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And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor, Shall be lifted -- Nevermore!

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
Soul
Lifted
Halloween
Floating
Floor
Shadow
Lies
Shall
Nevermore
Lying
Ravens

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A fool, for example, thinks Shakespeare a great poet . . . yet the fool has never read Shakespeare.
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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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Men have called me mad but the question is not yet settled, whether madness is or is not the loftiest intelligence– whether much that is glorious– whether all that is profound– does not spring from disease of thought– from moods of mind exalted at the expense of the general intellect.
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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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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. [...]
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Me volví loco, con largos intervalos de horrible cordura.
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In the tale proper--where there is no space for development of character or for great profusion and variety of incident--mere construction is, of course, far more imperatively demanded than in the novel.
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And much of Madness, and more of Sin, And Horror the soul of the plot.
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Thank Heaven! The crisis /The danger is past, and the lingering illness, is over at last /, and the fever called ''Living'' is conquered at last.
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The true genius shudders at incompleteness.
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And then there stole into my fancy, like a rich musical note, the thought of what sweet rest there must be in the grave.
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There might be a class of beings, human once, but now to humanity invisible, for whose scrutiny, and for whose refined appreciation of the beautiful, more especially than for our own, had been set in order by God the great landscape-garden of the whole earth.
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Sleep, those little slices of death — how I loathe them.
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I wish I could write as mysterious as a cat.
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The scariest monsters are the ones that lurk within our souls.
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And so, being young and dipt in folly, I fell in love with melancholy.
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