“Thou wretch! — thou vixen! — thou shrew!” — said I to my wife on the morning after our wedding — “thou witch! — thou hag! — thou whippersnapper! — thou sink of iniquity! — thou fiery-faced quintessence of all that is abominable! — thou — thou —” Here standing upon tiptoe, seizing her by the throat, and placing my mouth close to her ear, I was preparing to launch forth a new and more decided epithet of opprobrium which should not fail, if ejaculated, to convince her of her insignificance, when, to my extreme horror and astonishment, I discovered that I had lost my breath.

The phrases “I am out of breath,” “I have lost my breath,” &c. are often enough repeated in common conversation, but it had never occurred to me that the terrible accident of which I speak could bonâ fide and actually happen! Imagine — that is if you have a fanciful turn — imagine I say, my wonder — my consternation — my despair!

In my humble opinion, this is one of Poe’s less successful parodies. For yes, he is mocking the sensationalist and literally incredible style of popular fiction published in Blackwood’s Magazine. Indeed, to drive home the link Poe affixes the subtitle, “A Tale Neither In Nor Out of Blackwood.” Poe, it will be remembered, explicitly mocks Blackwood tales in two other stories: “How To Write a Blackwood Article” and “A Predicament.”

But to return to “Loss of Breath”: after Mr. Lacko’breath loses his breath, he attempts to hide his affliction and sets out to somehow live a semi-normal life in another land. Alas, what follows is an ever-worsening series of mishaps which find him mistaken for dead, made the subject of gruesome medical experiments, and even hanged. (Because he lacks breath, however, the process of hanging him has no effect on his respiration, and he lives on.) He ends up being placed in a tomb next to his neighbor, Mr. Windenough, who also had been assumed dead, in his case after going into a catatonic state as a result of accidentally inhaling (?) Mr. Lacko’breath’s breath.

There’s a lot more detail and twists in this story, but I think you get the point. Moving on.

Ingredients:

Put all the liquid ingredients in a shaker with ice, pour into a chilled coupe glass, and garnish with a cherry.

Oh! breathe not his name, let it sleep in the shade

Where cold and unhonor’d his relics are laid:

Sad, silent and dark, be the tears that we shed,

As the night-dew that falls on the grass o’er his head!

Poe-Poe-Script

Attentive readers will recall my unfortunate run-in with green Chartreuse a few years back. The description of the wreckage is here. For this reason I jumped at the opportunity to substitute Dolin Genepy for the Chartreuse. The herbal flavor profiles are similar, but the Dolin doesn’t quite resurrect the hideous memories of yore.

“Then I grew angry and cursed, with the curse of silence, the river, and the lilies, and the wind, and the forest, and the heaven, and the thunder, and the sighs of the water-lilies. And they became accursed, and were still. And the moon ceased to totter up its pathway to heaven — and the thunder died away — and the lightning did not flash — and the clouds hung motionless — and the waters sunk to their level and remained — and the trees ceased to rock — and the water-lilies sighed no more — and the murmur was heard no longer from among them, nor any shadow of sound throughout the vast illimitable desert. And I looked upon the characters of the rock, and they were changed; — and the characters were SILENCE.”

Now, in this land there was a demon. The demon observes a man standing on a rock and, for some unknown reason, imposes a curse:

“Then I cursed the elements with the curse of tumult; and a frightful tempest gathered in the heaven where, before, there had been no wind. And the heaven became livid with the violence of the tempest — and the rain beat upon the head of the man — and the floods of the river came down — and the river was tormented into foam — and the water-lilies shrieked within their beds — and the forest crumbled before the wind — and the thunder rolled — and the lightning fell — and the rock rocked to its foundation. And I lay close within my covert and observed the actions of the man. And the man trembled in the solitude; — but the night waned and he sat upon the rock.”

So now the demon decides to curse the region into silence, as described in the excerpt I shared at the beginning of this entry. At this frightening silence the man flees in terror. That’s pretty much the whole tale.

The full story is available here.

Ingredients

Prepare a margarita glass by coating the rim with some agave syrup and rolling the rim in Pop Rocks. (Extra points if you, like me, couldn’t find a margarita glass anywhere in the house, and so in desperation you go to Target and find a couple of these “ghost” margarita glasses, which are simultaneously cute and embarrassing.)

Combine the tequila, lime juice, Cointreau, agave syrup, and saffron water in a shaker with ice. Shake it “with the violence of a tempest.”

Strain the drink into your prepared ghost glass. Use crushed ice if you must, but I’m too manly for that. Garnish with a few more strands of saffron. If you’re up for it, curse the world about you.

A paradoxical something, which we may call perverseness, [prompts us to] 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.

The first half of Poe’s story is essentially an essay explaining this phenomenon. (Along the way he mentions man’s “organ of amativeness,” which simultaneously provides fodder for sophomoric giggles and explains a lot about man’s compulsion to misbehave.) It’s a bit unclear whether the notion that “we should not” is imposed externally (like the stricture against adultery) or rather more intrinsically (i.e., that the act would be harmful to us). At one point in his essay Poe speaks of our desire “to do wrong for the wrong’s sake,” which sounds like a desire to go against convention. And yet the long example he provides–in which the story’s narrator describes how he was compelled to incriminate himself for a murder that he’d gotten away with years earlier–suggests the essay is concerned with how we act against our own interests. Either way, Poe’s “Imp of the Perverse” is the personification of the urge to misbehave, even (or especially) when it’s bad for us.

Surely you can recall instances where you felt compelled to act in a way that, deep down, you knew you shouldn’t. Did you give in to the urge? Or did something–a sense of morality or conscience, or perhaps just a desire for self-preservation–prevent you from acting on that urge? Would that I had been blessed with a bit more self-restraint when I was younger. (For the back story, see my memoir, Midcentury Miscreant.) Meanwhile, an article in a 2018 issue of Pacific Standard magazine describes the Imp phenomenon, and helpfully explains that “the thoughts themselves are fairly harmless…but how we respond to them can be a problem.” You don’t say.

Now, Poe’s story concerns major wrongful acts–neglect of duty, opposing the will of God, suicide, and murder. He did not include on his list the category of crimes against Mixology.  But I will. So join me as we blithely and recklessly give in to the Imp of the Perverse.

The full story is available here.

Let’s also blithely ignore the aphorism “Grape or grain, but never the twain.” This piece of folk-wisdom holds that you should never mix wine and spirits, either in a single drinking session or, presumably, in a cocktail. Here comes the twain!

Finally, it’s commonly held that one should only shake cocktails that contain fruit juice; all other cocktails should be stirred. Our drink eschews fruit juice, and yet we’re going to shake the hell out of it. Embrace your inner Caligula!

The central crime of grape and grain is provided by some Amontillado (for obvious, Poe-related reasons) and some neutral vodka (because even in this “perverse” cocktail it’s probably wise to minimize the extravagant clash of tastes). As mixers let’s use some Triple Sec and Cynar. (Cynar, as you probably know, is a liqueur made from artichokes, of all things. This in itself lends a bit of perversity.)

Ingredients:

Add the first four ingredients to a shaker with ice, and shake it. Then, pick up the shaker and shake that. (Haha!) Strain the mixture into some ridiculous non-barware. (I used my Studebaker Museum coffee mug.) Maybe add one of those giant ice cubes that are all the rage these days, simply because they’re ridiculous. If you want to make the drink a little less disgusting, you can dilute it with some tonic water. Garnish with your own token of perversity. I used a candle, which, it may be remembered, was the murder weapon used by the narrator in this tale. Seriously.

Take a swig, and you’ll understand why those cocktail rules were created in the first place. You’ll also be tempted to never again give in to the Imp of the Perverse. You’re welcome.

I was thoroughly unnerved, and for an instant remained undecided what to do. At first I made an endeavor to re-compose the patient; but, failing in this through total abeyance of the will, I retraced my steps and as earnestly struggled to awaken him. In this attempt I soon saw that I should be successful — or at least I soon fancied that my success would be complete — and I am sure that all in the room were prepared to see the patient awaken.

For what really occurred, however, it is quite impossible that any human being could have been prepared.

As I rapidly made the mesmeric passes, amid ejaculations of “dead! dead!” absolutely bursting from the tongue and not from the lips of the sufferer, his whole frame at once — within the space of a single minute, or even less — shrunk — crumbled — absolutely rotted away beneath my hands. Upon the bed, before that whole company, there lay a nearly liquid mass of loathsome — of detestable putrescence.

As the nurses prepare to remove the body, Valdemar’s voice is heard–though his lips don’t move–and he says “I am dead.” For the next seven months, Valdemar’s body is monitored, and while it shows no signs of life, neither does it show signs of decay. Finally, the Mesmerist decides to try to wake Valdemar from his trance. Valdemar’s voice is again heard, saying ““For God’s sake! — quick! — quick! — put me to sleep — or, quick! — waken me! — quick! — I say to you that I am dead!” At that request, the Mesmerist “earnestly tries to awaken him,” and immediately Valdemar’s body undergoes the decomposition that should have been occurring on the dead body over the preceding months.

The full story is available here.

The zombie cocktail was created by that godfather of the tiki bar, Donn Beach, in the 1930s. It’s said the name was inspired by one of Donn Beach’s customers, who said the strong drink turned him into “the walking dead.” We’ve all been there, right?

Here’s the classic recipe:

Ingredients:

Dump it all (except the garnish) into a blender and blend. Pour into your favorite Tiki mug. Add crushed ice, if needed. Garnish. Drink. Pass out.

This is simultaneously one of the most complicated drinks (in terms of number of ingredients) and one of the most forgiving (in terms of receptivity to substitutions). But I would caution that a little absinth goes a long way. (If anyone wants to make T-shirts with this slogan, accompanied by an image of Poe looking a little loopy, please do so with my blessing.) The main ingredients for this drink are various rums (including the critical 151-proof rum) and sweeteners (especially the falernum and/or the “Don’s Mix.”)

The Don’s Mix is something that’s difficult, if not impossible, to obtain commercially. To make a decent facsimile of your own, just combine two parts fresh grapefruit juice with one part cinnamon syrup. Note that, even though the creator was Donn Beach, his mix is called Don’s Mix.