in a high turret of the castellated abbey, was pentagonal in shape, and of capacious size.
Occupying the whole southern face of the pentagon was the sole window — an immense sheet of unbroken glass from Venice — a single pane, and tinted of a leaden hue, so that the rays of either the sun or moon, passing through it, fell with a ghastly lustre on the objects within.
Over the upper portion of this huge window, extended the trellice-work of an aged vine, which clambered up the massy walls of the turret.
The ceiling, of gloomy-looking oak, was excessively lofty, vaulted, and elaborately fretted with the wildest and most grotesque specimens of a semi-Gothic, semi-Druidical device.
From out the most central recess of this melancholy vaulting, depended, by a single chain of gold with long links, a huge censer of the same metal, Saracenic in pattern, and with many perforations so contrived that there writhed in and out of them, as if endued with a serpent vitality, a continual succession of parti-colored fires.
Some few ottomans and golden candelabra, of Eastern figure, were in various stations about — and there was the couch, too — bridal couch — of an Indian model, and low, and sculptured of solid ebony, with a pall-like canopy above.
In each of the angles of the chamber stood on end a gigantic sarcophagus of black granite, from the tombs of the kings over against Luxor, with their aged lids full of immemorial sculpture.
But in the draping of the apartment lay, alas! the chief phantasy of all.















Lofty walls and fever dreams

The lofty walls, gigantic in height — even unproportionably so — were hung from summit to foot, in vast folds, with a heavy and massive-looking tapestry — tapestry of a material which was found alike as a carpet on the floor, as a covering for the ottomans and the ebony bed, as a canopy for the bed, and as the gorgeous volutes of the curtains which partially shaded the window.
The material was the richest cloth of gold.
It was spotted all over, at irregular intervals, with arabesque figures, about a foot in diameter, and wrought upon the cloth in patterns of the most jetty black.
But these figures partook of the true character of the arabesque only when regarded from a single point of view.
By a contrivance now common, and indeed traceable to a very remote period of antiquity, they were made changeable in aspect.
To one entering the room, they bore the appearance of simple monstrosities; but upon a farther advance, this appearance gradually departed; and step by step, as the visitor moved his station in the chamber, he saw himself surrounded by an endless succession of the ghastly forms which belong to the superstition of the Norman, or arise in the guilty slumbers of the monk.












The phantasmagoric effect was vastly heightened by the artificial introduction of a strong continual current of wind behind the draperies — giving a hideous and uneasy animation to the whole.
In halls such as these — in a bridal chamber such as this — I passed, with the Lady of Tremaine, the unhallowed hours of the first month of our marriage — passed them with but little disquietude.
That my wife dreaded the fierce moodiness of my temper — that she shunned me and loved me but little — I could not help perceiving; but it gave me rather pleasure than otherwise.
I loathed her with a hatred belonging more to demon than to man.
My memory flew back, (oh, with what intensity of regret!) to Ligeia, the beloved, the august, the beautiful, the entombed.
I revelled in recollections of her purity, of her wisdom, of her lofty, her ethereal nature, of her passionate, her idolatrous love.
















Now, then, did my spirit fully and freely burn with more than all the fires of her own.
In the excitement of my opium dreams (for I was habitually fettered in the shackles of the drug) I would call aloud upon her name, during the silence of the night, or among the sheltered recesses of the glens by day, as if, through the wild eagerness, the solemn passion, the consuming ardor of my longing for the departed, I could restore her to the pathway she had abandoned — ah, could it be forever? — upon the earth.
About the commencement of the second month of the marriage, the Lady Rowena was attacked with sudden illness, from which her recovery was slow.
The fever which consumed her rendered her nights uneasy; and in her perturbed state of half-slumber, she spoke of sounds, and of motions, in and about the chamber of the turret, which I concluded had no origin save in the distemper of her fancy, or perhaps in the phantasmagoric influences of the chamber itself.
She became at length convalescent — finally well.















Yet but a brief period elapsed, ere a second more violent disorder again threw her upon a bed of suffering; and from this attack her frame, at all times feeble, never altogether recovered.
Her illnesses were, after this epoch, of alarming character, and of more alarming recurrence, defying alike the knowledge and the great exertions of her physicians.
With the increase of the chronic disease which had thus, apparently, taken too sure hold upon her constitution to be eradicated by human means, I could not fall to observe a similar increase in the nervous irritation of her temperament, and in her excitability by trivial causes of fear.
She spoke again, and now more frequently and pertinaciously, of the sounds — of the slight sounds — and of the unusual motions among the tapestries, to which she had formerly alluded.
One night, near the closing in of September, she pressed this distressing subject with more than usual emphasis upon my attention.
She had just awakened from an unquiet slumber, and I had been watching, with feelings half of anxiety, half of vague terror, the workings of her emaciated countenance.
I sat by the side of her ebony bed, upon one of the ottomans of India.
She partly arose, and spoke, in an earnest low whisper, of sounds which she then heard, but which I could not hear — of motions which she then saw, but which I could not perceive.
The wind was rushing hurriedly behind the tapestries, and I wished to show her (what, let me confess it, I could not all believe) that those almost inarticulate breathings, and those very gentle variations of the figures upon the wall, were but the natural effects of that customary rushing of the wind.















But a deadly pallor, overspreading her face, had proved to me that my exertions to reassure her would be fruitless.
She appeared to be fainting, and no attendants were within call.
I remembered where was deposited a decanter of light wine which had been ordered by her physicians, and hastened across the chamber to procure it.
But, as I stepped beneath the light of the censer, two circumstances of a startling nature attracted my attention.
I had felt that some palpable although invisible object had passed lightly by my person; and I saw that there lay upon the golden carpet, in the very middle of the rich lustre thrown from the censer, a shadow — a faint, indefinite shadow of angelic aspect — such as might be fancied for the shadow of a shade.















But I was wild with the excitement of an immoderate dose of opium, and heeded these things but little, nor spoke of them to Rowena.
Having found the wine, I recrossed the chamber, and poured out a gobletful, which I held to the lips of the fainting lady.
She had now partially recovered, however, and took the vessel herself, while I sank upon an ottoman near me, with my eyes fastened upon her person.
It was then that I became distinctly aware of a gentle footfall upon the carpet, and near the couch; and in a second thereafter, as Rowena was in the act of raising the wine to her lips, I saw, or may have dreamed that I saw, fall within the goblet, as if from some invisible spring in the atmosphere of the room, three or four large drops of a brilliant and ruby colored fluid.
If this I saw — not so Rowena.
She swallowed the wine unhesitatingly, and I forbore to speak to her of a circumstance which must, after all, I considered, have been but the suggestion of a vivid imagination, rendered morbidly active by the terror of the lady, by the opium, and by the hour.















Yet I cannot conceal it from my own perception that, immediately subsequent to the fall of the ruby-drops, a rapid change for the worse took place in the disorder of my wife; so that, on the third subsequent night, the hands of her menials prepared her for the tomb, and on the fourth, I sat alone, with her shrouded body, in that fantastic chamber which had received her as my bride.
Wild visions, opium-engendered, flitted, shadow-like, before me.
I gazed with unquiet eye upon the sarcophagi in the angles of the room, upon the varying figures of the drapery, and upon the writhing of the parti-colored fires in the censer overhead.
My eyes then fell, as I called to mind the circumstances of a former night, to the spot beneath the glare of the censer where I had seen the faint traces of the shadow.
It was there, however, no longer; and breathing with greater freedom, I turned my glances to the pallid and rigid figure upon the bed.
Then rushed upon me a thousand memories of Ligeia — and then came back upon my heart, with the turbulent violence of a flood, the whole of that unutterable wo with which I had regarded her thus enshrouded.
The night waned; and still, with a bosom full of bitter thoughts of the one only and supremely beloved, I remained gazing upon the body of Rowena.



















































It might have been midnight, or perhaps earlier, or later, for I had taken no note of time, when a sob, low, gentle, but very distinct, startled me from my revery.
I felt that it came from the bed of ebony — the bed of death.















I listened in an agony of superstitious terror — but there was no repetition of the sound.
I strained my vision to detect any motion in the corpse — but there was not the slightest perceptible.
Yet I could not have been deceived.
I had heard the noise, however faint, and my soul was awakened within me.
I resolutely and perseveringly kept my attention riveted upon the body.
Many minutes elapsed before any circumstance occurred tending to throw light upon the mystery.
At length it became evident that a slight, a very feeble, and barely noticeable tinge of color had flushed up within the cheeks, and along the sunken small veins of the eyelids.















Through a species of unutterable horror and awe, for which the language of mortality has no sufficiently energetic expression, I felt my heart cease to beat, my limbs grow rigid where I sat.
Yet a sense of duty finally operated to restore my self-possession.
I could no longer doubt that we had been precipitate in our preparations — that Rowena still lived.
It was necessary that some immediate exertion be made; yet turret was altogether apart from the portion of the abbey tenanted by the servants — there were none within call — I had no means of summoning them to my aid without leaving the room for many minutes — and this I could not venture to do.















I therefore struggled alone in my endeavors to call back the spirit ill hovering.
In a short period it was certain, however, that a relapse had taken place; the color disappeared from both eyelid and cheek, leaving a wanness even more than that of marble; the lips became doubly shrivelled and pinched up in the ghastly expression of death; a repulsive clamminess and coldness overspread rapidly the surface of the body; and all the usual rigorous illness immediately supervened.
I fell back with a shudder upon the couch from which I had been so startlingly aroused, and again gave myself up to passionate waking visions of Ligeia.















An hour thus elapsed when (could it be possible?) I was a second time aware of some vague sound issuing from the region of the bed.
I listened — in extremity of horror.
The sound came again — it was a sigh.
Rushing to the corpse, I saw — distinctly saw — a tremor upon the lips.
In a minute afterward they relaxed, disclosing a bright line of the pearly teeth.
Amazement now struggled in my bosom with the profound awe which had hitherto reigned there alone.
I felt that my vision grew dim, that my reason wandered; and it was only by a violent effort that I at length succeeded in nerving myself to the task which duty thus once more had pointed out.















There was now a partial glow upon the forehead and upon the cheek and throat; a perceptible warmth pervaded the whole frame; there was even a slight pulsation at the heart.
The lady lived; and with redoubled ardor I betook myself to the task of restoration.
I chafed and bathed the temples and the hands, and used every exertion which experience, and no little medical reading, could suggest.
But in vain.
Suddenly, the color fled, the pulsation ceased, the lips resumed the expression of the dead, and, in an instant afterward, the whole body took upon itself the icy chilliness, the livid hue, the intense rigidity, the sunken outline, and all the loathsome peculiarities of that which has been, for many days, a tenant of the tomb.















The haunted man

And again I sunk into visions of Ligeia — and again, (what marvel that I shudder while I write,) again there reached my ears a low sob from the region of the ebony bed.
But why shall I minutely detail the unspeakable horrors of that night?
Why shall I pause to relate how, time after time, until near the period of the gray dawn, this hideous drama of revivification was repeated; how each terrific relapse was only into a sterner and apparently more irredeemable death; how each agony wore the aspect of a struggle with some invisible foe; and how each struggle was succeeded by I know not what of wild change in the personal appearance of the corpse?



Let me hurry to a conclusion.
The greater part of the fearful night had worn away, and she who had been dead, once again stirred — and now more vigorously than hitherto, although arousing from a dissolution more appalling in its utter hopelessness than any.
I had long ceased to struggle or to move, and remained sitting rigidly upon the ottoman, a helpless prey to a whirl of violent emotions, of which extreme awe was perhaps the least terrible, the least consuming.
The corpse, I repeat, stirred, and now more vigorously than before.
The hues of life flushed up with unwonted energy into the countenance — the limbs relaxed — and, save that the eyelids were yet pressed heavily together, and that the bandages and draperies of the grave still imparted their charnel character to the figure, I might have dreamed that Rowena had indeed shaken off, utterly, the fetters of Death.
















But if this idea was not, even then, altogether adopted, I could at least doubt no longer, when, arising from the bed, tottering, with feeble steps, with closed eyes, and with the manner of one bewildered in a dream, the thing that was enshrouded advanced boldly and palpably into the middle of the apartment.
I trembled not — I stirred not — for a crowd of unutterable fancies connected with the air, the stature, the demeanor of the figure, rushing hurriedly through my brain, had paralyzed — had chilled me into stone.
I stirred not — but gazed upon the apparition.
There was a mad disorder in my thoughts — a tumult unappeasable.
Could it, indeed, be the living Rowena who confronted me?
Could it indeed be Rowena at all — the fair-haired, the blue-eyed Lady Rowena Trevanion of Tremaine?
Why, why should I doubt it? The bandage lay heavily about the mouth — but then might it not be the mouth of the breathing Lady of Tremaine?
And the cheeks — there were the roses as in her noon of life — yes, these might indeed be the fair cheeks of the living Lady of Tremaine.
And the chin, with its dimples, as in health, might it not be hers? — but had she then grown taller since her malady?
What inexpressible madness seized me with that thought?
One bound, and I had reached her feet!
Shrinking from my touch, she let fall from her head, unloosened, the ghastly cerements which had confined it, and there streamed forth, into the rushing atmosphere of the chamber, huge masses of long and dishevelled hair; it was blacker than the raven wings of the midnight!
And now slowly opened the eyes of the figure which stood before me.
“Here then, at least,” I shrieked aloud, “can I never — can I never be mistaken — these are the full, and the black, and the wild eyes — of my lost love — of the lady — of the LADY Ligeia.”


























































a Norse View Imaging and Publishing


established 2013








Copyright 2017
a Norse View, Mike Koontz

'Ligeia', A strange tale of love and the one that crossed all the way back from the realm of the dead.

Thank you for reading.



Author
Edgar Allan Poe
Photography
Mike Koontz
To the daisy that is my sun and inspiration

   Google+
   Medium
   My livingroom art
   Author page, Mike Koontz
   





Last Few Published Books and Articles

  • Anthropocene: Volvo heralds the global end of the combustion engine-powered car.

    Quality time needed: 3 minutes





    the end of the combustion engine-powered car.
    Anthropocene is the science & footprint of you and me on Planet Earth



    This marks the end of the combustion engine-powered car.
    Volvo going all in on Electric engines in their car offerings.
    Starting 2019, every Volvo will make use of an electric motor.
    To top it off, Volvo will also make use of a completely climate neutral manufacturing operation by 2025.

    And while this is just one good ol car manufacturer crossing over to the better side of car manufacturing, Volvo will of course not be alone in this transition.
    Just as we see energy producers working their ass off to transition to a cleaner world without fossil fuel in their portfolios, car manufacturers are now all in on making safer ( autonomous cars ) and cleaner ( fully electric cars ) vehicles.

  • Anthropocene: a single strand of atoms, a prescient story about plastic litter, our warming oceans and individual health.

    Quality time needed: 10 minutes





    Plastic litter, a prescient story.
    Anthropocene is the science & art of life on Planet Earth



    At some point in life, you might discover yourself having walked far enough outside the map that plots the discourse of the common life that society expects all to follow beyond their birth, and at this point of discovery, this is where you might realize that you can cut out all the distractions of the buzzy bees, and the perceived connotations of what people stubbornly claims to be "just how it is", all while they seemingly refuse to see how things actually are.

    And once you do, the void of white noise and people without words of meaning to express, all the colors and moving shapes from all the non-essential patches that weaves together to raise a banner of hollowness will start to dissipate.

  • Planet Earth: open letter for our planet, health & mutual future to Merkel and our G20 leaders before their meeting with Trump.

    Quality time needed: 3 minutes





    Dear Chancellor Merkel.
    contemporary life is the science & art of Planet Earth



    Dear Chancellor Merkel, I am writing you in your role as one of the more public representatives of Europe ( and the prosperity of the entire world ).
    Billions of people reject Trump’s attempts to divide the world on climate change and our mutual health and wellbeing. His disregard for science and public progress, education, and health.
    And as such, we call on you to lead the G20 meeting towards a healthier and more sustainable future, with or without the involvement of the USA or any other country and leader that is willfully turning its back on the future of humanity, our planet, science, health, and equality.

  • Equality is a healthier life: Hell on earth can be found inside the hollow neglect that is life on GB road in Delhi, India.

    Quality time needed: 9 minutes





    The weight of the world is just a fleeting moment
    contemporary life is the science & art of Planet Earth



    India is a wonderful nation of immense potential and filled with fascinating heritage and culture, but it can also be quite a sad and horrible place for women and children.
    We have the ever present and immense pollution and poverty. The inequality that seems almost steeped in the seams of its old and rich history.
    And almost always guided and directed towards the poor, and more than anything females.
    You also have something even worse, related but different. And this sordid face of the underbelly of the rapidly changing but still traditional Indian society is best represented by a road that could be described as the road to hell on Earth.

  • The magic of Midsummer, a pagan day of life, harvest, endless sunshine, sex and joy in Scandinavia.

    Quality time needed: 5 minutes





    midsummers magic.
    contemporary life is our own art



    Wishing the entire world a wonderful midsummer with this silly midsummer poem and summery views which you can read beyond the break.
    creativity is a combination of having a thirst and desire for the discipline of exploring the world, and a fully alive spirit to consume all that life has, and to finally, spit it all out in a new shape and form for others to indulge in.

  • Planet Earth: As if straight out of the cutesy book 'wind in the willows', the good ol and extremely photogenic water voles ( Arvicola amphibius ) returns from the brink of UK extinction.

    Quality time needed: 4 minutes


    water voles ( Arvicola amphibius ) returns from the brink of UK extinction.
    contemporary life & science is our own art



    As if straight out of the cutesy book 'wind in the willows', the good ol and extremely photogenic water voles ( Arvicola amphibius ) returns from the brink of UK extinction, with a little help from the human hands that orchestrated its near extinction in the first place.
    As such, Kielder Forest in Northumberland, England will now get to see 700 Scottish highlander water voles invade and conquer its lush and serene country setting in the summer of 2017.
    Not by accident, nor is it born in a devious water vole plot to reclaim the mainland of the United Kingdom.
    Instead, this is one of the many wonderful rewilding wildlife and sustainable projects going on in Europe right now.

  • Endangered wildlife: Malawi national park and the return of the Cheetahs.

    Quality time needed: 3 minutes


    fewer than 7000 adult cheetahs are estimated to survive in the wild.
    contemporary life & science is our own art



    Cheetahs have already disappeared from more than 90 percent of their natural habitat in Africa ( not to mention in other areas such as the middle east ), and the wild population continues to decline in an unsustainable way.
    Today fewer than 7000 adult cheetahs are estimated to survive in the wild.
    Making the cheetah one of the world's most endangered land living apex predators.

    But not all hope is lost and there is not just a global consensus that the situation as it is is impossible for the cheetah but plenty of hard work is also being done to rectify the near extinction that awaits the cheetah.

  • Homo Sapiens, the mutant child and our planetary surfboard on which we surf the Universe. Updated June 2017.

    Quality time needed: 11 minutes


    We surf across a sea of gravitational waves.
    contemporary life & science is our own art



    Planet Earth. Our bluish marble of brown and green.
    Apex species. Planet Earth is inhabited by a rapidly evolving and diverse humanoid species which as this planet's current primary apex predator is actually made up by a wide range of multiple hominid species mutually forming it's diverse genetic origin and lineage.
    Mutant name. Contemporary humans.
    Planetary trajectory, unknown.
    The entire planet, solar system and milky way galaxy dart and weave, jump and spin all over the place inside the known universe. It might feel as if it is this solid zen-like teacup of calmness, but in reality, it is constantly changing shape and form, mass, speed, and trajectory.
    The speed of planetary travel can be measured as millions of kilometer per hour. ( Not millions actually, just 828,000 kilometers per hour to be exact )

  • Why death metal speaks to my soul with the richness of the subtle and earthly beauty of the Scandinavian landscapes.

    Quality time needed: 7 minutes


    death metal speaks to my soul with the earthly beauty of the Scandinavian landscapes.
    contemporary life is your own art



    Life is this endless canvas of soft and hard, varied in the raw and softly spoken whispers, and inside of that endless change and variation it gladly have room for differing taste in music, and my kind of metal is absolutely not for everyone :).
    As such I have never been surprised that most of the same people that find something pleasingly calm or beautiful in my writing and photography usually consider it an absurd contradiction that I so happily mix it up with grinding death metal of various shades.
    But for me it speaks with the same voice.

  • The wildlife gardener and the way that life slowly carves the mountain into a sculpture. Water pollution and the influence of beavers and farmers.

    Quality time needed: 4 minutes


    This is the way that life slowly carves the mountain into a sculpture
    contemporary life is your own art



    It slowly happens over time, you know, by the hands of natural evolution and life itself, it happens through every second of every day that ticks us by. From the way the earth turns, and the soil grows, the way that water and wind erode things over the course of eternity.
    It happens through the tunnels that ants and termites build and the way that sand polish stone.
    The way we walk and swim, build and leave behind things, the water that carves its own changing path through the rocky cold mountains that run through our entire planet. It is seen in the roots of the trees that refuse to die after 10 000 years and slowly crack the ground open.

  • Fine Art & living room products by Mike Koontz. Available for purchase now.

    Quality time needed: 3 minutes


    Your living room
    contemporary art & style



    Every person carries with them their own style and touch, in person, clothes, fitness, thoughts, sex, books, movies, passion, music and life.
    The way you are and see the world carries through in everything.
    It shows in the gym, and the board room, the way you handle your lover, and in the style and feel of your living room.
    The person that you are is not just reflected in those things, but your surroundings in life and nature and home speak back to your inner self and carries with it real significance for how much you, in turn, will enjoy both life and the castle you call your own home.




    This is my contribution to your life.
    Fine art for the living room walls.
    Duvet covers for the continental bed and snugly warm blankets for both autumn nights and the cold winter.

  • Short story: 'The Gateway Earth Chaebol, 2028AD'. a short stand alone sci-fi story from the near future book universe 2028AD created by Mike Koontz.

    Quality time needed: 14 minutes


    The Gateway Earth Chaebol
    A 2028AD stand alone sci-fi short story.



    'The Musk colony' as it was informally called could right now be thought of as a real but still very challenged success simply because the fleet had actually managed to reach their destination and somewhat to his own surprise, the entire fleet was still operational, bruised but functional.
    And considering how space travel and logistics had been prone to so many errors in the decades leading up to their unparalleled launch, the fact that they were all here, it was nothing but amazing. Taken for granted by the crew, by now at least, but still nothing but amazing.

    And while it was true, that they still had not actually put any human feet on the ground. Or even landed a single ship or UAV.
    We had reached our destination.

  • Warfare by Megaponera analis. A day in the life of termites and ants and what it can tell us about the importance of Earth day, science and fact based education.

    Quality time needed: 9 minutes


    Warfare by Megaponera analis.
    The Science of healthy living.



    They came marching in at dawn, shoulder to shoulder they formed long winding columns of wordless but well-armed soldiers in gleaming dark armor that stretched as long as the eye could see. 500 men passed us by with the rising sun painting the light of this new day behind their backs. But this would not be a day of peaceful tranquility under the light of the rising sun, instead, the sun rose up from beneath the horizon as the herald of war and death in what we all knew would turn out be just another day in their relentless campaign.

  • Healthy living: The bad health curse of smoking, almost 7 million dead people and 150 million health related issues in one year due to smoking.

    Quality time needed: 5 minutes


    150 million health related issues in one year.
    The Science of healthy living.



    Almost 7 million dead people around the world in one single year ( 2015 ), due to smoking.
    Making it account for 11.5% of worldwide deaths during 2015.
    Out of the roughly 7 million dead people, 52.2% lived in four countries, China, India, the USA, and Russia.

    13 countries, Australia, Brazil, China, Denmark, Dominican Republic, Iceland, Kenya, the Netherlands, New Zealand, Norway, Sweden, Switzerland, and the USA have showed significant year-to-year rates of decline of smoking between 1990 and 2015.

    But while an increasingly lower percentage of the global population keep up with the filthy and unhealthy habit of smoking, as time goes by due to our global population increase the total number of smokers is still going up, and it is now close to 1 billion people!.

  • This is a story of salt: The female perspective, your health and the 2.5 million people that die worldwide every single year due to excessive salt consumption.

    Quality time needed: 12 minutes


    A story of salt, the outcome, your health & the female picture.
    The Science of healthy living.



    Let us start from the tail of the end. Because we all know that every good tale comes equipped with an end that makes the rest of the story worth reading.
    And as such, the developing story of salt is a story of the roughly 2.5 million deaths around the world which could be prevented each year if global salt consumption was to be reduced below the recommended levels.

  • Health: A life of health and fitness is in truth exactly like a game of chess.

    Quality time needed: 5 minutes


    A life of fitness is a game of chess.
    The Science of healthy living.



    When it comes down to health and fitness, and the cerebral battlefield of chess the simple truth is that they are very much alike.
    There are no unearthly and illogical surprises waiting in the dark of night that will upend and change the actual fabric of the landscape.
    Your opponent can not cast fiery magic and summon demons from the netherworld to do their bidding.
    Instead what we have is a beautifully defined field of known and still developing, yet for now, unknown for you and me facts and variables, and the vast amount of personal choices those known, but evolving facts allows us to make.

    And at every step of that personal journey, chess and fitness will leave you standing as the sole commander, at a vast field made up of pure facts and deductive knowledge and the cause and consequences that every single choice will give birth to.

  • MMA and 'The People that Bleed': Meet Brad Picket.

    Quality time needed: 3 minutes


    The People that bleed
    UFC fighter Brad Picket



    'The people that bleed' is our own label for a series of videos, all produced by UFC, that I feel show us a more real and nuanced, intimate perhaps view of the actual soul and personality of the real human being that makes up the flesh and bone, heart and thoughts behind the bravado and attitude of the MMA fighter persona.

    In this 9 minutes long video, we get to meet Brad Picket (25-14 MMA, 5-9 UFC), a tiny blue collar sized UK based fighter whom retired after his final UFC fight on march 18, 2017 against Brandon Vera.

  • Health & Fitness: The unhealthy reality of the MMA style weight cut. A BBC documentary.

    Quality time needed: 7 minutes


    The Unhealthy Practice of MMA weight cutting
    The Science of a Healthy Life



    For most people getting a bit more fit, and healthy by eating cleaner food and less calories and working out more is a great life improving choice.
    And for most, that will lead to health improving reductions in unhealthy body fat levels and body weight. But as we previously talked about in another article, when you are already in shape, rocking a fit and toned body, eating healthy amounts of healthy food, doing weights and cardio, there comes a limit where dropping even more in body weight and body fat becomes damaging and unhealthy instead of health and fitness improving.

    And beyond that basic reality, you have the insanity of MMA and Boxing weight cuts that far to many pro fighters go through just so they can fight in a weight class that they are to athletic and big to actually be fighting in.
    I am saying that because MMA style weight cutting is not something that anyone interested in health and fitness should ever do.
    Period.

    Neither should pro fighters in my own opinion. In a ideal world you would be the only one doing MMA style weight cuts, allowing you to fight people 20 to 30 lbs smaller than you, with much shorter leg and arm reach, 20+lbs less muscle mass and all the disadvantage that would give them in strength, endurance, strike impact and absorption.
    But you see, when every other fighter do the same weight cut, no one benefits, and everybody suffers from the exact same detrimental and unhealthy exhaustion that MMA style weight cuts are. With less fitness come fight night and potentially worse health for the long haul as the only real result.

Go to top