SOURCE: Werner, James V. “The Detective Gaze: Edgar A. Poe, the Flaneur, and the Physiognomy of Crime.” American Transcendental Quarterly 15, no. 1 (March 2001): 5-21.

[In the following essay, Werner identifies Edgar Allan Poe's detective C. Auguste Dupin as an example of what critic Walter Benjamin termed a “flaneur,” and asserts that Poe's use of this careful observer, who interacts within but still remains apart from the world he surveys, “represents a pivotal influence on Poe's philosophical perspective and fictional aims and strategies.”]

Among the many achievements in the short and difficult life of Edgar A. Poe was the creation of the detective tale as a popular literary genre. The extraordinary feats of ratiocination performed by C. Auguste Dupin in “The Murders in the Rue Morgue,” “The Purloined Letter,” and “The Mystery of Marie Rogêt” have entertained countless young readers in the past 150 years, and attracted enormous critical attention. Some of that attention, most notably Dana Brand's The Spectator and the City in Nineteenth-Century American Literature, has focused on the relationship between Poe's detective and the flaneur, the solitary strolling metropolitan observer theorized by Walter Benjamin in “Paris: Capital of the Nineteenth Century,” in his essay “The Flaneur,” and in its revised version “On some motifs in Baudelaire.” Within the context of these discussions, Benjamin points briefly to Poe's connection to the flaneur who, Benjamin argues, enjoyed his heyday in Paris during the 1830s, just when Poe was launching his literary career.¹ Benjamin's references, typically aphoristic, deserve to be more fully unpacked; and Brand's analysis of this connection, while extremely useful, tends to downplay the significance of the flaneur for Poe. In fact, the flaneur represents a pivotal influence on Poe's philosophical perspective and fictional aims and strategies overall, perhaps nowhere more evidently than in his detective tales.

WALTER BENJAMIN, THE FLANEUR, AND THE DETECTIVE

There is considerable disagreement among scholars as to the nature and origins of the flaneur. As Keith Tester indicates, “definitions are at best difficult and, at worst, a contradiction of what the flaneur means. In himself, the flaneur is, in fact, a very obscure thing”(7). Yet certain features recur in most if not all delineations of this figure. The ancient “pseudo-science” of physiognomy, of reading a person's facial features and external characteristics for evidence of inner qualities, plays a central role in flanerie.² Another critical element is the flaneur's apparently detached, aimless, and desultory (but in reality, highly present and focused) observation. The flaneur's methodology is intuitive; he bases his conclusions solely on observation and inference. According to an 1806 French pamphlet titled Le Flaneur au Salon, he was an outsider within the metropolis, walking “through the streets at random and alone … suspended from social obligation, disengaged, disinterested, dispassionate”; his leisurely manner and his ties to aristocratic privilege make him appear to be a “loafer” or “lazybones” (qtd. in Ferguson 26, 24). The flaneur must preserve this liminal perspective to interpret the city. He must be immersed in the crowd, and yet must remain aloof from it; part of the marketplace, he must still keep his distance from it and its commodities.

For a while, Benjamin argues, the flaneur remained “still on the threshold, of the city as of the bourgeois class. Neither has engulfed him; in neither is he at home” (“Paris” 156). However, for Benjamin, the flaneur was constantly in danger of being reduced to the status of passive window-shopper or consumer, a transformation that, as Priscilla Parkhurst Ferguson suggests, “effectively ends the flaneur's connection with creativity” (35). Also, the flaneur quickly became a literary figure, generating “a panorama literature” of “physiologies” which “investigated types that might be encountered by a person taking a look at the marketplace” (“Flaneur” 36). Ultimately, then, the flaneur became gainfully employed, and his written observations became commodities within the market. For Rob Shields, the “ambiguous process of consumption and self-implication” inherent in flanerie poses a fundamental question: “How to gain knowledge yet remain unchanged; how to witness, yet remain unmoved?” (75-76).

The triumph of societal forces, Benjamin argues, was putting the flaneur to use as a detective. As the “physiologies” waned in popularity, perhaps reflecting doubts as to the flaneur's ability to give order to the metropolis and its masses, “the flaneur is … turned into an unwilling detective” (“Paris” 40). Benjamin argues that the flaneur's newfound employment “does him a lot of good socially, for it accredits his idleness” (40), but it also clearly signals the demise of the flaneur in his “pure” state. The now productive flaneur-turned-detective was assimilated into the utilitarian society that he had formerly resisted. If Baudelaire's flaneur was “a prince who everywhere rejoices in his incognito” (9-10), the rise of the detective reflects society's uneasiness about the flaneur and its pressures to mitigate his elusiveness: “the detective story came into being when this most decisive of all conquests of a person's incognito had been accomplished. Since then the end of efforts to capture a man in his speech and actions has not been in sight” (“Paris” 48).

Such attempts to “conquer the incognito” reflect the continuing tension between public and private in the social contract. For Benjamin, the fragmentation of the worker's psyche is mirrored in the spatial split between “public” places of business and “private” interiors that become shrines to the art of collection.

For the private person, living space becomes, for the first time, antithetical to the place of work. The former is constituted by the interior; the office is its complement. The private person who squares his accounts with reality in his office demands that the interior be maintained in his illusions. … From this spring the phantasmagorias of the interior. For the private individual the private environment represents the universe. In it the gathers remote places and the past. His drawing room is a box in the world theater.

(“Paris” 154)

Paradoxically, the bifurcation of public and private, of “inner” and “outer” space that Benjamin illustrates, tends to invert itself. In adorning his private interior with his collection, the bourgeois collector establishes a trail by which he may be traced, by none other than the public sphere's latest recruit: the flaneur-turned-detective, who now performs a “physiognomy of the interior.” The specific reasons for bourgeois culture's peculiar “adoption” of the flaneur, the particular ways in which the flaneur was commodified, and the implications of his relationship to nineteenth-century culture are intriguing matters to be explored in a future article. The focus of the study at hand is Poe's innovative use of flanerie at the very heart of his detection tales.

THE CASE OF POE: FLANERIE OR DETECTION?

It is as “physiognomist of the interior” that Benjamin discusses Poe as a progenitor of the detective tale:

The interior is not only the universe but also the etui of the private person. To live means to leave traces. In the interior these are emphasized. An abundance of covers and protectors, [of] liners and cases[,] is devised, on which the traces of objects of everyday use are imprinted. The traces of the occupant also leave their impression on the interior. The detective story that follows these traces comes into being. His “philosophy of furniture,” along with his detective novellas, shows Poe to be the first physiognomist of the interior.

(155-56)

Benjamin mentions Poe again in “One Way Street,” suggesting the appropriateness, even the inevitability of murder “in a certain type of detective novel at the dynamic center of which stands the horror of apartments” (64). “That this kind of detective novel begins with Poe—at a time when such accommodations hardly yet existed—is no counter argument,” Benjamin argues. “For without exception the great writers perform their combinations in a world that comes after them” (64).

Poe's connection to the detective is readily apparent, of course, in his tales about C. Auguste Dupin: “The Murders in the Rue Morgue,” “The Purloined Letter,” and “The Mystery of Marie Rogêt.” Poe's connection to the flaneur is perhaps less obvious but equally important, and more pervasive than has been acknowledged to date. Having lived in various metropolitan centers on the Eastern seaboard (Richmond, Baltimore, Philadelphia, New York), Poe was certainly sensitive to the practice of flanerie. Hans Bergmann's God in the Street clearly illustrates the extent to which literary flanerie was practiced in ante-bellum American periodicals, and Dana Brand has illustrated how Poe was thoroughly familiar with the conventional literary flaneur. Catherine Quoyeser notes that Poe's “Doings of Gotham” series emulated the work of Nathaniel Parker Willis, whom she views as a prime example of the nineteenth-century American literary “salaried flaneur” (158). And Poe's interest in phrenology and autography suggests his fascination with physiognomical observation and interpretation. But Poe applied the principles of flanerie in ways far more interesting and subtle, employing its methods even as he subverted its fantasies of control, capitalizing on its inversions of public and private space, of “inner” and “outer.”

Probably the most famous instance of flanerie in Poe's works may be found in his story “The Man of the Crowd,” which Benjamin calls Poe's early contribution to a “physiognomics of the crowd” (“Paris” 156). The tale's narrator relates how as a “convalescent” he sat in a London coffeehouse, observing the crowds passing by his window on the busy street. He begins to regard “with minute interest the innumerable varieties of figure, dress, air, gait, visage, and expression of countenance” (389). He distinguishes between people of different classes by means of their physiognomy. The “tribe of clerks” is “obvious” because of their “tight coats, bright boots, well-oiled hair, and supercilious lips,” their “dapperness of carriage,” and the “cast-off graces of the gentry” (389-90). The “upper clerks” are especially notable in that they uniformly have “slightly bald heads, from which the right ears, long used to pen-holding, [have] an odd habit of standing off on end” (390). The “swell pickpockets” are recognizable from their “voluminous wristband” and their “air of excessive frankness.” The gamblers are “distinguished by a certain sodden swarthiness of complexion, a filmy dimness of eye, and pallor and compression of lip,” not to mention a “guarded lowness of tone in conversation, and a more than ordinary extension of the thumb at right angles with the fingers” (390).

As Poe's narrator proceeds with his detection and classification of the crowd, however, he is confronted by a face that baffles his method by virtue of “the absolute idiosyncracy of its expression”: he can muster no more than “confused” and “paradoxical” ideas of “vast mental power, of caution, of penuriousness, of avarice, of coolness, of malice, of blood-thirstiness, of triumph, of merriment, of excessive terror, of intense—of supreme despair” (392). He follows this mysterious stranger, who compulsively immerses himself in the crowd, but ultimately abandons his scrutiny, saying, “This old man is the type and the genius of deep crime. He refuses to be alone. He is the man of the crowd. It will be in vain to follow; for I shall learn no more of him, nor of his deeds. The worst heart of the world is a grosser book than the ‘Hortulus Animae,’ and perhaps it is but one of the great mercies of God that ‘er lasst sich nicht lesen’” (“it does not permit itself to be read”) (396).

Dana Brand, one of the few scholars to have addressed Poe's connection to the flaneur in detail, offers a rich discussion of this topic in The Spectator and the City in Nineteenth-Century American Literature. However, I find Brand's analysis of the relation between the flaneur and the detective in Poe somewhat confusing, and overly dismissive of the flaneur's importance for Poe. Brand argues early on that the presence of the illegible face of the wanderer in “The Man of the Crowd” represents Poe's “critique of the interpretive strategies of the flaneur” (89), that “ultimately, ‘The Man of the Crowd’ suggests that the urban crowd cannot be reduced to comfortable transparency” (88). For Brand, Poe's tale “implies that an urban observer is needed who can read and in some sense master what the flaneur cannot” (89). Brand maintains that in Poe's detective Dupin, the author created that “urban interpreter … who could provide a more credible and complex assurance of urban legibility than could be found in the literature of the flaneur” (90).

The implication here is that the detective represents a figure distinctly different from the flaneur, and is therefore more capable to observe and interpret modern urban phenomena. Brand's emphasis on the differences between the two types and his assessment of the flaneur's effectiveness are misleading, though. In the end, after forging an argument to distinguish the detective from the flaneur, Brand ultimately suggests that Dupin “shares … many of the objectives and functions of his predecessor” (102); he argues that “in spite of their differences, the detective is not a contradiction of the flaneur so much as a dialectical adaptation of him,” an adaptation better suited to “the changing intellectual and aesthetic expectations of his audience” (105). Though somewhat contradictory, the case Brand makes for the affinities between the flaneur and the detective seems much more compelling. In Poe's formulation the flaneur and detective are closely aligned in characteristics and methodology. The narrator in “The Man of the Crowd” and Dupin are of one spirit, and in Poe's detective tales one finds some of his most successful instances of flanerie.

For example, the flaneur/detective, whom Poe refers to as the “analyst” in “Rue Morgue,” pays minute attention to details regarding facial features, expressions, and body language. Poe's Dupin also shares the flaneur's association with wealth and aristocracy: “This young gentleman was of an excellent—indeed of an illustrious family, but, by a variety of untoward events, had been reduced to such poverty that the energy of his character succumbed beneath it, and he ceased to bestir himself in the world, or to care for the retrieval of his fortunes” (400). This association allows Dupin time and resources to observe the city and its inhabitants at his leisure, despite the fact that his is an aristocracy in decline; his indolence as regards “productive” and “socially valuable” labor is also evident. Dupin also exhibits the flaneur's traditional isolation and detachment from society, though he consents to the narrator's unobtrusive accompaniment:

I was permitted to be at the expense of renting, and furnishing in a style which suited the rather fantastic gloom of our common temper, a time-eaten and grotesque mansion, long deserted through superstitions into which we did not inquire, and tottering to its fall in a retired and desolate portion of the Faubourg St. Germain. … Our seclusion was perfect. We admitted no visitors. … We existed within ourselves alone.

(400-01)

Dupin and the narrator also engage in the flaneur's traditional behavior of sauntering, after the “advent of true Darkness,” when they “sallied forth into the streets, arm in arm, continuing the topics of the day, or roaming far and wide until a late hour, seeking, amid the wild lights and shadows of the populous city, that infinity of mental excitement which quiet observation can afford” (401). Indeed, that observation, Dupin admits, “has become with me, of late, a species of necessity” (403), and he boasts to the narrator of his flaneuristic skills, saying that “most men, in respect to himself, wore windows in their bosoms” (402).

Dupin's flanerie also dramatizes the importance of intuition, one of the main ideas Poe would later raise in his speculative cosmogony, Eureka: A Prose Poem. Dupin claims that while his technique of observation may seem to be more intuitive than “scientific,” it is in fact more methodical (and on a higher plane) than the “mere method” of the police. The analyst exhibits “in his solutions of each a degree of acumen which appears to the ordinary apprehension praeternatural. His results, brought about by the very soul and essence of method, have, in truth, the whole air of intuition” (397). Dupin's dialectic of close analytical scrutiny and disengaged, casual theorization is developed at greater length in Eureka, where Poe asserts that the “intuition” of “theorists” like Kepler is actually “the conviction arising from those inductions or deductions of which the processes are so shadowy as to escape our consciousness, elude our reason, or defy our capacity of expression” (1276). In his detective tales, Poe seems unwilling to argue (as he later would in Eureka) for the scientific validity of such “guesses” outright. Dupin concedes, “I will not pursue these guesses—for I have no right to call them more—since the shades of reflection upon which they are based are scarcely of sufficient depth to be appreciable by my own intellect, and since I could not pretend to make them intelligible to the understanding of another. We will call them guesses then, and speak of them as such” (425). But clearly such guesses are crucial to solve the mystery in the detective tales, just as in Eureka they identify the “cloud” behind which must lie the answer to questions about the universe (1293-94).

READING THE CRIMINAL INTERIOR

Perhaps most intriguing are the ways in which the methods of Poe's detective reveal and play on the flaneur's liminality, his ability to remain “in” the scene yet “removed” from it, “neither in nor out,” as Poe phrased it in his sub-title for an early tale called “Loss of Breath.” One way this ability is manifested is in Dupin's capacity for “reading” the hidden thoughts of other characters. To do so, he must be fully present, alive to sensory stimuli. In fact, he must be more than “in” the moment; he must identify and empathize completely with his opponent, to get “inside” his mind. “The analyst,” we are told, “throws himself into the spirit of his opponent, identifies himself therewith, and not unfrequently sees thus, at a glance, the sole methods (sometimes indeed absurdly simple ones) by which he may seduce into error or hurry into miscalculation” (398). This may be accomplished in a simple fashion, according to Dupin in “The Purloined Letter,” by approximating the opponent's face to read his thoughts, as one schoolboy did particularly well in the game of “even and odd”:

This game is simple, and is played with marbles. One player holds in his hand a number of these toys, and demands of another whether that number is even or odd. … The boy to whom I allude won all the marbles of the school. Of course he had some principle of guessing; and this lay in mere observation and admeasurement of the astuteness of his opponents. … [U]pon inquiring of the boy by what means he effected the thorough identification in which his success consisted, I received answer as follows: ‘When I wish to find out how wise, or how stupid, or how good, or how wicked is any one, or what are his thoughts at the moment, I fashion the expression of my face, as accurately as possible, in accordance with the expression of his, and then wait to see what thoughts or sentiments arise in my mind or heart, as if to match or correspond with the expression’. …

(689-90)

However, Dupin achieves his masterly reading of individuals not simply by seeing “deeper into” their hidden souls, but by moving at will “into” their psyches and “out” to get a distanced perspective on them. In “Rue Morgue,” Dupin illustrates how the analyst employs the flaneur's detached physiognomic scrutiny to become “proficient” at the game of whist. That proficiency includes “a comprehension of all the sources whence legitimate advantage may be derived,” which are “not only manifold but multiform, and lie frequently among the recesses of thought altogether inaccessible to the ordinary understanding” (398). The analyst must consider but also transcend the “limits of mere rule,” making “a host of observations and inferences” and “deductions from things external to the game” (398):

He examines the countenance of his partner, comparing it carefully with that of each of his opponents. He considers the mode of assorting the cards in each hand; often counting trump by trump, and honor by honor, through the glances bestowed by their holders upon each. He notes every variation of face as the play progresses, gathering a fund of thought from the differences in the expression of certainty, of surprise, of triumph, or of chagrin. From the manner of gathering up a trick he judges whether the person taking it can make another in the suit. He recognises what is played through feint, by the air with which it is thrown upon the table. A casual or inadvertent word; the accidental dropping or turning of a card, with the accompanying anxiety or carelessness in regard to its concealment; the counting of the tricks, with the order of their arrangement; embarrassment, hesitation, eagerness or trepidation—all afford, to his apparently intuitive perception, indications of the true state of affairs.

(398-99)

The analyst's success in reading his opponents' physiognomy and behavior for their “hidden” thoughts is revealed—and mirrored—in his complete knowledge of their cards, “as if the rest of the party had turned outward the faces” of those cards (399).

In both cases, the flaneur employs a method that incorporates close physiognomic scrutiny with an ability to detach himself from the game itself. He must, as Benjamin notes, remain “on the threshold,” existing “neither in nor out” of the situation at hand. The consideration of physiognomic details that are ostensibly “external” to the game enables the analyst to rise “above,” to see “past” the mere “rules” and proscribed “method” of play. The knowledge of an opponent's behavior represents an advantage that can be gained without any extraordinary understanding of the game's more intricate strategies, if there are any. Indeed, to focus too much on the play itself is to neglect this “external” information, and to obscure the “necessary knowledge … of what to observe” (398). Dupin's claim that such advantages are only found in “recesses” of thought “altogether inaccessible to the ordinary understanding” is somewhat misleading, as this data is emphatically available on the “surface” of the situation. But to one too thoroughly engaged in the complexity of play and unable to distance himself, the most obviously superficial reality becomes a “hidden recess.” The most effective route to perceive a person's “inner” secrets is not a direct or linear trajectory “inward,” but an oscillating zig-zag, an in-and-out movement that tends to problematize the traditional opposition of “inner” to “outer.”

The detective must consider this flexible relation between interiority and exteriority when reading the physiognomy of a room's interior to solve a crime. Both of Poe's most famous Dupin mysteries, “The Murders in the Rue Morgue” and “The Purloined Letter,” are based upon apparent violations of fundamental principles of the interior. As John T. Irwin has pointed out in The Mystery to a Solution, “The Murders in the Rue Morgue” is a “locked-room” mystery: a substantial part of the mystery is how the murderers gain ingress and egress from the seemingly locked apartment. “The Purloined Letter,” on the other hand, is a “hidden-object” mystery; here the detective/flaneur must “read” an interior in order to locate the document that the Minister has stolen:

A locked-room mystery asks how a solid body got out of (or into) an internally sealed space without violating the space's appearance of closure, while a hidden-object mystery asks how a solid object remains present within a finite physical space without, as it were, making an appearance. In one case we are certain that what we seek is not inside a given space, in the other that what we seek cannot possibly be outside it.

(181)

Conventions such as “locked-room” or “hidden-object” mysteries suggest that the genre inherently questions concepts of “interiority” and “exteriority.” Poe's tales are prototypical in this regard. The orangutan in “Rue Morgue” escapes from the “locked” interior of the sailor's closet, proceeds out onto the urban street, obtains access into another “locked” interior, that of the apartment in the Rue Morgue, only to escape again. In “The Purloined Letter,” the Minister's apartment, though locked, is easily permeated by the Prefect's agents; ostensibly open in this way, it nevertheless conserves its secret “enclosed” within its walls. The artificial boundaries created through interiors are defied throughout Poe's detective tales, reinforcing the ambiguous and problematic relationship between “inner” and “outer” upon which Benjamin's flaneur would capitalize, turning the street into an interior, as much at home in that street as he would be in his study. And Dupin defies these boundaries in the same way he gains access to other characters' “inner minds”; as Shawn James Rosenheim points out in The Cryptographic Imagination: Secret Writing from Edgar Poe to the Internet, “Dupin's ability to enter and leave [these] space[s], like his ability to identify the murderer from the evidence at the crime scene, is an attenuated form of his ability to read minds”(67).

The flaneur's ability to abstract himself from the deceptive complexity of his immediate surroundings also applies to these interiors. In both stories, while considerable attention is paid to the actual interiors in question and their peculiar details (i.e., the grisly crime scene in “Rue Morgue” and the microscopic examination of the Prefect in “Purloined Letter”), Poe devotes much more care to the articulation of Dupin's method of reading these interiors “at one remove” (Ferguson 28), and how it surpasses the plodding method of the Prefect and the Parisian police. The initial analysis of the crime scene by the police in “Rue Morgue” lacks the flaneur's simultaneous engagement and detachment, according to Dupin:

The Parisian police, so much extolled for acumen, are cunning, but no more. There is no method in their proceedings, beyond the method of the moment. … The results attained by them are brought about by simple diligence and activity. When these qualities are unavailing, their schemes fail. … [T]here is such a thing as being too profound. Truth is not always in a well. In fact, as regards the more important knowledge, I do believe that she is invariably superficial.

(411-12)

The police have made the error of “getting too close,” of losing themselves in the complexity of the “game,” as Dupin points out in the following passage:

The wild disorder of the room; the corpse thrust, with the head downward, up the chimney; the frightful mutilation of the body of the old lady; these considerations, with those just mentioned, and others which I need not mention, have sufficed to paralyze the powers, by putting completely at fault the boasted acumen, of the government agents. They have fallen into the gross but common error of confounding the unusual with the abstruse.

(414)

The Prefect, Dupin maintains, “perpetually errs by being too deep or too shallow, for the matter in hand” (689). When viewing an object of complexity, to hold it too close to the eye is to become bedazzled, immersed, and literally “a-mazed” in its labyrinths. The Prefect thus represents a prefiguration of the inductive “ground-moles” Poe lampoons in Eureka, full of painstaking yet short-sighted and ultimately ineffective method; Dupin is the truly analytical “theorist,” without specialized training, but endowed with naturally superior vision and reason (1264-70). It is necessary to pay attention to details, but it is also important to gain a detached distance, so as to identify which details are crucial, and which are simply contributing to the confusing complexity of the situation.³

If, as Dupin points out, truth is not always found “in a well,” but is frequently discovered on the “surface” of a situation, then the ability only to plumb the “profound” and “deep” detail of an event's intricate “recesses” amounts to blindness, no matter how adept the viewer is at this type of scrutiny. The detective must detach himself and become a “meta-reader” of not only the “game” but the psychology of its players. If not, he will (like the Prefect) commit fatal errors of assumption, as Dupin suggests:

Do you not see he has taken it for granted that all men proceed to conceal a letter,—not exactly in a gimlet-hole bored in a chair-leg—but, at least, in some out-of-the-way hole or corner suggested by the same tenor of thought which would urge a man to secrete a letter in a gimlet-hole bored in a chair-leg? And do you not see also, that such recherchés nooks for concealment are adapted only for ordinary occasions, and would be adopted only by ordinary intellects; for in all cases of concealment, a disposal of the article concealed—a disposal of it in this recherché; manner—is, in the very first instance, presumable and presumed; and thus its discovery depends, not at all upon the acumen, but altogether upon the mere care, patience, and determination of the seekers. …

(690-91)

Dupin, on the other hand, recognizes that the Minister, as “both poet and mathematician,” would be sufficiently “analytic” to anticipate the Prefect's highly thorough, microscopic, yet essentially simplistic and misguided procedures. The Minister would perceive that “the most intricate and remote recess of his hotel would be as open as his commonest closets to the eyes, to the probes, to the gimlets, and to the microscopes of the Prefect,” which in turn would “imperatively” cause the Minister “to despise all the ordinary nooks of concealment” (693-94).

PHYSIOGNOMIES OF LANDSCAPE AND LANGUAGE

Adopting the detective/flaneur's perspective thus involves a curious inversion (or, to use one of Poe's favorite words, a “bouleversement”) regarding traditional concepts of “inner” and “outer.” If the “recess” of an event or an interior, with its devious complexities, becomes the focus of methodical and diligent scrutiny, its conventionally “hidden” objects will eventually be plain to see, but the surface becomes obscure. Thus, “deep” complexity becomes simple and “ordinary,” and “simplicity” or superficiality becomes the more sophisticated and complex strategy. All that is concealed on the “inside” of the mystery is revealed, whereas all that is practically advertised on its “external” surface, though readily visible, becomes unseeable. This is why, Dupin tells the Prefect, “it is the very simplicity of the thing which puts you at fault. … Perhaps the mystery is a little too plain. … A little too self-evident” (681). Appropriately enough, Dupin explains the matter to the narrator first in terms of the urban street, home of the flaneur, and then of the map, which projects the intricacies of the street onto a global and even cosmic scale, though this time with words rather than topography:

[H]ave you ever noticed which of the street signs, over the shop-doors, are the most attractive of attention?. … There is a game of puzzles … which is played upon a map. One party playing requires another to find a given word—the name of a town, river, state, or empire—any word, in short, upon the motley and perplexed surface of the chart. A novice in the game generally seeks to embarrass his opponents by giving them the most minutely lettered names; but the adept selects such words as stretch, in large characters, from one end of the chart to the other. These, like the over-largely lettered signs and placards of the street, escape observation by dint of being excessively obvious; and here the physical oversight is precisely analogous with the moral inapprehension by which the intellect suffers to pass unnoticed those considerations which are too obtrusively and too palpably self-evident.

(694)

Language and letters, designed to identify, locate and thereby control the physical terrain, become invisible when they are magnified or made “excessively obvious” to heighten their “readability.” In effect, what was intended to be a verbal label “outside” of the topography becomes part of the landscape itself, and contributes to its complexity rather than clarifying it. The problematic nature of language, its deceptive promise of analytic distance from what it describes, is an important issue for the detective/flaneur. He reads ephemeral periodicals and listens analytically to accounts of eye-witnesses, as part of an already complex physiognomic landscape. For Poe, all external reality constitutes a “surface” that is to be read, by means of its phrenological “bumps,” its topography: “it is by these deviations from the plane of the ordinary, that reason feels its way, if at all, in the search for the true” (414). Language is part of that topography; in two of the detective tales (“Rue Morgue” and “Marie Rogêt”), Dupin arrives at a clearer understanding of the situation by “removing” himself from the crime scene and focusing on newspaper accounts of the crime. Such accounts do not guarantee genuine detachment, though. Certainly, by “reading” the crime through the mediation of the news media, Dupin distances himself from the immediacy of the crime's overwhelmingly violent, complex, and sensational reality. He reiterates the importance of such abstraction implicitly in “The Purloined Letter”: “If it is any point requiring reflection,” he observes, “we shall examine it to better purpose in the dark” (680). But in dealing with such topics, periodicals at this time often heightened their sensationalism; as David Reynolds illustrates in Beneath the American Renaissance, “the antebellum public was fed an increasingly spicy diet of horror, gore, and perversity” in the ephemeral press (171). Such accounts must therefore be read at yet another level of remove, as a flaneur would; they provide fragments only the flaneur can piece together, as he reads them at a metalevel.

Dupin brings such superior observational skills to bear on the interior of the Minister's apartment, searching not its “recesses” or “recherchés nooks for concealment” but its “surface.” It is intriguing to note further that he must present a deceptive and unreadable “surface” of his own face: “I prepared myself with a pair of green spectacles, and called one fine morning … at the Ministerial hotel. … I complained of my weak eyes, and lamented the necessity of the spectacles, under cover of which I cautiously and thoroughly surveyed the apartment, while seemingly intent only upon the conversation of my host …” (695). The reader imagines Dupin must keep his face turned towards the Minister even while scanning the interior, thus completing the union between the flaneur's oblique glance and the attentive gaze of the detective:⁴

[W]hile I maintained a most animated discussion with the Minister, on a topic which I knew had never failed to interest and excite him, I kept my attention really riveted upon the letter. In this examination, I committed to memory its external appearance and arrangement in the rack; and also fell, at length, upon a discovery which set at rest whatever trivial doubt I might have entertained. In scrutinizing the edges of the paper, I observed them to be more chafed than seemed necessary. They presented the broken appearance which is manifested when a stiff paper, having been once folded and pressed with a folder, is refolded in a reversed direction, in the same creases or edges which had formed the original fold. This discovery was sufficient. It was clear to me that the letter had been turned, as glove, inside out, redirected, and re-sealed. …

(696)

The symbolic value and problematic nature of the purloined letter itself has been the subject of considerable recent scholarly attention. In his seminar on the story, Jacques Lacan argues that the letter represents an empty signifier, important not for its contents, but for its function within the story as the (un)observed object of Oedipal triangulations of characters. Irwin argues in The Mystery to a Solution that the purloined letter illustrates

that the most accurate physical representation of the link between body and mind is the reversal or interchangeability of dimensional oppositions considered as the sign of the metaphysical's transcendence of the bodily. The turning of the purloined letter inside out symbolically depicts the relationship between the physicality of writing and the metaphysicality of thought as a continuous container/contained oscillation.

(126)

This symbolism functions on a more literal level as well, to questions of interiority and exteriority rather than to thought and writing, to philosophical ends rather than psychoanalytic ones. The letter itself, its inside turned out, becomes Poe's final reminder of the flexible nature of seemingly fixed relations between inner and outer, precisely the kind of inversion between surface and depth Dupin points to in his analogy of the map, or the city street. Irwin describes this convertibility nicely in the following passage:

The letter is concealed in plain sight on the surface, on the outside of this inside (the house), a concealment accomplished by, and symbolized in, the turning of the letter itself inside out. Thus everted, its outside—the part of the letter whose appearance is known to the prefect and Dupin from the queen's description, the part that usually serves to conceal, to envelop, the letter's contents—now becomes the content to be concealed from the eyes of the police; while the inside—the reality that gives this letter its special significance, the part of it that is not known to the prefect and Dupin—becomes a new outside that gives the letter a different appearance.

(181-82)⁵

The flaneur, who can move mentally within and without his observed subject, is uniquely (perhaps solely) qualified to perceive such physical fluidity.

Numerous scholars have pointed out that Dupin achieves his impossible mastery of crime without discovering or disclosing its deeper roots, settling in the end for a detached position “outside” these interiors, removed from the events occurring within them. As Thomas Joswick suggests, this represents an important limitation of Dupin's “mastery”:

[B]y translating brutal events into a discursive order, Dupin can remain unperturbed by what most unsettles the narrator and readers: the horrifying violence of an ‘Ourang-Outang’ that uncannily resembles the violence of human mastery. With a ‘mood of mind’ detached because triumphant over senseless events, Dupin returns to the sanctuary of his own thought once the horror is explained. The world of sensational shocks and murderous impulses is left for the reader to wonder and tremble at.

(241)

And, as Rosenheim suggests, this “translation” of events into a “discursive order” involves a reductionism that may be the price for Dupin's ultimate disengagement: “Objects and events in the world must be deprived of their polyvalent materiality, since the semiotic schema, as conceived by Poe, requires the replacement of contingency and indeterminacy with the detective's single, verifiable meaning. Just as in theory a deciphered code ought to be completely intelligible, so Dupin believes in a corresponding transparency of events in the world …” (25).

But if Dupin's mastery represents a comforting fantasy of control, what remains in opposition to that fantasy are disturbing messages regarding the stability of architectural and conceptual boundaries. The persistence of such an unsettling porosity undercuts whatever comfort Dupin's ratiocination provides, by subverting the most basic reduction at the heart of the detective tale, perhaps even all human experience: the division of inner and outer. The fluidity of that division is at the heart of both the flaneur's approach to urban landscapes and the detective's scrutiny of people and crime scenes. Its ambiguity in Poe's detective tales, along with Dupin's striking affinities with the flaneur, points to the intimate connection between the flaneur and the detective, and the central importance of the former in Poe's creation of the latter. Despite the scholarly rumors of his demise, in Poe's detective tales the flaneur (like so many of Poe's own fictional characters) has refused to stay buried.

Notes

1. The male possessive is used here because, with few exceptions, the flaneur has been described as an explicitly male figure; however, scholars such as Deborah Parsons and Janet Wolff have pointed to the problems women face[d] in attempting to “stroll” urban streets as leisurely observers. Cf. Deborah Parsons' Streetwalking the Metropolis: Women, the City, and Modernity, and Janet Wolff, “The Invisible Flaneuse: Women and the Literature of Modernity,” and “The Artist and the Flaneur: Rodin, Rilke, and Gwen John in Paris” in The Flaneur, ed. Keith Tester, 111-37.

2. No one is so consistently associated with physiognomy as Johann Caspar Lavater (1741-1801), whose essays on physiognomy were astoundingly popular; between its original publication in 1770 and 1810, his Physiognomische Fragmente, or Physiognomical Fragments, went through “no fewer than sixteen German, fifteen French, two American, two Russian, one Dutch, and twenty English editions” (Shookman 2). John Graham notes a passage from The Gentlemen's Magazine of 1801 on Lavater's principles: “In the enthusiasm with which they were studied and admired, they were thought as necessary in every family as even the Bible itself. A servant would, at one time, scarcely be hired till the descriptions and engravings of Lavater had been consulted, in careful comparison with the lines and features of the young man's or woman's countenance” (61).

3. This inability to “pull back” from one's interior becomes a major element in scenes from Poe's “tales of sensation,” such as “The Pit and the Pendulum” and The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym, wherein narrators are forced to “grope” their way blindly through dark and complex (or apparently complex) interiors.

4. This passage also brings to mind Christopher Benfey's discussion of the “twin fantasies of utter exposure and complete secrecy” in Poe's work, which are united in the incomplete reading of the flaneur's gaze. Benfey implies a causal relation between the two, particularly in “The Tell-Tale Heart,” in which the narrator, “for all his secrecy … claims to have access to the mind of the old man. His very privacy, his enclosedness, seems to allow him to see into the minds of other people” (33).

5. Irwin also addresses this convertibility in American Hieroglyphics, in reference to the narrator's ruminations in “Morella” on the fluidity of identity:

   The paradox here involves the way in which a mutually constitutive opposition simultaneously depends upon and dissolves the notion of a limit, whether that limit be internal or external. Like a Möbius strip in which a two-sided surface is turned into a one-sided surface but is still experienced as if it had two sides, a mutually constitutive opposition involves the same bewildering interpenetration of one and two.

   (122)

   If we substitute “inner and outer” for “one and two,” we can perceive the same disorienting “effect.”

Works Cited

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Benfey, Christopher. “Poe and the Unreadable: ‘The Black Cat’ and ‘The Tell-Tale Heart.’” New Essays on Poe's Major Tales. Ed. Silverman, Kenneth. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1993.

Benjamin, Walter. “The Flaneur.” Charles Baudelaire: A Lyric Poet in the Era of High Capitalism. London: Verso, 1983.

———. “One Way Street.” Demetz, 61-97.

———. “On Some Motifs in Baudelaire.” Illuminations: Essays and Reflections. Ed. Hannah Arendt. New York: Schocken Books, 1968.

———. “Paris: Capital of the Nineteenth Century.” Demetz, 146-63.

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Irwin, John. American Hieroglyphics: The Symbol of the Egyptian Hieroglyphics in the American Renaissance. Baltimore and London: Johns Hopkins UP, 1980.

———. The Mystery to a Solution: Poe, Borges, and the Analytic Detective Story. Baltimore and London: Johns Hopkins UP, 1994.

Johnson, Barbara. “The Frame of Reference: Poe, Lacan, Derrida.” The Purloined Poe: Lacan, Derrida & Psychoanalytic Reading. Eds. John P. Muller and William J. Richardson. Baltimore and London: Johns Hopkins UP, 1988.

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Lavater, Johan Caspar. Essays on Physiognomy: For the Promotion of the Knowledge and the Love of Mankind. London: C. Whittingham for H. D. Symonds, 1804.

Parsons, Deborah. Streetwalking the Metropolis: Women, the City, and Modernity. Oxford: Oxford UP, 2000.

Poe, Edgar Allan. Essays and Reviews. Library of America, 1984.

———. Poetry and Tales. Library of America, 1984.

Quoyeser, Catherine Jean. “‘Fugitives’ and ‘standards’: Journalism and the Commodification of Literature in Antebellum America.” Diss. Stanford University, 1990.

Reynolds, David S. Beneath the American Renaissance: The Subversive Imagination in the Age of Emerson and Melville. Cambridge and London: Harvard UP, 1988.

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Rosenheim, Shawn and Stephen Rachman,eds. The American Face of Edgar Allan Poe. Baltimore and London: Johns Hopkins UP, 1995.

Shields, Rob. “Fancy footwork: Walter Benjamin's notes on flânerie.” Tester, 61-81.

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Wolff, Janet. “The Invisible Flaneuse: Women and the Literature of Modernity.” The Problems of Modernity: Adorno and Benjamin. Ed. Andrew Benjamin. London: Routledge, 1989: 141-56.

———. “The Artist and the Flaneur: Rodin, Rilke, and Gwen John in Paris.” Tester, 111-37.