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The true genius shudders at incompleteness - and usually prefers silence to saying something which is not everything it should be.
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
Usually
Genius
Silence
Saying
Shudders
Language
Incompleteness
True
Prefers
Everything
Thoughtful
Something
Communication
More quotes by Edgar Allan Poe
The nose of a mob is its imagination. By this, at any time, it can be quietly led.
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The plots of God are perfect. The Universe is a plot of God.
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The mere imitation, however accurate, of what is in Nature, entitles no man to the sacred name of Artist
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I am actuated by an ambition which I believe to be an honourable one the ambition of serving the great cause of truth, while endeavouring to forward the literature of the country.
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The boundaries which divide Life from Death are at best shadowy and vague. Who shall say where the one ends, and where the other begins?
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-ev'n with us the breath Of Science dims the mirror of our joy.
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A short story must have a single mood and every sentence must build towards it.
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...If you do not take it up with you in some way, I shall be under the necessity of breaking your head with this shovel
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And all I loved, I loved alone.
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From a proud tower in the town, Death looks gigantically down.
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The depth lies in the valleys where we seek her, and not upon the mountain-tops where she is found.
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Me volví loco, con largos intervalos de horrible cordura.
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Sound loves to revel in a summer night.
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Were I called on to define, very briefly, the term Art, I should call it 'the reproduction of what the Senses perceive in Nature through the veil of the soul.' The mere imitation, however accurate, of what is in Nature, entitles no man to the sacred name of 'Artist.'
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Decorum -- that bug-bear which deters so many from bliss until the opportunity for bliss has forever gone by.
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Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly, I wished the morrow - vainly I had sought to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Leonore - For the rare and radiant maiden who the angels name Lenore - Nameless here for evermore.
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Thy soul shall find itself alone ’Mid dark thoughts of the gray tombstone— Not one, of all the crowd, to pry Into thine hour of secrecy. Be silent in that solitude, Which is not loneliness—for then The spirits of the dead who stood In life before thee are again In death around thee—and their will Shall overshadow thee: be still. [...]
Edgar Allan Poe
For my own part, I have never had a thought which I could not set down in words, with even more distinctness than that with which I conceived it.
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And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me — filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating, Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door — Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door — This it is, and nothing more.
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I intend to put up with nothing that I can put down.
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