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The rain came down upon my head - Unshelter'd. And the wind rendered me mad and deaf and blind.
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
Wind
Head
Came
Upon
Rendered
Deaf
Mad
Rain
Blind
More quotes by Edgar Allan Poe
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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A short story must have a single mood and every sentence must build towards it.
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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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The scariest monsters are the ones that lurk within our souls.
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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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Few persons can be made to believe that it is not quite an easy thing to invent a method of secret writing that shall baffle investigation. Yet it may be roundly asserted that human ingenuity cannot concoct a cipher which human ingenuity cannot resolve.
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Men die nightly in their beds, wringing the hands of ghostly confessors ... on account of the hideousness of mysteries which will not suffer themselves to be revealed.
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A mystery, and a dream, should my early life seem.
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The best chess-player in Christendom may be little more than the best player of chess but proficiency in whist implies capacity for success in all those more important undertakings where mind struggles with mind.
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Grammar is the analysis of language.
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But our love was stronger by far than the love Of those who were older than we Of many far wiser than we And neither the angels in heaven above, Nor the demons down under the sea, Can ever dissever my soul from the soul Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.
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And I fell violently on my face.
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The fury of a demon instantly possessed me. I knew myself no longer. My original soul seemed, at once, to take its flight from my body and a more than fiendish malevolence, gin-nurtured, thrilled every fibre of my frame.
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No murmur arose from its bed, and so gently it wandered along, that the pearly pebbles upon which we loved to gaze, far down within its bosom, stirred not at all, but lay in a motionless content, each in its own old station, shining on gloriously forever.
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You are not wrong who deem That my days have been a dream Yet if hope has flown away In a night, or in a day, In a vision, or in none, Is it therefore the less gone? All that we see or seem Is but a dream within a dream.
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There is something in the unselfish and self-sacrificing love of a brute, which goes directly to the heart of him who has had frequent occasion to test the paltry friendship and gossamer fidelity of mere Man.
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It would be mockery to call such dreariness heaven at all.
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A fool, for example, thinks Shakespeare a great poet . . . yet the fool has never read Shakespeare.
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When a madman appears thoroughly sane, indeed, it is high time to put him in a straight jacket.
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Me volví loco, con largos intervalos de horrible cordura.
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