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The ninety and nine are with dreams, content but the hope of the world made new, is the hundredth man who is grimly bent on making those dreams come true.

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
World
Hope
Grimly
Making
Hundredth
True
Ninety
Dream
Bent
Come
Content
Made
Nine
Men
Dreams
Life
Inspiration

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I never can hear a crowd of people singing and gesticulating, all together, at an Italian opera, without fancying myself at Athens, listening to that particular tragedy, by Sophocles, in which he introduces a full chorus of turkeys, who set about bewailing the death of Meleager.
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I was never really insane except upon occasions when my heart was touched.
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My next thought concerned the choice of an impression, or effect, to be conveyed: and here I may as well observe that, throughout the construction, I kept steadily in view the design.
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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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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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Sleep, those little slices of death — how I loathe them.
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The nose of a mob is its imagination. By this, at any time, it can be quietly led.
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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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The death then of a beautiful woman is unquestionably the most poetical topic in the world, and equally is it beyond doubt that the lips best suited for such topic are those of a bereaved lover.
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It is with literature as with law or empire - an established name is an estate in tenure, or a throne in possession.
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We had always dwelled together, beneath a tropical sun, in the Valley of the Many Colored Grass.
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And so, being young and dipt in folly, I fell in love with melancholy.
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It is clear that a poem may be improperly brief. Undue brevity degenerates into mere epigrammatism. A very short poem, while now and then producing a brilliant or vivid, never produces a profound or enduring, effect. There must be the steady pressing down of the stamp upon the wax.
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Yet I am not more sure that my soul lives, than I am that perverseness is one of the primitive impulses of the human heartone of the indivisible primary faculties, or sentiments, which give direction to the character of Man.
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Men have called me mad but the question is not yet settled, whether madness is or is not the loftiest intelligence.
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In the deepest slumber-no! In delirium-no! In a swoon-no! In death-no! even in the grave all is not lost.
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I have great faith in fools,— self-confidence my friends will call it.
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And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting...
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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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Blood was its Avatar and its seal.
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