"Edgar Allan Poe - The Premature Burial" - читать интересную книгу автора (Poe Edgar Allan)

For several years I had been subject to attacks of the singular
disorder which physicians have agreed to term catalepsy, in default of
a more definitive title. Although both the immediate and the
predisposing causes, and even the actual diagnosis, of this disease
are still mysterious, its obvious and apparent character is
sufficiently well understood. Its variations seem to be chiefly of
degree. Sometimes the patient lies, for a day only, or even for a
shorter period, in a species of exaggerated lethargy. He is
senseless and externally motionless; but the pulsation of the heart is
still faintly perceptible; some traces of warmth remain; a slight
color lingers within the centre of the cheek; and, upon application of
a mirror to the lips, we can detect a torpid, unequal, and vacillating
action of the lungs. Then again the duration of the trance is for
weeks- even for months; while the closest scrutiny, and the most
rigorous medical tests, fail to establish any material distinction
between the state of the sufferer and what we conceive of absolute
death. Very usually he is saved from premature interment solely by the
knowledge of his friends that he has been previously subject to
catalepsy, by the consequent suspicion excited, and, above all, by the
non-appearance of decay. The advances of the malady are, luckily,
gradual. The first manifestations, although marked, are unequivocal.
The fits grow successively more and more distinctive, and endure
each for a longer term than the preceding. In this lies the
principal security from inhumation. The unfortunate whose first attack
should be of the extreme character which is occasionally seen, would
almost inevitably be consigned alive to the tomb.
My own case differed in no important particular from those mentioned
in medical books. Sometimes, without any apparent cause, I sank,
little by little, into a condition of hemi-syncope, or half swoon;
and, in this condition, without pain, without ability to stir, or,
strictly speaking, to think, but with a dull lethargic consciousness
of life and of the presence of those who surrounded my bed, I
remained, until the crisis of the disease restored me, suddenly, to
perfect sensation. At other times I was quickly and impetuously
smitten. I grew sick, and numb, and chilly, and dizzy, and so fell
prostrate at once. Then, for weeks, all was void, and black, and
silent, and Nothing became the universe. Total annihilation could be
no more. From these latter attacks I awoke, however, with a
gradation slow in proportion to the suddenness of the seizure. Just as
the day dawns to the friendless and houseless beggar who roams the
streets throughout the long desolate winter night- just so tardily-
just so wearily- just so cheerily came back the light of the Soul to
me.
Apart from the tendency to trance, however, my general health
appeared to be good; nor could I perceive that it was at all
affected by the one prevalent malady- unless, indeed, an
idiosyncrasy in my ordinary sleep may be looked upon as
superinduced. Upon awaking from slumber, I could never gain, at
once, thorough possession of my senses, and always remained, for
many minutes, in much bewilderment and perplexity;- the mental