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The eye, like a shattered mirror, multiplies the images of sorrow
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
Shattered
Images
Mirror
Mirrors
Sorrow
Eye
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Multiplies
More quotes by Edgar Allan Poe
Out- out are the lights- out all! And, over each quivering form, The curtain, a funeral pall, Comes down with the rush of a storm, While the angels, all pallid and wan, Uprising, unveiling, affirm That the play is the tragedy, Man, And its hero the Conqueror Worm.
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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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Me volví loco, con largos intervalos de horrible cordura.
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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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If I could dwell where Israfel hath dwelt and he where I he might not sing so wildly well a mortal melody while a bolder note then this might swell from my lyre in the sky.
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We had always dwelled together, beneath a tropical sun, in the Valley of the Many Colored Grass.
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The best things in life make you sweaty.
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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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Decorum -- that bug-bear which deters so many from bliss until the opportunity for bliss has forever gone by.
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Books, indeed, were his sole luxuries
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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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Tell me truly, I implore-- Is there-- is there balm in Gilead?--tell me--tell me, I implore!
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I wish I could write as mysterious as a cat.
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When, indeed, men speak of Beauty, they mean, precisely, not a quality, as is supposed, but an effect - they refer, in short, just to that intense and pure elevation of soul - not of intellect, or of heart.
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Blood was its Avatar and its seal.
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The plots of God are perfect. The Universe is a plot of God.
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Many years ago, I contracted an intimacy with a Mr. William Legrand. He was of an ancient Huguenot family, and had once been wealthy but a series of misfortunes had reduced him to want.
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The greater amount of truth is impulsively uttered thus the greater amount is spoken, not written.
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Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!” Quoth the raven, “Nevermore.
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I was never really insane except upon occasions when my heart was touched.
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