The narrator’s final entry in “Manuscript Found in a Bottle” is full of vivid imagery and situational irony:
Oh, horror upon horror!—the ice opens suddenly to the right, and to the left, and we are whirling dizzily, in immense concentric circles, round and round the borders of a gigantic amphitheatre, the summit of whose walls is lost in the darkness and the distance. But little time will be left me to ponder upon my destiny! The circles rapidly grow small—we are plunging madly within the grasp of the whirlpool—and amid a roaring, and bellowing, and thundering of ocean and of tempest, the ship is quivering—oh God! and—going down!
The claustrophobic visual imagery conjured by the narrator’s description of the ice and the storm mirrors his emotional and mental claustrophobia as he nears his tragic demise. The frantic, violent movements of nature serve as representations of the narrator’s own internal turmoil. There is a degree of situational irony in the fact that the narrator is writing about his terror with such lush and vivid prose right up until the very end of his last living moments. Because of this over-the-top and desperate, somewhat unrealistic act of recording in the story, some scholars have even posited that “Manuscript in a Bottle” is a parody of the nautical fiction genre.
The following passage from the beginning of “The Tell-Tale Heart,” published by Edgar Allan Poe in 1839, is a perfect case study in situational irony:
But you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded—with what caution—with what foresight—with what dissimulation I went to work! I was never kinder to the old man than during the whole week before I killed him.
The narrator’s claim that he was “never kinder” to the old man (i.e. his murder victim) than during the week leading to the man’s death at his very own hands is supremely unexpected in the context of the sentence, thus making this a moment of situational irony. Despite the fact that the old man never wronged him (and despite the fact that the narrator even professes to feel love for the old man), the narrator decides to kill him merely because of his pale blue eye. The narrator’s hatred for the old man is unreasonable and unjustified. Likewise, his sudden kindness while he simultaneously plans to murder the man is totally jarring. In this passage he also directly tells the reader his planned timeline for the actual event of the murder, and thus this moment is also an act of foreshadowing.
The narrator notes near the beginning of “The Black Cat” that in his youth he was known for his good nature, good temper, and good feelings towards animals. However, his swift descent into violence, animal abuse, alcoholism, and murder makes this statement supremely ironic:
From my infancy I was noted for the docility and humanity of my disposition. My tenderness of heart was even so conspicuous as to make me the jest of my companions. I was especially fond of animals, and was indulged by my parents with a great variety of pets. With these I spent most of my time, and never was so happy as when feeding and caressing them. This peculiarity of character grew with my growth, and, in my manhood, I derived from it one of my principal sources of pleasure.
In the passage above, the narrator spends five whole sentences discussing his fondness for animals and the joy he derives from taking care of them. However, it is important to remember that he is recounting this narrative of his life under the full knowledge that he is about to be executed in one day for his crimes. Given how quickly he turned cruelty into a habit following the days of his kindhearted youth (forgetting his previous good nature and reputation), the fact that he so strongly chooses to emphasize his original affection for animals is both ironic and suspicious, once again indicating his untrustworthiness.
As the disease reaches its peak in “The Masque of the Red Death,” the prince decides to flaunt his hubris and hold a grand masked ball in the presumed safety of his imperial suite. There are multiple layers of situational irony involved in Prince Prospero’s selfish retreat. Observe the passage below:
The “Red Death” had long devastated the country. No pestilence had ever been so fatal, or so hideous. [...] But the Prince Prospero was happy and dauntless and sagacious. When his dominions were half depopulated, he summoned to his presence a thousand hale and light-hearted friends from among the knights and dames of his court, and with these retired to the deep seclusion of one of his castellated abbeys. [...] The external world could take care of itself. In the meantime it was folly to grieve, or to think. The prince had provided all the appliances of pleasure.
In this passage, the narrator describes in unflinching terms the extreme devastation that the Red Death has wrought on the average people under Prospero’s rule. Despite the depletion of half his population, Prospero foolishly leaves the world to “take care of itself,” abandoning his responsibilities. There is something extremely and horribly ironic about rulers retreating into seclusion to enjoy themselves with “all the appliances of pleasure” while their people fall ill and die—after all, rulers are supposed to support the people living in their land (in a way). However, in a moment of perfectly deserved situational irony, the fortifications of Prince Prospero’s shelter fail, and the Red Death is able to enter and kill the guests. Thus, the prince effectively traps and condemns the people closest to him to death while trying to ostensibly protect them and enjoy a good time.
In "The Cask of Amontillado," the narrator’s insistence that Fortunato should turn around and go back out of the vault for the sake of his health is an example of dramatic irony:
“Come,” I said, with decision, “we will go back; your health is precious. You are rich, respected, admired, beloved; you are happy, as once I was. You are a man to be missed. For me it is no matter. We will go back; you will be ill, and I cannot be responsible. Besides, there is Luchesi—” “Enough,” he said; “the cough is a mere nothing; it will not kill me. I shall not die of a cough.”
Although the narrator presents himself in the passage above as caring and considerate of Fortunato, the reader is fully aware that he is anything but. Thanks to the narrator’s internal monologue as he relates the events of this story, which occurred 50 years in the past, the reader knows that the narrator’s real goal is to use reverse psychology to compel Fortunato to stay on the path—and therefore to exact vengeance upon him. The narrator even takes countermeasures to ensure his plans will not be interrupted:
There were no attendants at home; they had absconded to make merry in honor of the time. I had told them that I should not return until the morning, and had given them explicit orders not to stir from the house. These orders were sufficient, I well knew, to insure their immediate disappearance, one and all, as soon as my back was turned.
Thus, it must be understood that the narrator’s insistence on Fortunato’s health is specifically curated to produce the exact reaction he wants: for his enemy to choose the path towards his death himself.
As the narrator slowly bricks Fortunato into captivity in “The Cask of Amontillado,” Fortunato begs to be released in a moment of both dramatic and verbal irony:
But is it not getting late? Will not they be awaiting us at the palazzo, the Lady Fortunato and the rest? Let us be gone.” “Yes,” I said, “let us be gone.” “For the love of God, Montresor!” “Yes,” I said, “for the love of God!”
At first, Fortunato makes his request of the narrator in a lighthearted tone, with the expectation that he will certainly be released to meet the people waiting for them at the palazzo. However, what he does not know is that the narrator has been planning to trap and kill him for the duration of their encounter, making his initially lighthearted plea a moot point and an instance of dramatic irony. In fact, the narrator notes in his recording of the events that he went so far as to ensure the lack of any servants or attendants in the nearby vicinity, to better execute his vengeful plans. Additionally, the narrator’s response to his plea is full of verbal irony. He repeats Fortunato’s words back to him mockingly, with a double meaning: he agrees they should each get going, but the implication is that Fortunato should head to his death while he himself returns to the world of the living. His repetition of “for the love of God!” is the final nail in the proverbial coffin, sealing Fortunato away forever—and himself away from God.
