He Made It So

He Made It So

It has been a heartbreaking week for Star Trek fans. On Sunday, we lost Walter Koenig, who played Ensign Pavel Chekov in Star Trek: The Original Series. Then, on Wednesday, Sir Patrick Stewart, the beloved Captain Jean-Luc Picard of Star Trek: The Next Generation, passed away at the age of 86. Koenig was 90, which surprised me because I had never realized that he was only four years older than Stewart. For Trekkies everywhere, losing two members of the Star Trek family in the same week is almost too much to bear.

I have been a Star Trek fan for as long as I can remember. I’ve seen every episode of the original series and The Next Generation, watched every live-action Star Trek series, and seen all the movies. As an aside, I’ve watched Deep Space Nine more times than I can count, and The Next Generation nearly as many. I’ve spent countless hours aboard the various starships named Enterprise, traveled to Deep Space Nine, journeyed through the Delta Quadrant aboard Voyager, and explored strange new worlds alongside generations of Starfleet officers.

When Star Trek: The Next Generation premiered in 1987, Patrick Stewart had the unenviable task of following William Shatner’s James T. Kirk. Kirk was bold, charismatic, impulsive, and sometimes reckless. Picard was something different. He was thoughtful, diplomatic, intellectual, and guided by an unwavering moral compass. Stewart brought his considerable Shakespearean training to the role, giving Picard a dignity and gravitas that made him one of television’s most memorable characters. He could command a starship with a quiet word or deliver a stirring speech about justice and humanity.

Perhaps no moment demonstrated how indispensable Stewart had become to The Next Generation more than the cliffhanger at the end of the third season in 1990. In “The Best of Both Worlds,” Captain Picard had been captured and assimilated by the Borg, becoming Locutus. With the fate of the Federation hanging in the balance, Commander Riker gave Worf the order to fire on the Borg ship, knowing that Picard was aboard. The screen went black, and Star Trek fans collectively held their breath for the entire summer. Stewart was reportedly involved in contract negotiations at the time, and there was genuine uncertainty about whether he would return. Would Picard survive? Would Riker become the Enterprise’s new captain? Thankfully, Stewart returned, because Star Trek needed a captain with his gravitas. The resolution became one of the series’ defining moments, and Stewart’s portrayal of Picard’s trauma and recovery demonstrated just how much depth he could bring to a character who might otherwise have been little more than a commanding presence on the bridge.

But Picard was never simply a stern captain. Stewart gave him humanity, vulnerability, humor, and compassion. He showed us a man who could be strong without being cruel, authoritative without being arrogant, and courageous without being fearless. Picard believed in diplomacy, knowledge, and the fundamental dignity of others. In many ways, he represented the very best of what Star Trek has always aspired to be.

A couple of years ago, I read Stewart’s memoir, Making It So, and came away with an even greater appreciation for the man behind the captain. His journey from a working-class childhood in Yorkshire to the Royal Shakespeare Company, and eventually to the bridge of the Enterprise, was remarkable. His life was not without hardship, and his willingness to discuss those experiences made his accomplishments all the more meaningful. He was a gifted actor whose career extended far beyond Star Trek, including his memorable portrayal of Professor Charles Xavier in the X-Men films, but to me, he will always be Captain Picard.

I was especially grateful that Stewart returned to the role in Star Trek: Picard. While the first two seasons had their moments, the third and final season was something truly special. Bringing together the principal cast of The Next Generation was a wonderful tribute not only to that series but to the entire era of Star Trek that flourished during the 1980s and 1990s. Seeing those familiar faces together again, particularly aboard a lovingly recreated Enterprise-D, felt like coming home. It gave those characters, and the fans who had loved them for decades, a proper farewell. Now, with Stewart’s passing, that final season feels even more poignant. I am grateful we got to see him take command one last time.

Of course, Stewart and Koenig are only the latest members of the Star Trek family we have lost. Jeffrey Hunter, who portrayed Captain Christopher Pike in the original pilot episode, The Cage, died in 1969, just days before the final episode of the original series aired. DeForest Kelley, our beloved Dr. Leonard “Bones” McCoy, died in 1999. James Doohan, who played the irreplaceable Montgomery Scott, passed away in 2005. Majel Barrett-Roddenberry, widow of Star Trek creator Gene Roddenberry, died in 2008. She portrayed Number One, the Enterprise’s first officer in the original pilot, at a time when television executives apparently couldn’t imagine a woman in such a position of command. She later played Nurse Christine Chapel in the original series and the wonderfully flamboyant Lwaxana Troi in The Next Generation and Deep Space Nine. Perhaps most fittingly, she was quite literally the voice of the Enterprise, providing the familiar voice of the ship’s computer across multiple generations of Star Trek. Leonard Nimoy, whose portrayal of Spock helped define Star Trek itself, died in 2015. We lost Anton Yelchin, who played Chekov in the rebooted films, far too young in 2016. Nichelle Nichols, whose groundbreaking portrayal of Lieutenant Uhura helped make Star Trek a symbol of a more inclusive future, died in 2022. Each loss has taken away another piece of the universe we have loved for so long.

Walter Koenig’s passing earlier this week was particularly sad. As Chekov, he brought youthful enthusiasm, humor, and a certain Russian pride to the bridge of the original Enterprise. At a time when the United States and the Soviet Union were bitter Cold War adversaries, the presence of a Russian officer aboard an American-created starship was a powerful statement about the future Gene Roddenberry envisioned. Koenig helped make that vision believable. His death leaves William Shatner and George Takei as the last surviving members of the original series’ principal cast.

What makes these losses so difficult is that Star Trek has never been merely entertainment to its most devoted fans. At its heart, the franchise has always been about hope. It imagines a future in which humanity has overcome many of the prejudices, divisions, and petty conflicts that continue to plague our world. It celebrates curiosity, exploration, friendship, diversity, and the belief that we can become better than we are. Its characters have become familiar companions, and the actors who brought them to life have helped shape how generations of fans think about the world.

Patrick Stewart understood that responsibility. Through Jean-Luc Picard, he gave us a leader who believed that principles mattered, that compassion was not weakness, and that the pursuit of knowledge and understanding was among humanity’s noblest endeavors. He made us believe that such a future was possible.

The actors may leave us, but the worlds they helped create remain. We can still hear Dr. McCoy grumble, watch Scotty perform another engineering miracle, smile at Chekov’s insistence that something was invented in Russia, and listen to Spock remind us of the importance of logic. And whenever we need a reminder of what principled leadership looks like, we can return to the bridge of the Enterprise-D and find Captain Picard sitting in his chair, ready to take us on another adventure.

Sir Patrick Stewart gave us so much more than a memorable television character. He gave us someone to admire, someone to learn from, and someone whose example will continue to inspire us.

He made it so.

Rest in peace, Sir Patrick Stewart and Walter Koenig. Thank you for helping us boldly go where no one has gone before.

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A Pounding Head and Peculiar Dreams

I woke up this morning with a migraine, and if I didn’t have a class to teach this morning, I’d probably call in sick. It was hard enough getting out of bed as it was. I didn’t sleep particularly well last night. I had a very active night of dreaming, some of which was quite nice, while other dreams were just plain weird and left me wondering why in the world I’d dreamed about such things. I woke up several times throughout the night, and a few times I had trouble falling back to sleep. Unfortunately, every time I woke up, regardless of the reason, my head was pounding.

Of course, I had absolutely no trouble going back to bed after getting up to feed Isabella this morning, nor did I have any difficulty hitting the snooze button when my alarm went off. I would have been perfectly happy to stay in bed for a few more hours, preferably without the migraine.

I’m hoping my head will get better as the morning goes on. If it doesn’t, I plan to teach my class, return the objects I’m using to storage, and head home. Some days, you just have to do what absolutely needs to be done and leave the rest for another day. Today is shaping up to be one of those days.

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Running on Empty

I really did not want to get out of bed this morning. If I didn’t have a meeting this morning and a class to prepare for tomorrow, I might have been tempted to call in sick and spend the day in bed.

I’m not entirely sure why I’m so tired. I went to bed early last night, and after getting up to feed Isabella this morning, I crawled right back into bed for a little more sleep. It’s not as if this week has been particularly exhausting or stressful. In fact, it’s been relatively quiet compared to the past few weeks. Nevertheless, I just can’t seem to shake this fatigue.

Hopefully, the coffee will work its magic soon, and I’ll find a little more energy and enthusiasm for the day ahead. Right now, though, I’d much rather be back under the covers. Some mornings are just like that, I suppose.

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A Little Raven Humor

The Raven

The Raven

By Edgar Allan Poe (1809–1849)

First published in 1845

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door—
“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—
Only this and nothing more.”

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,
“’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door—
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;—
This it is and nothing more.”

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;—
Darkness there and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?”
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”—
Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
“Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—
’Tis the wind and nothing more!”

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore—
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blest with seeing bird above his chamber door—
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as “Nevermore.”

But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—
Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before—
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.”
Then the bird said “Nevermore.”

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of ‘Never—nevermore.’”

But the Raven still beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
“Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite—respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Lenore;
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—
On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—
Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil—prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

“Be that word our sign in parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—
“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted—nevermore!

About the Poem

With Halloween just a few days away, I could hardly resist choosing one of my favorite poems, Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Raven.” Of course, I love nearly all of Poe’s poetry. There is something hauntingly beautiful about his writing, the way he can take grief, loneliness, fear, and longing and transform them into something almost musical. His poetry is dark, certainly, but it is also extraordinarily beautiful.

Whenever I read “The Raven,” I always hear it in the unmistakable voice of Vincent Price. Price made a famous recording of the poem, and I suspect many people of my generation remember a teacher pulling that record from its sleeve, carefully placing it on the classroom record player, and lowering the needle. Then came that wonderfully theatrical voice, deep, resonant, and just sinister enough to send a chill down your spine. Price had a remarkable ability to make even the simplest words sound deliciously ominous, and his reading of “The Raven” was unforgettable. I can still hear him uttering “Quoth the Raven ‘Nevermore’” with just the right mixture of melancholy and menace. For me, Poe’s poetry and Vincent Price’s voice will forever be connected.

Incidentally, I came across the job posting for Curator of Educational Programs at the Vincent Price Art Museum in Los Angeles just this morning. As much as I admire Vincent Price and love the idea of working at a museum bearing his name, I have absolutely no desire to live in Los Angeles. Still, I couldn’t help smiling at the coincidence.

What I find most compelling about “The Raven” is that, beneath its Gothic atmosphere and supernatural suggestions, it is really a poem about grief. The raven itself may be nothing more than an ordinary bird that has learned a single word, but the narrator gives that word increasingly terrible meaning. He asks questions to which he desperately wants comforting answers, even as he seems to know what the raven will say. His torment comes not necessarily from the bird, but from his own inability to escape his sorrow.

Perhaps that is what makes the poem so frightening. There is no monster lurking in the darkness, no ghost rising from the grave, and no murderer waiting behind the door. Instead, the horror comes from within, from the memories and regrets that haunt us long after someone we love is gone. The raven becomes a symbol of a grief that refuses to leave, and its repeated “Nevermore” is the terrible finality of loss.

And yet, even with all its sorrow, I find “The Raven” magnificent. Poe’s language, rhythm, and imagery make it a poem that demands to be read aloud, preferably on a dark and stormy night. If you can manage to hear Vincent Price narrating it, so much the better.

First published on January 29, 1845, in the New York Evening Mirror, “The Raven” became an immediate sensation and established Edgar Allan Poe as one of America’s most recognizable literary figures. Its popularity was extraordinary, and readers were captivated by its hypnotic rhythm, intricate rhymes, and mysterious atmosphere.

The poem follows an unnamed narrator mourning the death of his beloved Lenore. Alone in his chamber on a bleak December night, he hears a tapping at his door and then at his window. When he opens the shutter, a raven enters and settles upon a bust of Pallas Athena, the Greek goddess of wisdom. The bird speaks only one word, “Nevermore,” but the narrator gradually interprets that word as a series of increasingly devastating answers to his questions about grief, hope, and the possibility of reunion with Lenore in the afterlife.

Poe was a master of poetic sound. “The Raven” employs trochaic octameter, internal rhyme, alliteration, and repetition to create its distinctive, almost hypnotic musicality. The recurring “Nevermore” serves as a refrain, becoming more ominous with each appearance. What begins as a curious encounter gradually develops into a psychological nightmare.

In his 1846 essay “The Philosophy of Composition,” Poe described his approach to writing “The Raven,” explaining his deliberate choices of subject, atmosphere, and poetic structure. He argued that the death of a beautiful woman was among the most melancholy subjects in poetry and that a raven, with its dark appearance and capacity to imitate human speech, was an ideal messenger for the poem’s refrain.

The raven’s perch upon the bust of Pallas Athena is also significant. Athena represents wisdom and reason, yet the narrator increasingly abandons rational thought as his grief overwhelms him. The bird’s position above the door suggests an inescapable presence, while its final shadow becomes a powerful symbol of the narrator’s despair.

Although “The Raven” is frequently associated with Halloween, its enduring appeal goes far beyond its Gothic imagery. It explores the universal human experience of mourning and the painful realization that some losses cannot be undone.

About the Poet

Edgar Allan Poe (January 19, 1809 – October 7, 1849) was an American poet, short-story writer, literary critic, and editor whose work helped shape Gothic literature, psychological horror, and the modern detective story. His influence extends far beyond American literature into film, music, and popular culture.

Born in Boston, Massachusetts, Poe experienced tragedy early in life. His father abandoned the family, and his mother died when he was only two years old. He was taken in by John and Frances Allan of Richmond, Virginia, though he was never formally adopted. His relationship with John Allan was often strained, particularly over financial matters.

Poe attended the University of Virginia briefly and later enlisted in the United States Army. He also entered the United States Military Academy at West Point but was dismissed in 1831. He eventually pursued a career in writing and editing, working for several literary publications while struggling with financial insecurity.

In 1836, Poe married his cousin Virginia Clemm, who was thirteen at the time. Their marriage lasted until her death from tuberculosis in 1847. Virginia’s illness and death profoundly affected Poe, and themes of lost love, mortality, and mourning appear repeatedly throughout his poetry and fiction.

Among his best-known poems are “Annabel Lee,” “The Bells,” “Ulalume,” and “A Dream Within a Dream.” His short stories, including “The Tell-Tale Heart,” “The Fall of the House of Usher,” “The Black Cat,” and “The Masque of the Red Death,” remain classics of Gothic horror. His 1841 story “The Murders in the Rue Morgue” is widely regarded as a foundational work of modern detective fiction.

Poe died in Baltimore on October 7, 1849, at the age of forty. The circumstances surrounding his death remain uncertain, adding one final mystery to a life that has become almost as legendary as his writing.

Although Poe struggled to achieve financial stability during his lifetime, his literary legacy has proved extraordinary. His ability to explore the darkest corners of the human imagination while maintaining a remarkable sense of beauty and musicality continues to captivate readers nearly two centuries later.

Perhaps that is why Poe remains such a perfect poet for Halloween. His writing reminds us that the most haunting things are not always the supernatural horrors that lurk in the shadows, but the very human emotions that remain with us long after the darkness has passed.

And as the raven would remind us, some things stay with us forevermore.

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Easing Into the Week

It’s Monday morning, and we’ve reached the last week of October. I’ll pretty much have the museum to myself today, except for a few meetings with professors and the classes I’ll be teaching. There’s plenty to keep me busy, but I can worry about all of that later. Right now, I’m going to enjoy my coffee, watch the news, and ease into the morning before getting ready for work. There’s no need to rush into Monday any faster than necessary.

Have a great day, everyone!