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Books, indeed, were his sole luxuries
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
Luxury
Indeed
Books
Book
Luxuries
Sole
More quotes by Edgar Allan Poe
There are certain themes of which the interest is all-absorbing, but which are too entirely horrible for the purposes of legitimate fiction.
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I could have clasped the red walls to my bosom as a garment of eternal peace. Death, I said, any death but that of the pit! Fool! might I have not known that into the pit it was the object of the burning iron to urge me?
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Odors have an altogether peculiar force, in affecting us through association a force differing essentially from that of objects addressing the touch, the taste, the sight or the hearing.
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The goodness of your true pun is in the direct ratio of its intolerability.
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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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Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!
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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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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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For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams of the beautiful Annabel Lee
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Villains!' I shrieked. 'Dissemble no more! I admit the deed! Tear up the planks! Here, here! It is the beating of his hideous heart!
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And much of Madness, and more of Sin, And Horror the soul of the plot.
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The eye, like a shattered mirror, multiplies the images of sorrow
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And all I loved, I loved alone.
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That man is not truly brave who is afraid either to seem or to be, when it suits him, a coward.
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Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary.
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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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The generous Critic fann'd the Poet's fire, And taught the world with reason to admire.
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Prophet! said I, thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! By that Heaven that bends above us- by that God we both adore- Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore- Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore. Quoth the Raven, Nevermor
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Lord help my poor soul.
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A mystery, and a dream, should my early life seem.
Edgar Allan Poe