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Boston: Their hotels are bad. Their pumpkin pies are delicious. Their poetry is not so good.
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
Hotel
Poetry
Good
Pies
Hotels
Pumpkin
Pie
Boston
Delicious
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I have before suggested that a genuine blackguard is never without a pocket-handkerchief.
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In spite of the air of fablethe public were still not at all disposed to receive it as fable. I thence concluded that the facts of my narrative would prove of such a nature as to carry with them sufficient evidence of their own authenticity.
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All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream.
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We gave him a hearty welcome, for there was nearly half as much of the entertaining as of the contemptible about the man.
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Those who gossip with you will gossip about you.
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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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It will be found, in fact, that the ingenious are always fanciful, and the truly imaginative never otherwise than analytic.
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Literature is the most noble of professions. In fact, it is about the only one fit for a man.
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He is, as you say, a remarkable horse, a prodigious horse, although as you very justly observe, a suspicious and untractable character.
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...for her whom in life thou dids't abhor, in death thou shalt adore
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The best things in life make you sweaty.
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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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Sleep, those little slices of death — how I loathe them.
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A mystery, and a dream, should my early life seem.
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The death then of a beautiful woman is unquestionably the most poetical topic in the world, and equally is it beyond doubt that the lips best suited for such topic are those of a bereaved lover.
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The people have nothing to do with the laws but to obey them.
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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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Yet we met and fate bound us together at the alter,and I never spoke of passion nor thought of love. She, however shunned society, and, attaching herself to me alone rendered me happy. It is a happiness to wonder it is a happiness to dream.
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I have great faith in fools,— self-confidence my friends will call it.
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The eye, like a shattered mirror, multiplies the images of sorrow
Edgar Allan Poe
