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The terrible pit in the middle of the narrator’s dungeon represents fear. For much of the story, the pit remains a dark mystery; while it promises horror and death, there’s no sense of what might be down there. But at the very end, as the walls literally close in around the narrator and force him toward the edge, he looks down into it and sees the absolute worst thing he can imagine, the deepest possible horror: “Oh! for a voice to speak!—oh! horror!—oh! any horror but this!” (256)
We never learn what that worst possible thing is. But that’s precisely the point. Most of the narrator’s agony, all through this story, has been psychological dread. The unknown contents of the pit allow us to see our own worst fears in the bottom—and thus to feel a queasy empathy with the narrator’s pain. Anticipating, imagining, and dreading the worst possible thing, the image of the pit suggests, might be an even deeper horror than experiencing it.
In a way, the pit is a mirror of the dungeon, which, like the pit, is deep in the earth and has dread at the bottom. Both of these terrible holes figure a basic human predicament: everyone, after all, has felt a “pit of dread” in their insides at one point or another.
The swinging blade that agonizingly descends toward the trapped narrator over the course of days is an image of dread and anxiety, the horror of the awful thing that hasn’t happened quite yet. But more specifically, it stands for the terror of mortality itself. Designed to look like the swinging scythe of Old Father Time, and moving like a grandfather clock’s pendulum, the blade brings death closer and closer to the narrator by the second. This, of course, is exactly what’s happening to every living person, all the time: Inevitable death ticks closer moment by moment.
The swing of the pendulum makes the time symbolism particularly clear. The back-and-forth, tick-tock motion of the pendulum literally measures the relentless passage of time.
The special horror of the pendulum is that the narrator has to be aware of his impending death. He can see how close death is; eventually, he can even smell the “odor of the sharp steel” as the blade swishes past (253). Trapped beneath the pendulum, the narrator confronts his mortality every second of every day. In this symbolic reading, the story is about mental imprisonment: The narrator is trapped in the horror of impending death, “buried alive” in his mental anguish and unable to look away from doom as it inches ever closer.
When the narrator wakes up in his terrible dungeon, he’s too frightened to open his eyes: “I longed, but dared not, to employ my vision. I dreaded the first glance at objects around me. It was not that I feared to look upon things horrible, but that I grew aghast lest there should be nothing to see” (248). And indeed, “nothing” is exactly what he sees when he finally takes a peek: He’s immersed in the deepest possible darkness, far beneath the ground.
This awful darkness symbolizes the terror of total annihilation. While this narrator insists that “even in the grave all is not lost. Else there is no immortality for man,” that insistence is built on a deep fear that there really might be nothing after death—just a nothing that one remains horribly conscious of (247).
The darkness also provides a sort of inverse image of terror to the pendulum. The pendulum is awful because it gives the narrator a horribly clear view of his own death; the darkness is awful because anything could be in there. These two images of death play on two possible ways to fear one’s own mortality.
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By Edgar Allan Poe
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