Book: "Morella'', a short descent down the haunting hallways of Edgar Allan Poe´s maze like mind. Written by author Edgar Allan Poe. 20 minute coffee break bite sized snack.




Suitable for teens and up. Explicit storytelling and events.
UHD book reading video TBA
Short story (coffee break bite)
Let us describe the short coffee break bite sized story Morella with Edgars own words.
"I kept no reckoning of time or place, and the stars of my fate faded from heaven, and therefore the earth grew dark, and its figures passed by me like flitting shadows, and among them all I beheld only — Morella"
Enjoy!.

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



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The//Watcher by Lorna Shore



To the daisy that is my sun and inspiration












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

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With a feeling of deep yet most singular affection I regarded my friend Morella.
Thrown by accident into her society many years ago, my soul from our first meeting, burned with fires it had never before known; but the fires were not of Eros, and bitter and tormenting to my spirit was the gradual conviction that I could in no manner define their unusual meaning or regulate their vague intensity.
Yet we met; and fate bound us together at the altar, and I never spoke of passion nor thought of love.











She, however, shunned society, and, attaching herself to me alone rendered me happy.
It is a happiness to wonder; it is a happiness to dream.

Morella’s erudition was profound.
As I hope to live, her talents were of no common order — her powers of mind were gigantic. I felt this, and, in many matters, became her pupil.
I soon, however, found that, perhaps on account of her Presburg education, she placed before me a number of those mystical writings which are usually considered the mere dross of the early German literature.
These, for what reason I could not imagine, were her favourite and constant study — and that in process of time they became my own, should be attributed to the simple but effectual influence of habit and example.











In all this, if I err not, my reason had little to do.
My convictions, or I forget myself, were in no manner acted upon by the ideal, nor was any tincture of the mysticism which I read to be discovered, unless I am greatly mistaken, either in my deeds or in my thoughts.
Persuaded of this, I abandoned myself implicitly to the guidance of my wife, and entered with an unflinching heart into the intricacies of her studies.
And then — then, when poring over forbidden pages, I felt a forbidden spirit enkindling within me — would Morella place her cold hand upon my own, and rake up from the ashes of a dead philosophy some low, singular words, whose strange meaning burned themselves in upon my memory.
And then, hour after hour, would I linger by her side, and dwell upon the music of her voice, until at length its melody was tainted with terror, and there fell a shadow upon my soul, and I grew pale, and shuddered inwardly at those too unearthly tones.
And thus, joy suddenly faded into horror, and the most beautiful became the most hideous, as Hinnon became Ge-Henna.









As Hinnon became Ge-Henna

It is unnecessary to state the exact character of those disquisitions which, growing out of the volumes I have mentioned, formed, for so long a time, almost the sole conversation of Morella and myself. By the learned in what might be termed theological morality they will be readily conceived, and by the unlearned they would, at all events, be little understood.
The wild Pantheism of Fichte; the modified Paliggenedia of the Pythagoreans; and, above all, the doctrines of Identity as urged by Schelling, were generally the points of discussion presenting the most of beauty to the imaginative Morella.
That identity which is termed personal, Mr. Locke, I think, truly defines to consist in the saneness of rational being.
And since by person we understand an intelligent essence having reason, and since there is a consciousness which always accompanies thinking, it is this which makes us all to be that which we call ourselves, thereby distinguishing us from other beings that think, and giving us our personal identity.
But the principium indivduationis, the notion of that identity which at death is or is not lost for ever, was to me, at all times, a consideration of intense interest; not more from the perplexing and exciting nature of its consequences, than from the marked and agitated manner in which Morella mentioned them.












The lost world





[ our,world

now lost

was

once born

in tomorrows

Dream, of yesterday

it,

changes

forever,

with

the birth

of

the chasing

Moon ]


































































But, indeed, the time had now arrived when the mystery of my wife’s manner oppressed me as a spell.
I could no longer bear the touch of her wan fingers, nor the low tone of her musical language, nor the lustre of her melancholy eyes.
And she knew all this, but did not upbraid; she seemed conscious of my weakness or my folly, and, smiling, called it fate.
She seemed also conscious of a cause, to me unknown, for the gradual alienation of my regard; but she gave me no hint or token of its nature.
Yet was she woman, and pined away daily.











In time the crimson spot settled steadily upon the cheek, and the blue veins upon the pale forehead became prominent; and one instant my nature melted into pity, but in, next I met the glance of her meaning eyes, and then my soul sickened and became giddy with the giddiness of one who gazes downward into some dreary and unfathomable abyss.

Shall I then say that I longed with an earnest and consuming desire for the moment of Morella’s decease?
I did; but the fragile spirit clung to its tenement of clay for many days, for many weeks and irksome months, until my tortured nerves obtained the mastery over my mind, and I grew furious through delay, and, with the heart of a fiend, cursed the days and the hours and the bitter moments, which seemed to lengthen and lengthen as her gentle life declined, like shadows in the dying of the day.











But one autumnal evening, when the winds lay still in heaven, Morella called me to her bedside.
There was a dim mist over all the earth, and a warm glow upon the waters, and amid the rich October leaves of the forest, a rainbow from the firmament had surely fallen.
“It is a day of days,” she said, as I approached;
“a day of all days either to live or die. It is a fair day for the sons of earth and life — ah, more fair for the daughters of heaven and death!”











I kissed her forehead, and she continued:
“I am dying, yet shall I live.”
“Morella!”
“The days have never been when thou couldst love me — but her whom in life thou didst abhor, in death thou shalt adore.”
“Morella!”
“I repeat I am dying. But within me is a pledge of that affection — ah, how little! — which thou didst feel for me, Morella. And when my spirit departs shall the child live — thy child and mine, Morella’s.
But thy days shall be days of sorrow — that sorrow which is the most lasting of impressions, as the cypress is the most enduring of trees.
For the hours of thy happiness are over and joy is not gathered twice in a life, as the roses of Paestum twice in a year.
Thou shalt no longer, then, play the Teian with time, but, being ignorant of the myrtle and the vine, thou shalt bear about with thee thy shroud on the earth, as do the Moslemin at Mecca.”











And so she died, and a strange child came to be.

“Morella!” I cried, “Morella! how knowest thou this?” but she turned away her face upon the pillow and a slight tremor coming over her limbs, she thus died, and I heard her voice no more.
Yet, as she had foretold, her child, to which in dying she had given birth, which breathed not until the mother breathed no more, her child, a daughter, lived.
And she grew strangely in stature and intellect, and was the perfect resemblance of her who had departed, and I loved her with a love more fervent than I had believed it possible to feel for any denizen of earth.
But, ere long the heaven of this pure affection became darkened, and gloom, and horror, and grief swept over it in clouds.











I said the child grew strangely in stature and intelligence.
Strange, indeed, was her rapid increase in bodily size, but terrible, oh! terrible were the tumultuous thoughts which crowded upon me while watching the development of her mental being.
Could it be otherwise, when I daily discovered in the conceptions of the child the adult powers and faculties of the woman? when the lessons of experience fell from the lips of infancy? and when the wisdom or the passions of maturity I found hourly gleaming from its full and speculative eye?
When, I say, all this beeame evident to my appalled senses, when I could no longer hide it from my soul, nor throw it off from those perceptions which trembled to receive it, is it to be wondered at that suspicions, of a nature fearful and exciting, crept in upon my spirit, or that my thoughts fell back aghast upon the wild tales and thrilling theories of the entombed Morella?











I snatched from the scrutiny of the world a being whom destiny compelled me to adore, and in the rigorous seclusion of my home, watched with an agonizing anxiety over all which concerned the beloved.
And as years rolled away, and I gazed day after day upon her holy, and mild, and eloquent face, and poured over her maturing form, day after day did I discover new points of resemblance in the child to her mother, the melancholy and the dead.
And hourly grew darker these shadows of similitude, and more full, and more definite, and more perplexing, and more hideously terrible in their aspect.











For that her smile was like her mother’s I could bear; but then I shuddered at its too perfect identity, that her eyes were like Morella’s I could endure; but then they, too, often looked down into the depths of my soul with Morella’s own intense and bewildering meaning.
And in the contour of the high forehead, and in the ringlets of the silken hair, and in the wan fingers which buried themselves therein, and in the sad musical tones of her speech, and above all — oh, above all, in the phrases and expressions of the dead on the lips of the loved and the living, I found food for consuming thought and horror, for a worm that would not die.











Thus passed away two lustra of her life, and as yet my daughter remained nameless upon the earth.
“My child,” and “my love,” were the designations usually prompted by a father’s affection, and the rigid seclusion of her days precluded all other intercourse.
Morella’s name died with her at her death.
Of the mother I had never spoken to the daughter, it was impossible to speak.
Indeed, during the brief period of her existence, the latter had received no impressions from the outward world, save such as might have been afforded by the narrow limits of her privacy.











I hesitated for a name

But at length the ceremony of baptism presented to my mind, in its unnerved and agitated condition, a present deliverance from the terrors of my destiny.
And at the baptismal font I hesitated for a name.
And many titles of the wise and beautiful, of old and modern times, of my own and foreign lands, came thronging to my lips, with many, many fair titles of the gentle, and the happy, and the good.
What prompted me then to disturb the memory of the buried dead?
What demon urged me to breathe that sound, which in its very recollection was wont to make ebb the purple blood in torrents from the temples to the heart?
What fiend spoke from the recesses of my soul, when amid those dim aisles, and in the silence of the night, I whispered within the ears of the holy man the syllables — Morella?
What more than fiend convulsed the features of my child, and overspread them with hues of death, as starting at that scarcely audible sound, she turned her glassy eyes from the earth to heaven, and falling prostrate on the black slabs of our ancestral vault, responded — “I am here!”











Distinct, coldly, calmly distinct, fell those few simple sounds within my ear, and thence like molten lead rolled hissingly into my brain.
Years — years may pass away, but the memory of that epoch never.
Nor was I indeed ignorant of the flowers and the vine — but the hemlock and the cypress overshadowed me night and day.
And I kept no reckoning of time or place, and the stars of my fate faded from heaven, and therefore the earth grew dark, and its figures passed by me like flitting shadows, and among them all I beheld only — Morella.
The winds of the firmament breathed but one sound within my ears, and the ripples upon the sea murmured evermore — Morella.
But she died; and with my own hands I bore her to the tomb; and I laughed with a long and bitter laugh as I found no traces of the first in the channel where I laid the second.
— Morella.

























































a Norse View Imaging and Publishing


established 2013








Copyright 2017
a Norse View, Mike Koontz

'Morella', A short walk down the dreary halls of Edgar Allan Poe´s maze like mind.

Thank you for reading.



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

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Last Few Published Books and Articles

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    Your living room
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  • 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.

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  • Book: "Legend of the Stone Cutter'', is a short fantasy adaptation of a man that wished for ever more . Originally written by the authors Brother Grimm with minor writing by Mike Koontz. This is an 1 hour long bed time read.




    Kid Friendly
    UHD book reading video TBA
    Short story ( coffee break bite )
    The legend of the stone cutter is often thought of as a Japanese folktale. But there are also seeds of pagan Europe and other parts of Asia in its many origins and crossroads.

    It weaves the tale of a poor man, plagued with unhappiness for his own lot in life. This man worked as a highly skilled but poorly paid stonecutter, and one day he simply came to the conclusion that enough was enough and that he deserved so much more than who he was. His wish for transformative change came to be through the aid of a supernatural being, and with that his greedy appetite for a world of ever more was awoken, until one day he had come full circle and reached a state of peace with himself.
    Written by no one, and everyone.
    Before this slightly altered version, the German authors Brothers Grimm put their thoughts to the pen, but you also had the Scottish author Andrew Lang writing his very own version of the stone cutter. And there have been countless of Asian authors and Nordic ones throughout history, before and after the Brothers Grimm. And as such, I am sure, many others that told their own version of this old folktale, because like the wind, this is an ageless story about life and man, and like the wind I am sure that it will both transform and stay the same for thousands of years to come.
    Enjoy the read!.

    Photography and web adaptation and minor writing by Mike Koontz
    2017, a Norse View Imaging and Publishing

  • Healthy living: When protein face off with protein, what comes out on top? Red meat, plants, nuts, dairy?. And how will it impact health, strength and even the effects of old age.

    Quality time needed: 6 minutes


    Meat vs Plant when Protein gets to battle Protein & age.
    The Science of a healthy Life



    In a recently published study, we got to take a pretty comprehensive look at nearly 3,000 men and women all aged between 19 and 72.
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    The takeaway?.
    When looking at the complete study, it was evident ( and to no surprise ) that the less protein you consumed the lower amount of muscle mass and strength. But to the surprise of some, the type of protein each person favored did not have any impact on their strength and musculoskeletal health, and there were no differences based on gender or age group.

    So keep active, eat healthy and make sure to include enough protein, and yeah, skip that red meat based protein right away because it provides zero health and fitness benefit for anyone.

  • 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

  • Space & Science: The flight across the black void and Kaguyas observations of Earth and the way we shower our lunar friend with oxygen.

    Quality time needed: 7 minutes


    On continuous gusts of solar wind mixed with terrestrial ions Earth shower the moon with earthborn oxygen
    The Science of Life



    Outside our blue wonders shielded atmosphere, the coldness of space is filled with the burning solar wind. The dust and speckles of stars, radiation, vacuum and alien stuff like dark matter and gigantic black holes. It is a marvel of glorious destruction and life that continuously mix and merge outside our calm home, organic chaos tearing down and building new life things across the vastness of time and our Universe.

    And amongst it all, somehow, each month, Earth fires up its magnetic shields as we position ourselves between the sun and the moon, and for five whole day´s we Earthlings shower our cute little friend with Earthbound oxygen and organic matter.
    In other words, we colonize and shape the very fabric of the alien entity we call the moon with Earthborn biological life and air, organic matter traveling from our blue marble all the way to the moon through the dark void on the winds of the sun.

  • The global Environment Performance Index: Scandinavia sweeps the top 4 as the worlds best.

    Quality time needed: 8 minutes
     
     

     

    Environmental Performance Index
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    The Science of a healthy life

     

    2016 years Environmental Performance Index tells us in one more way, what we already know, and that is that Scandinavia is one hell of a wonderful place to live. The world's four best nations according to the index are all Scandinavians with Finland, Iceland, and Sweden being the only 3 nations in the world with an EPI score above 90.
    ( All three still have plenty of room to improve much more, and obviously do need to improve much more. )
    And just behind that trio, ranked as number four in the world is Denmark. So, just what is the Environmental Performance Index? Read on to find out.

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