#realizing that I hadn't mentioned any of them reading Poe at any point was such a blessing

[letmebeallyours]

War

“Henry have you seen this?” Charles demanded indignantly, plopping his laptop on the table in front of him. Henry looked up from his book to see what had outraged his friend this time—and was surprised to see his own name in bold in the blog post he was reading. “No,” was all he said before turning back to his book. “It’s ridiculous. It’s blatant slander,” Charles was fuming. “Why, what is it?” “It’s a review of the student lit magazine, but I don’t know why he bothered since he seems to hate pretty much all of it. Especially you.” “Well,” Henry shrugged, “to each their own.” “I can’t believe he said all this about you. Just listen, this poet—he means you—appears to us singularly deficient in all those important faculties which give artistical power…He has no combining or binding force. He has absolutely nothing of unity. What does that even mean?” “I guess he thinks I have too much going on in my poetry. It’s a fair criticism, in some ways.” “There’s more though, like,” Charles scanned the article to find his place again, “here—the writer—why doesn’t he just use your name?—the writer’s idiosyncratic excellences, which are those of expression, chiefly, and of a fitful (unsteady) imagination. Can you believe that?” “Well, I’m glad he thinks I have some ‘excellences’.” “He said you have a fitful and unsteady imagination!” “It’s better than saying I have none at all.” “I think he’s the idiosyncratic one, do you hear the way he writes? No one talks like that anymore, no one writes like that anymore—it’s just pompous. And then he goes on for seven paragraphs about your grammar.” “Really?” Henry asked, though he did not look particularly interested. “Just pointing out the smallest, most nit-picky ‘mistakes,’ which I think he might realize are not mistakes at all, just the way people talk, if he ever deigned to interact with anyone less pretentious than he is.” “Caring about grammar doesn’t necessarily make you pretentious.” “I know, but it’s not just that, it’s…it’s everything. Everything about this article screams I’m better than you. Like this line here—this is certainly his best poem, but even these few stanzas have their defects, which are obvious even to the slowest observer. Maybe he thinks so, but I don’t see anything wrong with them, I think your poem is beautiful.” “Thanks. I guess it is a little condescending, but I really don’t see why you’re so upset about it.” “You haven’t heard the worst part yet. He puts in your entire poem, the one about the dying year, and then quotes some poem by Tennyson, and then,” Charles was so incensed that he had to stop and take a deep breath before he could read the offending passage. “We have no idea of commenting, at any length, upon this plagiarism—which is too palpable to be mistaken—and which belongs to the most barbarous class of literary robbery.” He looked up at Henry to see the reaction, and was, if anything, more indignant to see that Henry did not seem phased by it. “He called you a plagiarist, Henry.” “I noticed.” “You’re not even a little bit upset about this?” “Well, I know it’s not true—I’ve never read that poem so I don’t see how I could have copied it—so what difference does his opinion make?” “But if other people read it, if they believe him—“ “Who is he, by the way, I didn’t look before.” “I…don’t know,” Charles frowned. “There’s no signature.” “What about on the homepage?” “Let me see…” he found the page in question, rolling his eyes at the blog’s title—The Raven and the Writing Desk—and its design, which looked like something a rebellious teen might have done in high school. “I’m not sure…the blog description says ‘I put the Poe in poetry’—maybe that’s his name?” “Poe? Hmmm,” Henry paused thoughtfully, “I’ve never heard of him.” “But that’s not the point. He called you a plagiarist, we have to do something about this.” “Why?” Henry saw Charles preparing to explain exactly why, probably at some length, and decided to make his counter-argument first. “It’s on a blog no one’s heard of, written by someone no one’s heard of, about poems no one’s read. If, by some chance, someone does read it, and they want to know, I can tell them the truth.” Then, realizing the truth of this, he asked “How did you come across it anyway?” “That’s irrelevant,” Charles protested. “If I did, someone else might too.” “Well, there’s nothing we can do to stop them.” “But it’s—“ “Not a big deal. Charles, really, let it go. It’s not a big deal.” Charles looked at him in amazement. Not a big deal? Being called a plagiarist, publicly slandered, pettily insulted for no reason at all? It would have offended Charles to see this happen to anyone, but to Henry of all people—the sweetest, kindest man he knew… Henry had never intentionally hurt anyone in his life and had done absolutely nothing to deserve such cruel treatment. Perhaps Henry could shrug it off, but Charles was not going to stand for this. Snatching up his laptop, he retreated to his room, where he began at once to hammer out a scathing response.