The narrator of this short story prefers that his real name remain a secret. For the present, he says, we should call him "William Wilson." The reason for this secrecy, he says, is that his real name would stain the purity of the white paper he writes upon; in this same vein, he also says that the story he will relate about himself has no parallel as a tale of evil. This exaggeration is one of the distinguishing features of Poe's style.
Wilson, it seems, did not become evil by degrees, as most men do. He became suddenly evil; "all virtue dropped bodily as a mantle." (As noted in the introduction to "Stories of the Psychotic Personality," Poe believes that any man is capable of performing irrational acts at any time and that every mind can instantly move from sanity to madness.) Because he is near death, the narrator has decided to tell his story, and he hopes, though rather futilely, that someone might extend a bit of sympathy to him. He was not, he insists, evil; instead, he was a "slave of circumstances beyond human control." What happened now seems impossible; in fact, it seems more like some fearsome dream than reality. But it happened, and thus he begins his story with a description of his early years.
Wilson grew up in a "large, rambling Elizabethan house" in a "misty-looking village of England." Here, note the abundance of adjectives which Poe uses to create a "totality of effect," and there can be no argument about their effectiveness. Poe's multitude of details are spell-binding and create a complete unity of effect for this tale. In his memory, Wilson recalls "gigantic and gnarled trees," ancient houses, the chilliness of deep shady walks, and the "deep, hollow notes of the church-bell." All this can be easily visualized, but Poe's genius is most evident when he creates such a catalogue as this; it is a descriptive stage setting for his story. Note in particular one feature — the gothic church steeple, he says, lies "embedded" in this sleepy atmosphere. It is as though Poe suddenly thrust a sharp symbol of unknown mystery into his already darkly picturesque chronicle.
