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Автор
Edgar Allan Poe
Дата публикации
27 февраля 2026 19:01
Жанр
The Works of Edgar Allan Poe — Volume 3 centers on Poe's only novel-length work, The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym of Nantucket, presented as the supposedly true memoir of a young man from Nantucket consumed by a dangerous longing for the sea. The narrative opens with Arthur Gordon Pym and his closest friend, Augustus Barnard — the adventurous son of a sea captain — embarking on a reckless midnight sail in Pym's small sloop, the Ariel, during a fierce gale while both are intoxicated. Augustus collapses helplessly drunk at the helm, leaving Pym alone to manage a dismasted vessel in open ocean at night. The boys are very nearly drowned when the whaling ship Penguin runs them down, and are rescued only through the moral courage of the Penguin's first mate Henderson, who defies his callous captain to save them. Undeterred by his brush with death, Pym's obsession with maritime adventure only intensifies. He secretly stows away in a hidden compartment within the hold of the brig Grampus, captained by Augustus's father and bound for the South Pacific on a whaling voyage. Days pass in near-total darkness. Pym runs out of food and water, descends into fever and delirium, and is nearly killed by his own dog Tiger, whose mind is temporarily shattered by the foul, oxygen-starved air of the hold. He receives a note written in Augustus's blood — its fragmentary warning ('your life depends upon lying close') more terrifying than any full explanation could be. Catastrophe escalates when a savage mutiny erupts aboard the Grampus. The first mate and a monstrous cook lead a bloody uprising, slaughtering twenty-two loyal crew members with an axe at the gangway and setting Captain Barnard adrift in a small boat without oars or compass. Augustus is kept prisoner, unable to reach Pym for days. When he finally fights his way through the labyrinthine darkness of the hold, the two survivors — joined by the singular Dirk Peters, a ferocious half-Indian line-manager of grotesque appearance and unpredictable loyalties — begin conspiring to retake the ship. Their audacious scheme exploits the guilty consciences of the superstitious mutineers: Pym disguises himself as a recently-dead crewman, his face chalked white and blotched with blood, to appear as a walking corpse and terrorize the killers into surrender. Poe's narrative fuses maritime adventure with Gothic psychological horror and intense claustrophobic dread. The ship's dark hold becomes an arena for Pym's mental and physical disintegration — a living burial, a nightmare of thirst and madness and creeping terror — resonating with Poe's most iconic themes. Yet the novel is also grounded in meticulous nautical realism: precise coordinates, ship's log entries, and technical digressions on stowage and seamanship lend the text an uncanny documentary authority. The central tension — between Pym's romantic hunger for the unknown and the savage, indifferent violence that answers it — drives the narrative toward ever more extreme territory, with Poe hinting that what lies ahead will strain the very limits of human credulity.
CHAPTER 1
My name is Arthur Gordon Pym. My father was a respectable trader in sea-stores at Nantucket, where I was born. My maternal grandfather was an attorney in good practice. He was fortunate in every thing, and had speculated very successfully in stocks of the Edgarton New Bank, as it was formerly called. By these and other means he had managed to lay by a tolerable sum of money. He was more attached to myself, I believe, than to any other person in the world, and I expected to inherit the most of his property at his death. He sent me, at six years of age, to the school of old Mr. Ricketts, a gentleman with only one arm and of eccentric manners—he is well known to almost every person who has visited New Bedford. I stayed at his school until I was sixteen, when I left him for Mr. E. Ronald’s academy on the hill. Here I became intimate with the son of Mr. Barnard, a sea-captain, who generally sailed in the employ of Lloyd and Vredenburgh—Mr. Barnard is also very well known in New Bedford, and has many relations, I am certain, in Edgarton. His son was named Augustus, and he was nearly two years older than myself. He had been on a whaling voyage with his father in the John Donaldson, and was always talking to me of his adventures in the South Pacific Ocean. I used frequently to go home with him, and remain all day, and sometimes all night. We occupied the same bed, and he would be sure to keep me awake until almost light, telling me stories of the natives of the Island of Tinian, and other places he had visited in his travels. At last I could not help being interested in what he said, and by degrees I felt the greatest desire to go to sea. I owned a sailboat called the Ariel, and worth about seventy-five dollars. She had a half-deck or cuddy, and was rigged sloop-fashion—I forget her tonnage, but she would hold ten persons without much crowding. In this boat we were in the habit of going on some of the maddest freaks in the world; and, when I now think of them, it appears to me a thousand wonders that I am alive to-day.
I will relate one of these adventures by way of introduction to a longer and more momentous narrative. One night there was a party at Mr. Barnard’s, and both Augustus and myself were not a little intoxicated toward the close of it. As usual, in such cases, I took part of his bed in preference to going home. He went to sleep, as I...
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