By Edgar Allan Poe

In the consideration of the faculties and impulses—of the prima mobilia [prime motivation] of the human soul, the phrenologists have failed to make room for a propensity which, although obviously existing as a radical, primitive, irreducible sentiment, has been equally overlooked by all the moralists who have preceded them. In the pure arrogance of the reason, we have all overlooked it. We have suffered its existence to escape our senses, solely through want of belief—of faith;—whether it be faith in Revelation, or faith in the Kabbala. The idea of it has never occurred to us, simply because of its supererogation. We saw no need of the impulse—for the propensity.

We could not perceive its necessity. We could not understand, that is to say, we could not have understood, had the notion of this primum mobile ever obtruded itself;—we could not have understood in what manner it might be made to further the objects of humanity, either temporal or eternal. It cannot be denied that phrenology, and in great measure, all meta-physicianism, have been concocted à priori [based on theoretical deduction instead of empirical observation].

The intellectual or logical man, rather than the understanding or observant man, set himself to imagine designs—to dictate purposes to God. Having thus fathomed to his satisfaction, the intentions of Jehovah, out of these intentions he built his innumerable systems of mind. In the matter of phrenology, for example, we first determined, naturally enough, that it was the design of the Deity that man should eat. We then assigned to man an organ of alimentiveness, and this organ is the scourge with which the Deity compels man, will-I nill-I, into eating.

Secondly, having settled it to be God's will that man should continue his species, we discovered an organ of amativeness, forthwith. And so with combativeness, with ideality, with causality, with constructiveness,—so, in short, with every organ, whether representing a propensity, a moral sentiment, or a faculty of the pure intellect. And in these arrangements of the principia of human action, the Spurzheimites [followers of Johann Kaspar Spurzheim], whether right or wrong, in part, or upon the whole, have but followed, in principle, the footsteps of their predecessors; deducing and establishing every thing from the preconceived destiny of man, and upon the ground of the objects of his Creator.

It would have been wiser, it would have been safer to classify, (if classify we must,) upon the basis of what man usually or occasionally did, and was always occasionally doing, rather than upon the basis of what we took it for granted the Deity intended him to do. If we cannot comprehend God in his visible works, how then in his inconceivable thoughts, that call the works into being? If we cannot understand him in his objective creatures, how then in his substantive moods and phases of creation?

Induction, à posteriori [based on empirical observation rather than theoretical assumption], would have brought phrenology to admit, as an innate and primitive principle of human action, a paradoxical something, which we may call perverseness, for want of a more characteristic term. In the sense I intend, it is, in fact, a mobile without motive, a motive not motivirt. Through its promptings we act without comprehensible object; or, if this shall be understood as a contradiction in terms, we may so far modify the proposition as to say, that through its promptings we act, for the reason that we should not. In theory, no reason can be more unreasonable; but, in fact, there is none more strong. With certain minds, under certain conditions, it becomes absolutely irresistible. I am not more certain that I breathe, than that the assurance of the wrong or error of any action is often the one unconquerable force which impels us, and alone impels us to its prosecution. Nor will this overwhelming tendency to do wrong for the wrong's sake, admit of analysis, or resolution into ulterior elements. It is a radical, a primitive impulse—elementary. It will be said, I am aware, that when we persist in acts because we feel we should not persist in them, our conduct is but a modification of that which ordinarily springs from the combativeness of phrenology. But a glance will show the fallacy of this idea. The phrenological combativeness has for its essence, the necessity of self-defence. It is our safeguard against injury. Its principle regards our well-being; and thus the desire to be well, is excited simultaneously with its development. It follows, that the desire to be well must be excited simultaneously with any principle which shall be merely a modification of combativeness, but in the case of that something which I term perverseness, the desire to be well is not only not aroused, but a strongly antagonistical sentiment exists.

An appeal to one's own heart is, after all, the best reply to the sophistry just noticed. No one who trustingly consults and thoroughly questions his own soul, will be disposed to deny the entire radicalness of the propensity in question. It is not more incomprehensible than distinctive. There lives no man who at some period, has not been tormented, for example, by an earnest desire to tantalize a listener by circumlocution. The speaker is aware that he displeases; he has every intention to please; he is usually curt, precise, and clear; the most laconic and luminous language is struggling for utterance upon his tongue; it is only with difficulty that he restrains himself from giving it flow; he dreads and deprecates the anger of him whom he addresses; yet, the thought strikes him, that by certain involutions and parentheses, this anger may be engendered. That single thought is enough. The impulse increases to a wish, the wish to a desire, the desire to an uncontrollable longing, and the longing, (to the deep regret and mortification of the speaker, and in defiance of all consequences,) is indulged.

We have a task before us which must be speedily performed. We know that it will be ruinous to make delay. The most important crisis of our life calls, trumpet-tongued, for immediate energy and action. We glow, we are consumed with eagerness to commence the work, with the anticipation of whose glorious result our whole souls are on fire. It must, it shall be undertaken to-day, and yet we put it off until to-morrow; and why? There is no answer, except that we feel perverse, using the word with no comprehension of the principle. To-morrow arrives, and with it a more impatient anxiety to do our duty, but with this very increase of anxiety arrives, also, a nameless, a positively fearful, because unfathomable craving for delay. This craving gathers strength as the moments fly. The last hour for action is at hand. We tremble with the violence of the conflict within us,—of the definite with the indefinite—of the substance with the shadow. But, if the contest have proceeded thus far, it is the shadow which prevails,—we struggle in vain. The clock strikes, and is the knell of our welfare. At the same time, it is the chanticleer-note to the ghost that has so long overawed us. It flies—it disappears—we are free. The old energy returns. We will labor now. Alas, it is too late!

We stand upon the brink of a precipice. We peer into the abyss—we grow sick and dizzy. Our first impulse is to shrink from the danger. Unaccountably we remain. By slow degrees our sickness, and dizziness, and horror, become merged in a cloud of unnameable feeling. By gradations, still more imperceptible, this cloud assumes shape, as did the vapor from the bottle out of which arose the genius in the Arabian Nights. But out of this our cloud upon the precipice's edge, there grows into palpability, a shape, far more terrible than any genius, or any demon of a tale, and yet it is but a thought, although a fearful one, and one which chills the very marrow of our bones with the fierceness of the delight of its horror. It is merely the idea of what would be our sensations during the sweeping precipitancy of a fall from such a height. And this fall—this rushing annihilation—for the very reason that it involves that one most ghastly and loathsome of all the most ghastly and loathsome images of death and suffering which have ever presented themselves to our imagination—for this very cause do we now the most vividly desire it. And because our reason violently deters us from the brink, therefore, do we the more impetuously approach it. There is no passion in nature so demoniacally impatient, as that of him, who shuddering upon the edge of a precipice, thus meditates a plunge. To indulge for a moment, in any attempt at thought, is to be inevitably lost; for reflection but urges us to forbear, and therefore it is, I say, that we cannot. If there be no friendly arm to check us, or if we fail in a sudden effort to prostrate ourselves backward from the abyss, we plunge, and are destroyed.

Examine these and similar actions as we will, we shall find them resulting solely from the spirit of the Perverse. We perpetrate them merely because we feel that we should not. Beyond or behind this, there is no intelligible principle: and we might, indeed, deem this perverseness a direct instigation of the arch-fiend, were it not occasionally known to operate in furtherance of good.

I have said thus much, that in some measure I may answer your question—that I may explain to you why I am here—that I may assign to you something that shall have at least the faint aspect of a cause for my wearing these fetters, and for my tenanting this cell of the condemned. Had I not been thus prolix, you might either have misunderstood me altogether, or, with the rabble, have fancied me mad. As it is, you will easily perceive that I am one of the many uncounted victims of the Imp of the Perverse.

It is impossible that any deed could have been wrought with a more thorough deliberation. For weeks, for months, I pondered upon the means of the murder. I rejected a thousand schemes, because their accomplishment involved a chance of detection. At length, in reading some French memoirs, I found an account of a nearly fatal illness that occurred to Madame Pilau, through the agency of a candle accidentally poisoned. The idea struck my fancy at once. I knew my victim's habit of reading in bed. I knew, too, that his apartment was narrow and ill-ventilated. But I need not vex you with impertinent details. I need not describe the easy artifices by which I substituted, in his bed-room candle-stand, a wax-light of my own making, for the one which I there found. The next morning he was discovered dead in his bed, and the coroner's verdict was,—"Death by the visitation of God."

Having inherited his estate, all went well with me for years. The idea of detection never once entered my brain. Of the remains of the fatal taper, I had myself carefully disposed. I had left no shadow of a clue by which it would be possible to convict, or even to suspect me of the crime. It is inconceivable how rich a sentiment of satisfaction arose in my bosom as I reflected upon my absolute security. For a very long period of time, I was accustomed to revel in this sentiment. It afforded me more real delight than all the mere worldly advantages accruing from my sin. But there arrived at length an epoch, from which the pleasurable feeling grew, by scarcely perceptible gradations, into a haunting and harassing thought. It harassed because it haunted. I could scarcely get rid of it for an instant. It is quite a common thing to be thus annoyed with the ringing in our ears, or rather in our memories, of the burthen of some ordinary song, or some unimpressive snatches from an opera. Nor will we be the less tormented if the song in itself be good, or the opera air meritorious. In this manner, at last, I would perpetually catch myself pondering upon my security, and repeating, in a low, under-tone, the phrase, "I am safe."

One day, whilst sauntering along the streets, I arrested myself in the act of murmuring, half aloud, these customary syllables. In a fit of petulance, I re-modelled them thus:—"I am safe—I am safe—yes—if I be not fool enough to make open confession!"

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No sooner had I spoken these words, than I felt an icy chill creep to my heart. I had had some experience in these fits of perversity, (whose nature I have been at some trouble to explain,) and I remembered well, that in no instance, I had successfully resisted their attacks. And now my own casual self-suggestion, that I might possibly be fool enough to confess the murder of which I had been guilty, confronted me, as if the very ghost of him whom I had murdered—and beckoned me on to death.

At first, I made an effort to shake off this nightmare of the soul. I walked vigorously—faster—still faster—at length I ran. I felt a maddening desire to shriek aloud. Every succeeding wave of thought overwhelmed me with new terror, for, alas! I well, too well understood that, to think, in my situation, was to be lost. I still quickened my pace. I bounded like a madman through the crowded thoroughfares. At length, the populace took the alarm, and pursued me. I felt then the consummation of my fate. Could I have torn out my tongue, I would have done it—but a rough voice resounded in my ears—a rougher grasp seized me by the shoulder. I turned—I gasped for breath. For a moment, I experienced all the pangs of suffocation; I became blind, and deaf, and giddy; and then, some invisible fiend, I thought, struck me with his broad palm upon the back. The long-imprisoned secret burst forth from my soul.

They say that I spoke with a distinct enunciation, but with marked emphasis and passionate hurry, as if in dread of interruption before concluding the brief but pregnant sentences that consigned me to the hangman and to hell.

Having related all that was necessary for the fullest judicial conviction, I fell prostrate in a swoon.

But why shall I say more? To-day I wear these chains, and am here! To-morrow I shall be fetterless!—but where?

~...~

Ally finished reading and looked up at all the others who all had varying looks of strain and confusion on their faces. She looked back and saw that Harrison really was asleep now—his face was flat on the desk. It was a bit of a dry read, I admit. It’s much different than the Poe I’m familiar with…but I think I got the gist of it.

“Oh really?” Jace asked. He sat cross legged on her desk. “Learn me something, teacher lady.”

She closed her eyes, “It’s about us...how our minds work to do the thing that does us the most harm, even if we’re fully aware of that it is harmful.”

“That seems pretty bogus,” Jace said. “Or else you would be dangling from a noose right about now, am I right?”

“That…is not funny.”

“Sure,” he grinned. “I still don’t buy it. It just sounds like he just got a bit loopy near the end there.”

“I mean…I don’t believe everyone has an actual imp that follows them around...Or maybe they do, I don’t know. But in times of great stress or great safety the mind becomes bored by both ends of the spectrum and becomes a plaything for this metaphorical imp. When we stand at the precipice, we find no option but to jump,” Ally explained.

“I repeat…that sounds crazy.”

“Yeah…but it would put to reason why people do all sorts of bad things. Don’t you know how everyone always talks about people they knew that ended up being criminals? ‘Oh he would never do that! That’s not the ____ I know!’ Maybe it is the person they know who just happened to fall victim to the imp?”

“Looks like I have my super villain rival now. Jace versus the Imp of…Perversion you said?”

“Yep.”

“Okay, send it back. I’m not having a villain whose superpower is being perverse.”

“You know perversion isn’t just sexual desire, right?”

“…of course I do.”

“Mhm.”

Ally looked around the room. The heads were all down focused on their sheets aside for the twins who perked their heads up before her. Ally couldn’t tell if it was because they were really good at understanding the passage or really bad at it. Soon more and more people raised their heads as they finished or gave up.

The girl in front of Ally, Lillian, turned around. “So, was your old school as bullshit as this?” The question caught her off guard. Lilly’s narrowed eyes weren’t harsh, but matter-of-fact. “I mean, it had to have been at least a little better.”

Ally shook her head, “Not much changes, unfortunately. Just the names and faces.”

Lilly smiled, her face softening, “Heh, that reminds me of an old Bowling For Soup song.”

“Bowling for what?” Ally imagined the strangest of charity events.

Lilly shook it off, “You either know ‘em or you don’t. No sweat.” She looked down to Ally’s coat then back up to her, an eyebrow raised, “You know it’s seventy outside, right?”

Ally looked down to the floor, “Yeah. I miscalculated how warm it was going to be.”

“Where’d you come from? Antarctica?”

“Nowhere that far…or cold. I went to Bangor Middle before this.”

Lilly nodded, “My…that is unfortunate phrasing.”

Ally looked confused until she understood and shook her head quick, “No, like Bang-ore,”

She held up a hand, “Okay, yeah. I know a few people from Bangor. Play them every few weeks in volleyball. Just messing with you.”

“You look like you’d be very good at that…uh, playing volleyball I mean. Not uh…messing with me.”

She shrugged, “Can’t complain. I’d do better if the whole team was able to work together.” She said.

Ally wasn’t sure Lilly was speaking to her anymore.

“Come off it, Jones.” Ashley. “You just can’t stand that you’re not the center of attention anymore.” She wasn’t looking at Lilly, simply checking out her hands.

Lilly rolled her eyes, “Projecting much, are we?” She turned around to Ashley’s desk now. “You couldn’t handle that I was captain so you spread that rumor about me taking shit.”

“I only tell the truth,” Ashley said, still not looking at Lilly. “Like how everyone seems to get along but you.”

Lilly clenched her fist and tapped on the desk, steadying her breathing. The bell rang and Mrs. Fowler was still nowhere in sight. Ashley, Sidney, and Adam all stood up together and side-eyed Lilly as they passed. The rest of the students got up at their own pace and filtered into the hall. Lilly, Ally, and the twins were the only ones still sitting.

“I fucking hate her,” Lilly said.

“You did start it this time,” one of the twins said.

“Come off it,” Lilly replied.

“Now you’re sounding like her,” the same twin said.

“Don’t let it bother you,” the other twin said and then the both of them turned to face Lilly. “You were right…she’s just insecure.”

“It’s just so bullshit.” Lilly said and then remembered Ally was still sitting behind her. She turned back, “You saw how awful she was there? She can be ten times worse.”

“Not the best of friends?” Ally asked.

“I’d rather hang myself.” Lilly began. “She’s been like that forever. The only difference now is it’s no longer just her. She’s been increasingly annoying ever since she and Dumbo got together. Then since Sidney’s attached herself at the hip it has only compounded.”

“They’re really quite dreadful,” the twin on the right said

“You’re Ally, right?” The one on the left asked.

She nodded curtly, “Yeah. Today’s my first day.”

“Quite a day to start off with,” Lilly sighed.

“I saw a bit of the email on Mrs. Fowler’s computer,” the left twin said. “—it was about Tyson. I think that’s what she was going to talk to Mr. Herondale about.”

Lilly spun back around, “No shit, really?”

“Who’s Tyson?” Ally asked.

“What are you all still doing in here? Second period’s starting,” came the crotchety voice of Mrs. Fowler. “Go on! Get, all of you! I’ve got free period and I don’t intend to waste it.”

“It’s only been an hour into the first day,” Ally whispered.

“Yeah, she seems like she already could use the nap,” The left twin said.

Ally chuckled and all four of them got up out of their seats and walked out of the classroom.

“Well, new girl,” Lilly began.

“Ally,” she corrected.

Lilly stopped and nodded, “You seem pretty cool. What do you have next?”

“Art with uh...” she opened her folder with her schedule taped to the inside, “...Mr. Carro.”

“Oh, we have that next,” the twin on the right said. “I’m Rosie, I didn’t mention it before, and I’m sorry for that. My sister Josie’s here,” she pointed, and then nodded.

“Well that sucks balls,” Lilly said, “I’ve got Science with Jericho. Kill me now,” she said.

“Would,” Josie replied, “But I seem to be running low on murder weapons.” The three of them laughed and it dragged Ally in like a current. She didn’t think that she’d be laughing on her first day—much less genuinely enjoying it.

“We could show you the way,” Rosie said, settling down. “We had art in that same classroom last year.”

“Yes,” Ally nodded, “that sounds excellent, thank you.”

Rosie smiled. It was like the warmth of the sun on her heart.

“You have first lunch, right?” Lilly asked.

“Huh?” Ally’s brows furrowed.

“After fourth period is first lunch, second lunch is after fifth, and third is after sixth.”

“They seriously allow people to wait that long for lunch? And yes, thankfully mine is after fourth. I didn’t know there were different times.”

“They didn’t do that at Bangor...that’s where you’re from, right?” Lilly asked.

“Yeah. And no, we have one large cafeteria and everyone’s just thrown together like a big potato salad.”

“Huh, must be nice,” Josie said.

“I like potato salad,” Rosie rubbed her chin.

“No, not really. Makes finding a seat really tedious,” Ally said.

“Well, consider that a worry no longer. Sit with us at lunch,” Lilly pointed at herself and the twins. “I can even offer you a deal of a lifetime. One guaranteed seat for the price of two,” she winked.

“Seems like a pretty bad deal,” Ally said.

“That’s what people who don’t take risks would say. Come on, I promise we only bite a little.”

“And we just got back from the dentist last week, so you can be sure if we do it’ll be hygienic,” Josie added.

“I’m not too positive I believe that any sort of bite could be hygienic,” Ally chuckled.

“Maybe you just haven’t been bitten by the right person,” Lilly said, with a wink.

Ally blushed. “Jace don’t you say a freaking word.”