Oakland Technical High School - Talisman Yearbook (Oakland, CA)

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'0000 IWOWIWOIOOWIMI O-'O0O'0l0lvO lvl l l'fO'lO00lvO0IHIv'O1ll0O0I'IMHOMIWOHOMONOHIQOOl'O OMIIOl'l O O l O'1l l'0O l O O l'PO'-ONINOH -il The Sower of Fright D' , v'OvII1'WOW'0'Q'CWI''Of'II'O0il'4WWl0PQ'Q0X9Q'4lUQ'ON.K0.N. WB'.'fNlW9'lW54NOlQ'Q0l'+'WOHONI O l0lNl0lNl'lOvCl'l l'S ' Neither brute Nor human . . . -Poe. OBODY ever knew the real name of that queer man whom everybody called the gentleman of room nineteen. There only remains after his mysterious disappearance, the remembrance of his strange wild eyes, and his queer smile, never to be forgotten. Those who knew him best, and I was one of those few, remember also his singular skin of an amazing transparent palenessg the feminine swiftness of his steps, and the broad aristocratic forehead which denoted extraordinary intelligence. This man liked to talk, but few understood what he wished to say, and there were even some who did not wish to understand him, so uncommon and myste- rious were the things he said. He was truly a sower of fright. His presence gave to the simplest objects a fantastic color, things touched by his hands seemed to e11ter the world of dreams. His eyes did not reflect everyday objects- but things unknown of other worlds which were not seen by those who were with him. Undoubtedly he was sick, but nobody ever asked him what his trouble was. Nobody knew what country he came from. Nobody was acquainted with his parents or relatives. He appeared one stormy day of Winter in the city and, after a few years, on another stormy day, he disappeared. The day before he went, at daybreak, he came to my room to awaken me. I felt upon my brow the soft caress of his gloved hand, and I saw him before me, covered with a dark coat. He smiled with a smile that was cynical and humble, diabolical and divine. The look in his eyes was wilder than ever. x I was really frightened. Wl1a-Wliat is the matter with you ? I asked. Do you fecl sick? Do you wish 1ne to call the doctor? Sick,'-he slowly replied, as if he experienced great pain in uttering these words. Then you, too, believe I am sick? Do you really believe there is something the matter with me? Do you want to call the doctor? Do you know that the only person who can cure me is the only person who wishes me to be sick, to be queer, to be different? A11d do you know that he is my master? Do you know that he owns me? I was so accustomed to his strange conversations that I did not think it worth while to make any reply. I shook my head. He smiled, and again I felt the soft caress of his gloved hand. You are not nervous, nor likely to lose your mind with a confession of the kind I am going to make, he continued. I'll ask you to listen care- fully to my tale, for I'll never have a chance to breathe it to another human

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EMIQY ' QS. She we-ne --v-In Q 1

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soul, and before something terrible happens, I: would like to have some one hear my trouble. And finishing these words, he sat down in a chair near n1y bed, he lighted his pipe, and he went on to say: I am not a real man, I was not born from mortals. I was never young. Nobody ever rocked my cradle, nor sang me to sleep. I never knew the tender love and care of parents. I a111 the 'image of a dream., What Shakespeare said, 'stuff of what dreams are made of,' is for me a literally exact and tragic expression. I exist because there is some one who dreams me. When 'he' began to dream, I began to exist, I am a product of his fan- tastic imagination. His dream is so powerful and persistent that he has made me visible to the- naked human eye! Oh, but the world of reality, the world of sordid ambitions, the world of duty, is not my own. I feel so unhappy over the vulgar sordidness of your existence! ' Do not believe that I am speaking symbolically or enigmatically- What I am saying is nothing but the truth. But of course, your human, narrow mind won't permit you to believe it. Oh, please stop making such frightful stupid faces. I am not human, don't pity me. I am not evil, don't be afraid! Poets say that a manis life is the shadow of a dream, and philosophers maintain that reality is only an hallucination. But to me that is not im- portant. I only want to know who 'dreams' me, who is that unknown being whom I cannot see, and yet to whom I belong. Ah! how many days have I thought of that master who dreams, of the creator of my miserable life. He must be indeed powerful Zllld great, that being to whom my years are minutes, and who can live the whole life of a man in one of his hours, and the history of humanity in one of his nights. His dreams must be very vivid, strong, and profound to project externally the things unreal, to make them seem real. Perhaps you and the rest of your kind, are nothing but the dreams of beings similar to him? Who knows? But let us not touch metaphysical grounds, we must leave that to the learned fools. But going back to our theme. Who is he? That is the question which has haunted me every day and every night, every hour and every 1ni11ute, since I have known the stuff of which I am made. You understand the importance and magnitude of this question? It means life or death to me. I have to know who is my 'dreamer,' in order to choose my career. At first, the idea of awakening him, and thus annihilating myself, pierced through my brain, so that for months I stood motionless barely winking my eyes-a noise, a draft of wind, perhaps, would submerge me in Nothing. I was a fool then, I loved life, and for this reason I tortured myself in vain to try to guess tl1e tastes and passions of my unknown 'dreamerf to give to 1ny existence the actitudes and movements which would please him. I trembled and I shivered with fright at every instant for fear that I should offend or dis- please him, and that he would awake. Can you imagine anything more horrific, anything more terrible, anything more 'dantesque' than my situa- tion? Only Poe, the divine genius, could with his gifted brain, imagine something similar to this. A