From the very beginning, the narrator is a curious and nosy character, obsessing over the personal details he perceives in the people in the street outside the coffee-house. Almost every event in the story is dominated by this curiosity, especially as one particular old man’s strange behavior piques his interest. But even before this uncategorizable figure enters the story, the narrator is determined to fill in all of the blanks about each and every stranger walking past the window. As he assigns labels to the individuals in the crowd—concerning their class, occupation, personality, and so on—he’s trying to satisfy his “calm but inquisitive interest in everything,” leaving no room for unknowns in his mind.
But when the old man seizes the narrator’s imagination, leading him on a long, fruitless pursuit through the streets, the narrator finally admits that maybe some things can’t—or shouldn’t—be known. Taken as a whole, the failed quest pushes the reader to think about human curiosity and, more importantly, its limits. After all, the narrator is not omniscient; he could be wrong in his impressions about every stranger he sees, including the old man. In this light, readers might wonder if the narrator’s observations are trustworthy to begin with—and whether the narrator’s unquenchable obsession says more about him than about the strange old man. Ultimately, it’s framed as a blessing that the narrator’s curiosity about the old man can’t be satisfied. Poe suggests that there’s a point at which curious inquiry should end, because there are some things that everyone is better off not knowing—and obsessing over them could lead toward madness.
Related Themes from Other Texts
Curiosity, Obsession, and the Unknown ThemeTracker
Curiosity, Obsession, and the Unknown Quotes in The Man of the Crowd
Now and then, alas, the conscience of man takes up a burden so heavy in horror that it can be thrown down only into the grave. And thus the essence of all crime is undivulged.
They all had slightly bald heads, from which the right ears, long used to pen-holding, had an odd habit of standing off on end. I observed that they always removed or settled their hats with both hands, and wore watches, with short gold chains of a substantial and ancient pattern.
The wild effects of the light enchained me to an examination of individual faces; and although the rapidity with which the world of light flitted before the window prevented me from casting more than a glance upon each visage, still it seemed that, in my peculiar mental state, I could frequently read, even in that brief interval of a glance, the history of long years.
Any thing even remotely resembling that expression I had never seen before. I well remember that my first thought, upon beholding it, was that Retzch, had he viewed it, would have greatly preferred it to his own pictural incarnations of the fiend.
His clothes, generally, were filthy and ragged; but as he came, now and then, within the strong glare of a lamp, I perceived that his linen, although dirty, was of beautiful texture; and my vision deceived me, or, through a rent in a closely-buttoned and evidently second-handed roquelaire which enveloped him, I caught a glimpse of both a diamond and of a dagger.
By and by he passed into a cross street, which, although densely filled with people, was not quite so much thronged as the main one he had quitted. Here a change in his demeanor became evident. He walked more slowly and with less object than before —more hesitatingly.
“This old man,” I said at length, “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 his deeds.”
