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And all I loved, I loved alone.

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
Loved
Alone

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I found him well educated, with unusual powers of mind, but infected with misanthropy, and subject to perverse moods of alternate enthusiasm and melancholy.
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Where the good and the bad and the worst and the best have gone to their eternal rest.
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A strong argument for the religion of Christ is this - that offences against Charity are about the only ones which men on their death-beds can be made - not to understand - but to feel - as crime.
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The past is a pebble in my shoe.
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It would be mockery to call such dreariness heaven at all.
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I hold that a long poem does not exist. I maintain that the phrase, a long poem, is simply a flat contradiction in terms.
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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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Whether people grow fat by joking, or whether there is something in fat itself which predisposes to a joke, I have never been quite able to determine.
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The plots of God are perfect. The Universe is a plot of God.
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But in the expression of the countenance, which was beaming all over with smiles, there still lurked (incomprehensible anomalyl) that fitful strain of melancholy which will ever be found inseparable from the perfection of the beautiful.
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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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The generous Critic fann'd the Poet's fire, And taught the world with reason to admire.
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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 the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting...
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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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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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Alas! for that accursed time They bore thee o'er the billow, From love to titled age and crime, And an unholy pillow! From me, and from our misty clime, Where weeps the silver willow!
Edgar Allan Poe
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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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I might refer at once, if necessary, to a hundred well authenticated instances. One of very remarkable character, and of which the circumstances may be fresh in the memory of some of my readers, occurred, not very long ago, in the neighboring city of Baltimore, where it occasioned a painful, intense, and widely extended excitement.
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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.
Edgar Allan Poe