The Black Cat by Edgar Allan Poe
The Black Cat by Edgar Allan Poe
Edgar Allan Poe suffered from epilepsy; I think I have read somewhere. He was afraid of being buried alive, which happened in the old days, I hope it doesn’t anymore. Reading about this fear, I remember that it shocked me into thinking about this. It is terrible to wake up in a coffin to understand that you have no way out and you will die again.
One solution would be a mobile phone, ready to use by that pillow. Or special training, like the one Uma Thurman received in Kill Bill.
The hero of this story (and the author?) is a bit weird. After he kills the cat and starts seeing the specter of it, he goes on to kill more. I will not say more, to let you enjoy it, if you are keen on horror stories.
I am no fan, in fact one the first films I saw on video was a horror flick: The Evil Dead- or something like that, when I was fully grown up (or was I?) at about 20. I remember even now how I could hardly sit through it. Mind you, in those days we had nothing but communist crap on TV, which was on for only two hours a day. The films I had seen by that age tended to be “classic”, “serious „enough to pass the censorship: no buckets of blood or people stabbed by falling trees. So the first encounter with horror was a major shock.
The wild cat is not that bloody, but it is in a genre for which I have a kind of allergy. Still, I appreciated some of the story.
There are a number of similarities between me and the main character: I have birds, dogs and a cat. My cat, Ndugu is no Pluto, but I empathize with the animal. More than with the owner
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