That the play is the tragedy, “Man,” And its hero, the Conqueror Worm.
All suffering originates from craving, from attachment, from desire.
And all I loved, I loved alone.
Yet, mad am I not — and very surely do I not dream.
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!
The fury of a demon instantly possessed me. I knew myself no longer. My original soul seemed, at once, to take its flight from my body; and a more than fiendish malevolence, gin-nurtured, thrilled every fibre of my frame.