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It may well be doubted whether human ingenuity can construct an enigma... which human ingenuity may not, by proper application, resolve.
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
Whether
Doubted
May
Construct
Wells
Ingenuity
Human
Constructs
Humans
Application
Well
Resolve
Proper
Doubt
Enigma
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The past is a pebble in my shoe.
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As a viewed myself in a fragment of looking-glass..., I was so impressed with a sense of vague awe at my appearance ... that I was seized with a violent tremour.
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I have before suggested that a genuine blackguard is never without a pocket-handkerchief.
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Tell me truly, I implore-- Is there-- is there balm in Gilead?--tell me--tell me, I implore!
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It is by no means an irrational fancy that, in a future existence, we shall look upon what we think our present existence, as a dream.
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The best things in life make you sweaty.
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It will be found, in fact, that the ingenious are always fanciful, and the truly imaginative never otherwise than analytic.
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Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before.
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Deep in earth my love is lying And I must weep alone.
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Men have called me mad but the question is not yet settled, whether madness is or is not the loftiest intelligence.
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Books, indeed, were his sole luxuries
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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.
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I was a child and she was a child, In this kingdom by the sea But we loved with a love that was more than love- I and my Annabel Lee With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven Coveted her and me.
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We allude to the short prose narrative, requiring from a half hour to one or two hours in its perusal
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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.
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Once upon a midnight dreary
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And travellers, now, within that valley, Through the red-litten windows see Vast forms, that move fantastically To a discordant melody, While, like a ghastly rapid river, Through the pale door A hideous throng rush out forever And laugh — but smile no more.
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There is no beauty without some strangeness
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Mournful and Never-ending Remembrance.
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Men die nightly in their beds, wringing the hands of ghostly confessors ... on account of the hideousness of mysteries which will not suffer themselves to be revealed.
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