Edgar Allan Poe
Edgar Allan Poe
Edgar Allan Poewas an American writer, editor, and literary critic. Poe is best known for his poetry and short stories, particularly his tales of mystery and the macabre. He is widely regarded as a central figure of Romanticism in the United States and American literature as a whole, and he was one of the country's earliest practitioners of the short story. Poe is generally considered the inventor of the detective fiction genre and is further credited with contributing to the...
NationalityAmerican
ProfessionPoet
Date of Birth19 January 1809
CityBoston, MA
CountryUnited States of America
There was an iciness, a sinking, a sickening of the heart - an unredeemed dreariness of thought which no goading of the imagination could torture into aught of the sublime
In the one instance, the dreamerloses sight of this object in a wilderness of deductions and suggestionsuntilhe finds the incitamentum, or first cause of his musings,... forgotten. In my case, the primary object was invariably frivolous, although assuming, through the medium of my distempered vision, a refracted and unreal importance.
The nose of a mob is its imagination. By this, at any time, it can be quietly led.
It will be found, in fact, that the ingenious are always fanciful, and the truly imaginative never otherwise than analytic.
They who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night.
Yes, I now feel that it was then on that evening of sweet dreams- that the very first dawn of human love burst upon the icy night of my spirit. Since that period I have never seen nor heard your name without a shiver half of delight, half of anxiety.
I was never really insane, except on occasions where my heart was touched.
Is all that we see or seem but a dream within a dream.
I am a writer. Therefore. I am not sane.
To be thoroughly conversant with a man's heart, is to take our final lesson in the iron-clasped volume of despair.
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,/ Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,/ As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
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
Edgar Allan Poe and Bram Stoker: A Meeting of the Macabre.
As an individual, I myself feel impelled to fancy a limitless succession of Universes. Each exists, apart and independently, in the bosom of its proper and particular God.