I am oft accused, with some plausible justification of being a slave to history, seeing all happenstances in relation too, as the consequence of, or as a discernible echo of a previous event, admittedly making my appraisals decidedly more derivative conclusion than original concept. Whilst in no way objecting to this seeming sound extension of logic, the premise doth in actuality present me with far more credit than is due. I would adore to be able to claim intimate knowledge with all the multitudes of fact and descriptive suggested but must in all honest confide that much of my knowledge derives from that most personable and ever available of informative mediums, cinematographic pictures.
I awoke today to a cold and overcast clime, dissociate from the spring like weather prevalent for the last few days. To my surprise I was advised by notification on Facebook that snow had been witnessed falling but a mile or so from the cottage. Buckling up my kilt, shoes and wherewithal I set forth, wrapped in blanketed waistcoat, to experience this final flourish from that soon to be retiring prince of chill, Mister Winter. My approach to the scene took me downhill towards Rosario, into Palisades and thus to Robert Moran’s extraordinary and unprecedented gift.
My thoughts, being rather skittish beasts at the best of times, quite expectedly flitted hither and thither as I walked, finally settling upon a very presently apt movie I had but recently acquired for my collection, Edgar Alan Poe’s Masque of the Red Death adapted directed and produced by Robert Corman.
I commend your attention to both the short story and the movie, a chilling tale of a terrifying pandemic, the Red Death of the title, that spreads exponentially through Europe and the world with impossible seeming speed and devastation.
Prince Prospero, a man of most cruel disposition, perceives the unstoppable approach of the plague and rather than flee decides to shut himself away in his castle, surrounded by minions and worshipers, passing away time in revelry and debauchery whilst watching with callous disinterest from atop his keep walls as the world around suffer rape, devastation and destruction at the hands of the affliction.
However as we well know and Prospero soon discovers plague, pestilence and disease give no consideration to walls or borders of any kind, are as happy to murder princes as paupers, princesses as whores, without second glance or thought.