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True! - nervous - very, very nervous I had been and am but why will you say that I am mad?
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
Mad
Nervous
True
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Beauty is the sole legitimate province of the poem.
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And I fell violently on my face.
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In me didst thou exist-and, in my death, see by this image, which is thine own, how utterly thou hast murdered thyself.
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...And, all at once, the moon arouse through the thin ghastly mist, And was crimson in color... And they lynx which dwelleth forever in the tomb, came out therefrom. And lay down at the feet of the demon. And looked at him steadily in the face.
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You call it hope-that fire of fire! It is but agony of desire.
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There are chords in the hearts of the most reckless which cannot be touched without emotion.
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If you are ever drowned or hung, be sure and make a note of your sensations.
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The fever called living Is conquer'd at last.
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To speak algebraically, Mr. M. is execrable, but Mr. G. is (x + 1)- ecrable.
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All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream.
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Quoth the Raven, Nevermore.
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If we cannot comprehend God in his visible works, how then in his inconceivable thoughts, that call the works into being?
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I wish I could write as mysterious as a cat.
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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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Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary.
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There is then no analogy whatever between the operations of the Chess-Player, and those of the calculating machine of Mr. Babbage , and if we choose to call the former a pure machine we must be prepared to admit that it is, beyond all comparison, the most wonderful of the inventions of mankind.
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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
...for her whom in life thou dids't abhor, in death thou shalt adore
Edgar Allan Poe
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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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.
Edgar Allan Poe
