AMBROSE BIERCE (1842-1914)

Bierce’s literary reputation is based primarily on his short stories about

the Civil War and the supernatural—a body of work that makes up a
relatively small part of his total output. Often compared to the tales of
Edgar Allan Poe, these stories share an attraction to death in its more
bizarre forms, featuring depictions of mental deterioration, uncanny,
otherworldly manifestations, and expressions of the horror of
existence in a meaningless universe. Like Poe, Bierce professed to be
mainly concerned with the artistry of his work, yet critics find him
more intent on conveying his misanthropy and pessimism. In his
lifetime Bierce was famous as a California journalist dedicated to
exposing the truth as he understood it, irrespective of whose
reputations were harmed by his attacks. Bierce’s major fiction was
collected in “Tales of Soldiers and Civilians” (1891) and “Can Such
Things Be?” (1893).
Many of these stories are realistic depictions of the author’s experiences in the
Civil War, but critics and Bierce himself noted that despite their realism his
stories often fail to supply sufficient verisimilitude. Bierce’s most striking
fictional effects depend on an adept manipulation of the reader viewpoint: a
bloody battlefield seen through the eyes of a deaf child in “Chickamauga,” the
deceptive escape dreamed by a man about to be hanged in “An Occurrence at
Owl Creek Bridge,” and the shifting perspectives of “The Death of Halpin
Frayser.” Bierce’s narratives are characterized by a marked use of black humor,
particularly in the ironic and hideous deaths his protagonists often suffer. The
brutal satire Bierce employed in his journalism appears as plain brutality in his
fiction, and critics have both condemned and praised his imagination, along
with Poe’s, as among the most vicious and morbid in American literature.
Bierce’s bare, economical style of supernatural horror is usually distinguished
from the verbally lavish tales of Poe, and few critics rank Bierce as the equal of
his predecessor. (Text from Gothic literature: a Gale critical companion v. 1)
Excerpt from An Occurrence at Owl Creek
Bridge by Ambrose Bierce. Available on
http://www.literaturepage.com/read/bierce-
owl-creek-bridge-11.html
By nightfall he was fatigued, footsore, famished. The
thought of his wife and children urged him on. At last
he found a road which led him in what he knew to be
the right direction. It was as wide and straight as a city
street, yet it seemed untraveled. No fields bordered it,
no dwelling anywhere. Not so much as the barking of a
dog suggested human habitation. The black bodies of
the trees formed a straight wall on both sides,
terminating on the horizon in a point, like a diagram in
a lesson in perspective.
Overhead, as he looked up through this rift in
the wood, shone great golden stars looking
unfamiliar and grouped in strange
constellations. He was sure they were
arranged in some order which had a secret
and malign significance. The wood on either
side was full of singular noises, among which -
- once, twice, and again -- he distinctly heard
whispers in an unknown tongue.
His neck was in pain and lifting his hand to it found it
horribly swollen. He knew that it had a circle of black
where the rope had bruised it. His eyes felt
congested; he could no longer close them. His
tongue was swollen with thirst; he relieved its fever
by thrusting it forward from between his teeth into
the cold air. How softly the turf had carpeted the
untraveled avenue -- he could no longer feel the
roadway beneath his feet!
Doubtless, despite his suffering, he had fallen asleep
while walking, for now he sees another scene --
perhaps he has merely recovered from a delirium.
He stands at the gate of his own home. All is as he
left it, and all bright and beautiful in the morning
sunshine. He must have traveled the entire night. As
he pushes open the gate and passes up the wide
white walk, he sees a flutter of female garments; his
wife, looking fresh and cool and sweet, steps down
from the veranda to meet him.
At the bottom of the steps she stands waiting,
with a smile of ineffable joy, an attitude of
matchless grace and dignity. Ah, how beautiful she
is! He springs forwards with extended arms. As he
is about to clasp her he feels a stunning blow upon
the back of the neck; a blinding white light blazes
all about him with a sound like the shock of a
cannon -- then all is darkness and silence!
Peyton Fahrquhar was dead; his body, with a
broken neck, swung gently from side to side
beneath the timbers of the Owl Creek bridge”
Nas dimensões da impossibilidade da morte, aquele que deseja
escrever está disposto a se perder no espaço discursivo da
literatura. Espaço que exige dele uma entrega completa ao canto
das Sereias. Canto inumano que seria a essência da literatura. Um
canto em que o inesperado o aguardaria. Canto que seduz por
sua beleza, e não por sua força autoritária. Canto da desrazão que
pede a entrega imediata, pois, quando o escritor entra no mundo
da arte e se comunica com esse mundo, não há, por assim dizer,
uma racionalização e uma objetividade nesse percurso, e sim a
perdição, o encontrar-se com o inacessível, com as possibilidades
que a arte pode oferecer: “o canto do abismo que, uma vez
ouvido, abriria em cada fala uma voragem e convidava
fortemente a nela desaparecer.” (BLANCHOT, 2005, p. 04). [...]
O canto das Sereias leva o escritor ao imaginário, logo, à
perdição. Se a narrativa chega à ilha de Capreia é por mero
acaso, sem intenção alguma. Na literatura, a “palavra de
ordem é, portanto: silêncio, discrição, esquecimento”
(BLANCHOT, 2005, p. 05). A narrativa, como afirma
Blanchot, possui uma lei secreta, ela é o próprio relato que
narra, o próprio acesso a esse relato, a própria desventura
desse relato e a própria combustão desse relato. Enlevado
pelo canto, entregue completamente ao seu ato de escrita,
é exigido do escritor mais um movimento por parte da
literatura. É exigido dele a sua despersonalização.”
Passagens do artigo O espaço literário de
Maurice Blanchot de Davi Andrade Pimentel
publicado na Revista Garrafa em 2012.
Disponível em:
https://revistas.ufrj.br/index.php/garrafa/artic
le/view/9487/7421