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Words have no power to impress the mind without the exquisite horror of their reality.
Edgar Allan Poe
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Edgar Allan Poe
Age: 40 †
Born: 1809
Born: January 19
Died: 1849
Died: October 7
Author
Crime Writer
Essayist
Journalist
Literary Critic
Literary Theorist
Lyricist
Novelist
Playwright
Poet
Science Fiction Writer
Writer
Boston
Massachusetts
Poe
Edgar Poe
E. A. Poe
Horror
Words
Language
Reality
Power
Macabre
Without
Exquisite
Writing
Impress
Mind
Thoughtful
More quotes by Edgar Allan Poe
I wish I could write as mysterious as a cat.
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The past is a pebble in my shoe.
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I have, indeed, no abhorrence of danger, except in its absolute effect - in terror.
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Truth is not always in a well. In fact, as regards the more important knowledge, I do believe that she is invariably superficial. The depth lies in the valleys where we seek her, and not upon the mountain-tops where she is found.
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All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream.
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Even with the utterly lost, to whom life and death are equally jests, there are matters of which no jest can be made.
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Mysteries force a man to think, and so injure his health.
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The rain came down upon my head - Unshelter'd. And the wind rendered me mad and deaf and blind.
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The higher powers of the reflective intellect are more decidedly and more usefully tasked by the unostentatious game of draughts than by all the elaborate frivolity of chess.
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The eye, like a shattered mirror, multiplies the images of sorrow
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I am walking like a bewitched corpse, with the certainty of being eaten by the infinite, of being annulled by the only existing Absurd.
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I was cautious in what I said before the young lady for I could not be sure that she was sane and, in fact, there was a certain restless brilliancy about her eyes that half led me to imagine she was not.
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I have been happy, though in a dream. I have been happy-and I love the theme: Dreams! in their vivid colouring of life As in that fleeting, shadowy, misty strife
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A million candles have burned themselves out. Still I read on. (Montresor)
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We allude to the short prose narrative, requiring from a half hour to one or two hours in its perusal
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If I could dwell where Israfel hath dwelt and he where I he might not sing so wildly well a mortal melody while a bolder note then this might swell from my lyre in the sky.
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There are two bodies - the rudimental and the complete corresponding with the two conditions of the worm and the butterfly. What we call death, is but the painful metamorphosis. Our present incarnation is progressive, preparatory, temporary. Our future is perfected, ultimate, immortal. The ultimate life is the full design.
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You call it hope-that fire of fire! It is but agony of desire.
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True, nervous, very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am, but why will say that I am mad?! The disease had haunted my senses, not destroyed, not dulled them. Of all the sense of hearing acute.
Edgar Allan Poe
I hold that a long poem does not exist. I maintain that the phrase, a long poem, is simply a flat contradiction in terms.
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