The Tell-Tale Heart is written by Edgar Allan Poe. And here follows the text~
TRUE!-NERVOUS--very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am! but why will you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses--not destroyed--not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell. How, then, am I mad? Hearken! and observe how healthily--how calmly I can tell you the whole story.
It is impossible to tell how first the idea entered my brain; but once conceived, it haunted me day and night. Object there was none. Passion there was none. I loved the old man. He had never wronged me. He had never given me insult. For his gold I had no desire. I think it was his eye! Yes, it was this! One of his eyes resembled that of a vulture--a pale blue eye, with a film over it. Whenever it fell upon me, my blood ran cold; and so by degrees--very gradually--I made up my mind to take the life of the old man, and thus rid myself of the eye forever.
Now this is the point. You fancy me mad. Madmen know nothing. But you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded--with what caution--with what foresight--with what dissimulation I went to work!
I was never kinder to the old man than during the whole week before I killed him. And every night, about midnight, I turned the latch of his door and opened it--oh, so gently! And then, when I had made an opening sufficient for my head, I put in a dark lantern, all closed, closed, so that no light shone out, and then I thrust in my head. Oh, you would have laughed to see how cunningly I thrust it in! I moved it slowly--very, very slowly, so that I might not disturb the old man's sleep. It took me an hour to place my whole head within the opening so far that I could see him as he lay upon his bed. Ha!--would a madman have been so wise as this? And then, when my head was well in the room, I undid the lantern cautiously--oh, so cautiously--cautiously (for the hinges creaked)--I undid it just so much that a single thin ray fell upon the vulture eye. And this I did for seven long nights--every night just at midnight--but I found the eye always closed; and so it was impossible to do the work; for it was not the old man who vexed me, but his Evil Eye. And every morning, when the day broke, I went boldly into the chamber, and spoke courageously to him, calling him by name in a hearty tone, and inquiring how he had passed the night. So you see he would have been a very profound old man, indeed, to suspect that every night, just at twelve, I looked in upon him while he slept.
Upon the eighth night I was more than usually cautious in opening the door. A watch's minute hand moves more quickly than did mine. Never before that night had I felt the extent of my own powers--of my sagacity. I could scarcely contain my feelings of triumph. To think that there I was, opening the door, little by little, and he not even to dream of my secret deeds or thoughts. I fairly chuckled at the idea; and perhaps he heard me; for he moved on the bed suddenly, as if startled. Now you may think that I drew back--but no. His room was as black as pitch with the thick darkness (for the shutters were close fastened, through fear of robbers), and so I knew that he could not see the opening of the door, and I kept pushing it on steadily, steadily.
I had my head in, and was about to open the lantern, when my thumb slipped upon the tin fastening, and the old man sprang up in bed, crying out: "Who's there?"
I kept quite still and said nothing. For a whole hour I did not move a muscle, and in the meantime I did not hear him lie down. He was still sitting up in the bed listening;--just as I have done, night after night, hearkening to the death watches in the wall.
Presently I heard a slight groan, and I knew it was the groan of mortal terror. It was not a groan of pain or grief--oh no!--it was the low stifled sound that arises from the bottom of the soul when overcharged with awe. I knew the sound well. Many a night, just at midnight, when all the world slept, it has welled up from my own bosom, deepening, with its dreadful echo, the terrors that distracted me. I say I knew it well. I knew what the old man felt, and pitied him, although I chuckled at heart. I knew that he had been lying awake ever since the first slight noise, when he had turned in the bed. His fears had been ever since growing upon him. He had been trying to fancy them causeless, but could not. He had been saying to himself: "It is nothing but the wind in the chimney--it is only a mouse crossing the floor," or "it is merely a cricket which has made a single chirp." Yes, he had been trying to comfort himself with these suppositions; but he had found all in vain. All in vain; because Death, in approaching him. had stalked with his black shadow before him, and enveloped the victim. And it was the mournful influence of the unperceived shadow that caused him to feel--although he neither saw nor heard--to feel the presence of my head within the room.
When I had waited a long time, very patiently, without hearing him lie down, I resolved to open a little--a very, very little crevice in the lantern. So I opened it--you cannot imagine how stealthily, stealthily--until, at length, a single dim ray, like the thread of the spider, shot from out the crevice and full upon the vulture eye.
It was open--wide, wide open--and I grew furious as I gazed upon it. I saw it with perfect distinctness--all a dull blue, with a hideous veil over it that chilled the very marrow in my bones; but I could see nothing else of the old man's face or person: for I had directed the ray, as if by instinct, precisely upon the damned spot.
And now--have I not told you that what you mistake for madness is but over-acuteness of the senses?--now, I say, there came to my ears a low, dull, quick sound, such as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I knew that sound well too. It was the beating of the old man's heart. It increased my fury, as the beating of a drum stimulates the soldier into courage.
But even yet I refrained and kept still. I scarcely breathed. I held the lantern motionless. I tried how steadily I could maintain the ray upon the eye. Meantime the hellish tattoo of the heart increased. It grew quicker and quicker and louder and louder every instant. The old man's terror must have been extreme! It grew louder, I say, louder every moment!--do you mark me well? I have told you that I am nervous: so I am. And now at the dead hour of night, amid the dreadful silence of that old house, so strange a noise as this excited me to uncontrollable terror. Yet, for some minutes longer I refrained and stood still. But the beating grew louder, louder! I thought the heart must burst. And now a new anxiety seized me--the sound would be heard by a neighbor! The old man's hour had come! With a loud yell, I threw open the lantern and leaped into the room. He shrieked once--once only. In an instant I dragged him to the floor, and pulled the heavy bed over him. I then smiled gaily, to find the deed so far done. But, for many minutes, the heart beat on with a muffled sound. This, however, did not vex me; it would not be heard through the wall. At length it ceased. The old man was dead. I removed the bed and examined the corpse. Yes, he was stone, stone dead. I placed my hand upon the heart and held it there many minutes. There was no pulsation. He was stone dead. His eye would trouble me no more.
If still you think me mad, you will think so no longer when I describe the wise precautions I took for the concealment of the body. The night waned, and I worked hastily, but in silence. First of all I dismembered the corpse. I cut off the head and the arms and the legs.
I then took up three planks from the flooring of the chamber, and deposited all between the scantlings. I then replaced the boards so cleverly, so cunningly, that no human eye--not even his--could have detected anything wrong. There was nothing to wash out--no stain of any kind--no blood-spot whatever. I had been too wary for that. A tub had caught all--ha! ha!
When I had made an end of these labors, it was four o'clock--still dark as midnight. As the bell sounded the hour, there came a knocking at the street door. I went down to open it with a light heart--for what had I now to fear? There entered three men, who introduced themselves, with perfect suavity, as officers of the police. A shriek had been heard by a neighbor during the night: suspicion of foul play had been aroused; information had been lodged at the police office, and they (the officers) had been deputed to search the premises.
I smiled--for what had I to fear? I bade the gentlemen welcome. The shriek, I said, was my own in a dream. The old man, I mentioned, was absent in the country. I took my visitors all over the house. I bade them search--search well. I led them, at length, to his chamber. I showed them his treasures, secure, undisturbed. In the enthusiasm of my confidence, I brought chairs into the room, and desired them here to rest from their fatigues, while I myself, in the wild audacity of my perfect triumph, placed my own seat upon the very spot beneath which reposed the corpse of the victim.
The officers were satisfied. My manner had convinced them. I was singularly at ease. They sat, and while I answered cheerily, they chatted familiar things. But, ere long, I felt myself getting pale and wished them gone. My head ached, and I fancied a ringing in my ears: but still they sat and still chatted. The ringing became more distinct:--it continued and became more distinct: I talked more freely to get rid of the feeling: but it continued and gained definiteness--until, at length, I found that the noise was not within my ears.
No doubt I now grew very pale,--but I talked more fluently, and with a heightened voice. Yet the sound increased--and what could I do? It was a low, dull, quick sound--much such a sound as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I gasped for breath--and yet the officers heard it not. I talked more quickly--more vehemently; but the noise steadily increased. Why would they not be gone? I paced the floor to and fro with heavy strides, as if excited to fury by the observation of the men--but the noise steadily increased. Oh, God; what could I do? I foamed--I raved--I swore! I swung the chair upon which I had been sitting, and grated it upon the boards, but the noise arose over all and continually increased. It grew louder--louder --louder! And still the men chatted pleasantly, and smiled. Was it possible they heard not? Almighty God!--no, no! They heard!--they suspected--they knew!--they were making a mockery of my horror!--this I thought, and this I think. But anything was better than this agony! Anything was more tolerable than this derision! I could bear those hypocritical smiles no longer! I felt that I must scream or die!--and now--again!--hark! louder! louder! louder!
"Villains!" I shrieked, "dissemble no more! I admit the deed!--tear up the planks!--here, here!--it is the beating of his hideous heart!"
Poe may also be exploring the battle that exits within the self between good and evil. The narrator due to his madness is unable to differentiate between both. For the majority of the story, he sees nothing wrong with what he has done. It is only when others (policemen) become involved that the narrator begins to feel some kind of guilt. It is also interesting that the narrator is able to rationalize his actions, to justify them, yet he is unable to see that he has descended into madness. He has killed a man because he believes that the man (or his eye) had the capacity to view him in a certain manner. A manner that made the narrator feel uncomfortable. It is also possible that Poe is using the old man’s eye as symbolism. Eyes are used to see something. The narrator may not have liked what the eye could see. In essence, the narrator may not have liked himself (or his identity) and rather than focusing on himself or trying to change himself decided upon killing the old man. Placing the blame for his actions on the old man’s eye.
Poe may also be using the setting of the story to explore the theme of paralysis. Most if not all the story is set in the old man’s room with very little or no movement occurring outside the room. It is possible that Poe is using the confinement of the old man’s room to mirror the sense of confinement or paralysis (due to madness) that the narrator is feeling. If anything he is mentally paralyzed. Though we can’t be certain it is also possible that the narrator is telling his story while in a prison or an asylum. The reality is that he is locked up or trapped in one place. Which may further suggest a sense of paralysis for the narrator. He is going nowhere and is physically trapped. It is also possible that there are two victims in the story. The old man who has lost his life and the narrator who has descended into madness.
What is also interesting about the story is not whether the narrator is guilty of killing the old man. He freely admits that he has killed him. It is a matter of whether or not the narrator is sane or of sound mind. This appears to be more important to the narrator. That he is viewed upon as being sane. The narrator also bases his sanity on the fact that he has been precise and calculated when he killed the old man. Everything had been planned by the narrator. If anything he is giving a rational explanation for what would be considered to be an irrational act (murder). If the narrator is indeed in an asylum it is possible that the purpose of his story is to try and ensure that he is moved to prison rather than having to stay in an asylum. As readers, we never know for sure who the narrator is telling his story to but it may be a case that the narrator is using his story as a defense in order to prove that he is not insane and as such should be detained in a prison rather than in an asylum. However, one thing that is clear at the end of the story is the fact that the narrator is unreliable. The only insight that the reader gets from the narrator is exactly what the narrator wants to say. At all times the narrator remains in control of the story leading the reader (or listener) in the direction he wants to take them. The most important thing to the narrator is not whether he has killed somebody but to again prove that he is sane.
Text
It is impossible to tell how first the idea entered my brain; but once conceived, it haunted me day and night. Object there was none. Passion there was none. I loved the old man. He had never wronged me. He had never given me insult. For his gold I had no desire. I think it was his eye! Yes, it was this! One of his eyes resembled that of a vulture--a pale blue eye, with a film over it. Whenever it fell upon me, my blood ran cold; and so by degrees--very gradually--I made up my mind to take the life of the old man, and thus rid myself of the eye forever.
Now this is the point. You fancy me mad. Madmen know nothing. But you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded--with what caution--with what foresight--with what dissimulation I went to work!
I was never kinder to the old man than during the whole week before I killed him. And every night, about midnight, I turned the latch of his door and opened it--oh, so gently! And then, when I had made an opening sufficient for my head, I put in a dark lantern, all closed, closed, so that no light shone out, and then I thrust in my head. Oh, you would have laughed to see how cunningly I thrust it in! I moved it slowly--very, very slowly, so that I might not disturb the old man's sleep. It took me an hour to place my whole head within the opening so far that I could see him as he lay upon his bed. Ha!--would a madman have been so wise as this? And then, when my head was well in the room, I undid the lantern cautiously--oh, so cautiously--cautiously (for the hinges creaked)--I undid it just so much that a single thin ray fell upon the vulture eye. And this I did for seven long nights--every night just at midnight--but I found the eye always closed; and so it was impossible to do the work; for it was not the old man who vexed me, but his Evil Eye. And every morning, when the day broke, I went boldly into the chamber, and spoke courageously to him, calling him by name in a hearty tone, and inquiring how he had passed the night. So you see he would have been a very profound old man, indeed, to suspect that every night, just at twelve, I looked in upon him while he slept.
Upon the eighth night I was more than usually cautious in opening the door. A watch's minute hand moves more quickly than did mine. Never before that night had I felt the extent of my own powers--of my sagacity. I could scarcely contain my feelings of triumph. To think that there I was, opening the door, little by little, and he not even to dream of my secret deeds or thoughts. I fairly chuckled at the idea; and perhaps he heard me; for he moved on the bed suddenly, as if startled. Now you may think that I drew back--but no. His room was as black as pitch with the thick darkness (for the shutters were close fastened, through fear of robbers), and so I knew that he could not see the opening of the door, and I kept pushing it on steadily, steadily.
I had my head in, and was about to open the lantern, when my thumb slipped upon the tin fastening, and the old man sprang up in bed, crying out: "Who's there?"
I kept quite still and said nothing. For a whole hour I did not move a muscle, and in the meantime I did not hear him lie down. He was still sitting up in the bed listening;--just as I have done, night after night, hearkening to the death watches in the wall.
Presently I heard a slight groan, and I knew it was the groan of mortal terror. It was not a groan of pain or grief--oh no!--it was the low stifled sound that arises from the bottom of the soul when overcharged with awe. I knew the sound well. Many a night, just at midnight, when all the world slept, it has welled up from my own bosom, deepening, with its dreadful echo, the terrors that distracted me. I say I knew it well. I knew what the old man felt, and pitied him, although I chuckled at heart. I knew that he had been lying awake ever since the first slight noise, when he had turned in the bed. His fears had been ever since growing upon him. He had been trying to fancy them causeless, but could not. He had been saying to himself: "It is nothing but the wind in the chimney--it is only a mouse crossing the floor," or "it is merely a cricket which has made a single chirp." Yes, he had been trying to comfort himself with these suppositions; but he had found all in vain. All in vain; because Death, in approaching him. had stalked with his black shadow before him, and enveloped the victim. And it was the mournful influence of the unperceived shadow that caused him to feel--although he neither saw nor heard--to feel the presence of my head within the room.
When I had waited a long time, very patiently, without hearing him lie down, I resolved to open a little--a very, very little crevice in the lantern. So I opened it--you cannot imagine how stealthily, stealthily--until, at length, a single dim ray, like the thread of the spider, shot from out the crevice and full upon the vulture eye.
It was open--wide, wide open--and I grew furious as I gazed upon it. I saw it with perfect distinctness--all a dull blue, with a hideous veil over it that chilled the very marrow in my bones; but I could see nothing else of the old man's face or person: for I had directed the ray, as if by instinct, precisely upon the damned spot.
And now--have I not told you that what you mistake for madness is but over-acuteness of the senses?--now, I say, there came to my ears a low, dull, quick sound, such as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I knew that sound well too. It was the beating of the old man's heart. It increased my fury, as the beating of a drum stimulates the soldier into courage.
But even yet I refrained and kept still. I scarcely breathed. I held the lantern motionless. I tried how steadily I could maintain the ray upon the eye. Meantime the hellish tattoo of the heart increased. It grew quicker and quicker and louder and louder every instant. The old man's terror must have been extreme! It grew louder, I say, louder every moment!--do you mark me well? I have told you that I am nervous: so I am. And now at the dead hour of night, amid the dreadful silence of that old house, so strange a noise as this excited me to uncontrollable terror. Yet, for some minutes longer I refrained and stood still. But the beating grew louder, louder! I thought the heart must burst. And now a new anxiety seized me--the sound would be heard by a neighbor! The old man's hour had come! With a loud yell, I threw open the lantern and leaped into the room. He shrieked once--once only. In an instant I dragged him to the floor, and pulled the heavy bed over him. I then smiled gaily, to find the deed so far done. But, for many minutes, the heart beat on with a muffled sound. This, however, did not vex me; it would not be heard through the wall. At length it ceased. The old man was dead. I removed the bed and examined the corpse. Yes, he was stone, stone dead. I placed my hand upon the heart and held it there many minutes. There was no pulsation. He was stone dead. His eye would trouble me no more.
If still you think me mad, you will think so no longer when I describe the wise precautions I took for the concealment of the body. The night waned, and I worked hastily, but in silence. First of all I dismembered the corpse. I cut off the head and the arms and the legs.
I then took up three planks from the flooring of the chamber, and deposited all between the scantlings. I then replaced the boards so cleverly, so cunningly, that no human eye--not even his--could have detected anything wrong. There was nothing to wash out--no stain of any kind--no blood-spot whatever. I had been too wary for that. A tub had caught all--ha! ha!
When I had made an end of these labors, it was four o'clock--still dark as midnight. As the bell sounded the hour, there came a knocking at the street door. I went down to open it with a light heart--for what had I now to fear? There entered three men, who introduced themselves, with perfect suavity, as officers of the police. A shriek had been heard by a neighbor during the night: suspicion of foul play had been aroused; information had been lodged at the police office, and they (the officers) had been deputed to search the premises.
I smiled--for what had I to fear? I bade the gentlemen welcome. The shriek, I said, was my own in a dream. The old man, I mentioned, was absent in the country. I took my visitors all over the house. I bade them search--search well. I led them, at length, to his chamber. I showed them his treasures, secure, undisturbed. In the enthusiasm of my confidence, I brought chairs into the room, and desired them here to rest from their fatigues, while I myself, in the wild audacity of my perfect triumph, placed my own seat upon the very spot beneath which reposed the corpse of the victim.
The officers were satisfied. My manner had convinced them. I was singularly at ease. They sat, and while I answered cheerily, they chatted familiar things. But, ere long, I felt myself getting pale and wished them gone. My head ached, and I fancied a ringing in my ears: but still they sat and still chatted. The ringing became more distinct:--it continued and became more distinct: I talked more freely to get rid of the feeling: but it continued and gained definiteness--until, at length, I found that the noise was not within my ears.
No doubt I now grew very pale,--but I talked more fluently, and with a heightened voice. Yet the sound increased--and what could I do? It was a low, dull, quick sound--much such a sound as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I gasped for breath--and yet the officers heard it not. I talked more quickly--more vehemently; but the noise steadily increased. Why would they not be gone? I paced the floor to and fro with heavy strides, as if excited to fury by the observation of the men--but the noise steadily increased. Oh, God; what could I do? I foamed--I raved--I swore! I swung the chair upon which I had been sitting, and grated it upon the boards, but the noise arose over all and continually increased. It grew louder--louder --louder! And still the men chatted pleasantly, and smiled. Was it possible they heard not? Almighty God!--no, no! They heard!--they suspected--they knew!--they were making a mockery of my horror!--this I thought, and this I think. But anything was better than this agony! Anything was more tolerable than this derision! I could bear those hypocritical smiles no longer! I felt that I must scream or die!--and now--again!--hark! louder! louder! louder!
"Villains!" I shrieked, "dissemble no more! I admit the deed!--tear up the planks!--here, here!--it is the beating of his hideous heart!"
Exploration
Today Edgar Allen Poe walks us along the tight rope between sanity and insanity in his psychological thriller, The Tell-Tale Heart. So once more I need to shut out the August sunshine, pretend it’s the middle of the night, and enter the macabre and fragile world of the human mind.
The Tell-Tale Heart is the breathless short story of a man who, if he is to be believed, has been driven to murder because the sight of someone’s white-veiled, vulture-like, the always-open eye has become unbearable to him. He has spent a week inspecting it by lantern light in the dead of night as his elderly victim lies sleeping. These obsessive-compulsive inspections finally disturb the old man, who then sits awake in his bed in mortal fear, his heart pounding audibly.
This pushes our narrator over the edge, and he first smothers, then butchers, then bury him under the floorboards. When the police come to visit, there is no visible trace of wrongdoing, but the sound of the dead man’s beating heart rings on in our narrator’s ears until his guilt overpowers him and he gives himself up.
The story is cleverly constructed so that logic permits many interpretations. It is possible that the entire episode is a figment of the (unreliable) narrator’s imagination. It is possible that this is the cold-blooded work of a psychopath convinced of his own rightness. And it is possible that there was a genuine motive which our narrator has not shared because the trauma of the deed has brought him to focus on a vulture eye as a motive of convenience.
The flaw of the 1941 film is that it commits unambiguously to one of these possibilities. A backstory is developed in which the elderly victim is the abusive master of the man who murders him. The eye becomes the physical motif of cruelty. This removes the ambiguity and alters the intent of the story. It ceases to be an exploration of madness, motive, fear, and guilt; instead, it becomes a one-dimensional portrait of revenge.
In less than an hour, marketers can read the story and watch the film and treat themselves to a masterclass in idea drift. Powerful ideas often accommodate more than one strand of logic, and when they do it is in the weft of multiple interpretations that their power lies.
On reading The Tell-Tale Heart, subjective preference allows one strand of logic to dominate, but the existence of the other possibilities is what makes this a thrilling, suspenseful and mind-infecting work of literature. It is perfectly coherent, and yet eternally unresolved.
There is a reason why ideas that operate this way are so compelling. They mirror our own condition. We need our existence to have coherence, but we don’t want to wake up one day to find that all human mystery has been solved. Human beings thrive on coherent ambiguity, and brands that can provide it tend to prosper.
When people accuse advertising of portraying a world that doesn’t exist, they are not complaining about the use of fiction or hyperbole. They don’t mean that real people’s homes aren’t as light and spacious as that, or that real holidays aren’t as relaxing. The alienating unreal-ness of marketing stems from its systematic removal of all ambiguity.
People may not articulate it this way, but deep down they know that life is complicated, and they want brands to lead them through complexity, not deny its very existence.
Analysis
In The Tell-Tale Heart by Edgar Allan Poe we have the theme of guilt, paralysis, madness, paranoia, and identity. Set in the 1840s the story is narrated in the first person by an unnamed narrator and after reading the story the reader realizes that Poe may be exploring the theme of guilt. The narrator after he kills the old man loses the calmness that he had previously shown before the killing and begins to feel guilty about his actions. The guilt being triggered by the sound of the old man’s beating heart or at least the narrator thinks he can hear the old man’s heart beating. However, the reality is different. There is no sound apart from what the narrator imagines in his head. It is for this reason that the reader may suspect that the narrator is of unsound mind and possibly mad. Not only has he killed the old man because of a preconception (the vulture-like eye) but he is also imagining that the old man is still alive. If anything the narrator has not only gone too far by killing the old man but he has also descended further into madness. His senses are heightened and he is imagining things that are not there which may suggest that the narrator is paranoid. Though we do not get much insight into the old man we are aware that the narrator liked him which may suggest that rather than being some kind of demon, the old man was an affable sort of person. Who just had the misfortune of living with an individual who had a very thin grip on reality.Poe may also be exploring the battle that exits within the self between good and evil. The narrator due to his madness is unable to differentiate between both. For the majority of the story, he sees nothing wrong with what he has done. It is only when others (policemen) become involved that the narrator begins to feel some kind of guilt. It is also interesting that the narrator is able to rationalize his actions, to justify them, yet he is unable to see that he has descended into madness. He has killed a man because he believes that the man (or his eye) had the capacity to view him in a certain manner. A manner that made the narrator feel uncomfortable. It is also possible that Poe is using the old man’s eye as symbolism. Eyes are used to see something. The narrator may not have liked what the eye could see. In essence, the narrator may not have liked himself (or his identity) and rather than focusing on himself or trying to change himself decided upon killing the old man. Placing the blame for his actions on the old man’s eye.
Poe may also be using the setting of the story to explore the theme of paralysis. Most if not all the story is set in the old man’s room with very little or no movement occurring outside the room. It is possible that Poe is using the confinement of the old man’s room to mirror the sense of confinement or paralysis (due to madness) that the narrator is feeling. If anything he is mentally paralyzed. Though we can’t be certain it is also possible that the narrator is telling his story while in a prison or an asylum. The reality is that he is locked up or trapped in one place. Which may further suggest a sense of paralysis for the narrator. He is going nowhere and is physically trapped. It is also possible that there are two victims in the story. The old man who has lost his life and the narrator who has descended into madness.
What is also interesting about the story is not whether the narrator is guilty of killing the old man. He freely admits that he has killed him. It is a matter of whether or not the narrator is sane or of sound mind. This appears to be more important to the narrator. That he is viewed upon as being sane. The narrator also bases his sanity on the fact that he has been precise and calculated when he killed the old man. Everything had been planned by the narrator. If anything he is giving a rational explanation for what would be considered to be an irrational act (murder). If the narrator is indeed in an asylum it is possible that the purpose of his story is to try and ensure that he is moved to prison rather than having to stay in an asylum. As readers, we never know for sure who the narrator is telling his story to but it may be a case that the narrator is using his story as a defense in order to prove that he is not insane and as such should be detained in a prison rather than in an asylum. However, one thing that is clear at the end of the story is the fact that the narrator is unreliable. The only insight that the reader gets from the narrator is exactly what the narrator wants to say. At all times the narrator remains in control of the story leading the reader (or listener) in the direction he wants to take them. The most important thing to the narrator is not whether he has killed somebody but to again prove that he is sane.
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