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My memory flew back, (oh, with what intensity of regret!) to Ligeia, the beloved, the august, the beautiful, the entombed. I revelled in recollections of her purity, of her wisdom, of her lofty, her ethereal nature, of her passionate, her idolatrous love.
The narrator makes this comment immediately after describing how he loathes Rowena. This lyrical and ode-like tribute to Ligeia, which is juxtaposed with an explanation of his loathing for Rowena, suggests that his hate for Rowena stems simply from her not being Ligeia. Ligeia’s memory has such a tight hold on the narrator that he can’t so much as look at his new wife without thinking of Ligeia or comparing the two women.
And now slowly opened the eyes of the figure which stood before me. “Here then, at least,” I shrieked aloud, “can I never—can I never be mistaken—these are the full, and the black, and the wild eyes of my lost love—of the lady—of the Lady LIGEIA!”
In the very last sentences of the story, the narrator removes the bandages of the resurrected Rowena, only to discover that Ligeia has taken over her body. Whether real or a hallucination within the context of the story, the larger message of this moment is that Ligeia’s memory is so powerful that it literally subsumes Rowena. This moment makes concrete the emotional reality of the narrator’s marriage to Rowena. Even when he looks at Rowena, the power of his first wife’s memory means that he will only see Ligeia.
