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Sensations are the great things, after all. Should you ever be drowned or hung, be sure and make a note of your sensations they will be worth to you ten guineas a sheet.

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
Things
Note
Notes
Guineas
Ten
Guinea
Worth
Drowned
Sure
Sheet
Ever
Sheets
Great
Sensations
Make
Hung

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Music, when combined with a pleasurable idea, is poetry music, without the idea, is simply music the idea, without the music, is prose, from its very definitiveness.
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And the life of the ebony clock went out with that of the last of the gay. And the flames of the tripods expired. And Darkness and Decay and the Red Death held illimitable dominion over all.
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And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me — filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating, Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door — Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door — This it is, and nothing more.
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The true genius shudders at incompleteness.
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For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams Of the beautiful Annabel Lee And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes Of the beautiful Annabel Lee And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side Of my darling- my darling- my life and my bride, In the sepulchre there by the sea, In her tomb by the sounding sea.
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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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Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary.
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And I fell violently on my face.
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A poem deserves its title only inasmuch as it excites, by elevating the soul.
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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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The analytical power should not be confounded with simple ingenuity for while the analyst is necessarily ingenious, the ingenious man is often remarkably incapable of analysis.
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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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To speak algebraically, Mr. M. is execrable, but Mr. G. is (x + 1)- ecrable.
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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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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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If we examine a work of ordinary art, by means of a powerful microscope, all traces of resemblance to nature will disappear - but the closest scrutiny of the photogenic drawing discloses only a more absolute truth, a more perfect identity of aspect with the thing represented.
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Thou wouldst be loved? - then let thy heart From its present pathway part not! Being everything which now thou art, Be nothing which thou art not. So with the world thy gentle ways, Thy grace, thy more than beauty, Shall be an endless theme of praise, And love - a simple duty.
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the truth is, I am heartily sick of this life & of the nineteenth century in general. (I am convinced that every thing is going wrong.)
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All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream.
Edgar Allan Poe