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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.)

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
Thing
Heartily
Going
Nineteenth
Every
Convinced
Life
Sick
General
Century
Wrong
Truth

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A poem in my opinion, is opposed to a work of science by having for its immediate object, pleasure, not truth.
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Those who gossip with you will gossip about you.
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A mystery, and a dream, should my early life seem.
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Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary.
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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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I have, indeed, no abhorrence of danger, except in its absolute effect - in terror.
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Truth is not always in a well. In fact, as regards the more important knowledge, I do believe that she is invariably superficial. The depth lies in the valleys where we seek her, and not upon the mountain-tops where she is found.
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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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The greater amount of truth is impulsively uttered thus the greater amount is spoken, not written.
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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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Hear the mellow wedding bells, Golden bells! What a world of happiness their harmony foretells Through the balmy air of night How they ring out their delight! From the molten golden notes, And all in tune What a liquid ditty floats To the turtle-dove that listens while she gloats On the moon!
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Blood was its Avatar and its seal.
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Sleep, those little slices of death — how I loathe them.
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The depth lies in the valleys where we seek her, and not upon the mountain-tops where she is found.
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The past is a pebble in my shoe.
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I was never really insane except upon occasions when my heart was touched.
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If a man deceives me once, shame on him if he deceives me twice, shame on me.
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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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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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Believe me, there exists no such dilemma as that in which a gentleman is placed when he is forced to reply to a blackguard.
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