Edgar Allan Poe was 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 emerging genre of science fiction. He was the first well-known American writer to try to earn a living through writing alone, resulting in a financially difficult life and career.
Deep Into That Darkness Peering, Long I Stood There, Wondering, Fearing, Doubting, Dreaming Dreams No Mortal Ever Dared To Dream Before.
Once Upon A Midnight Dreary, While I Pondered Weak And Weary.
That Pleasure Which Is At Once The Most Pure, The Most Elevating And The Most Intense, Is Derived, I Maintain, From The Contemplation Of The Beautiful.
I Wish I Could Write As Mysterious As A Cat.
The True Genius Shudders At Incompleteness - And Usually Prefers Silence To Saying Something Which Is Not Everything It Should Be.
Man's Real Life Is Happy, Chiefly Because He Is Ever Expecting That It Soon Will Be So.
I Have Great Faith In Fools; Self-confidence My Friends Call It.
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.
Beauty Of Whatever Kind, In Its Supreme Development, Invariably Excites The Sensitive Soul To Tears.
Were I Called On To Define, Very Briefly, The Term Art, I Should Call It 'The Reproduction Of What The Senses Perceive In Nature Through The Veil Of The Soul.' The Mere Imitation, However Accurate, Of What Is In Nature, Entitles No Man To The Sacred Name Of 'Artist.'
The Boundaries Which Divide Life From Death Are At Best Shadowy And Vague. Who Shall Say Where The One Ends, And Where The Other Begins?
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.
In Criticism I Will Be Bold, And As Sternly, Absolutely Just With Friend And Foe. From This Purpose Nothing Shall Turn Me.
With Me Poetry Has Not Been A Purpose, But A Passion.
The Nose Of A Mob Is Its Imagination. By This, At Any Time, It Can Be Quietly Led.
To Vilify A Great Man Is The Readiest Way In Which A Little Man Can Himself Attain Greatness.
Stupidity Is A Talent For Misconception.
There Are Few Cases In Which Mere Popularity Should Be Considered A Proper Test Of Merit; But The Case Of Song-writing Is, I Think, One Of The Few.
I Have, Indeed, No Abhorrence Of Danger, Except In Its Absolute Effect - In Terror.
All Religion, My Friend, Is Simply Evolved Out Of Fraud, Fear, Greed, Imagination, And Poetry.
It Will Be Found, In Fact, That The Ingenious Are Always Fanciful, And The Truly Imaginative Never Otherwise Than Analytic.
The Death Of A Beautiful Woman, Is Unquestionably The Most Poetical Topic In The World.
Words Have No Power To Impress The Mind Without The Exquisite Horror Of Their Reality.
The Ninety And Nine Are With Dreams, Content But The Hope Of The World Made New, Is The Hundredth Man Who Is Grimly Bent On Making Those Dreams Come True.
We Loved With A Love That Was More Than Love.
Experience Has Shown, And A True Philosophy Will Always Show, That A Vast, Perhaps The Larger Portion Of The Truth Arises From The Seemingly Irrelevant.
In One Case Out Of A Hundred A Point Is Excessively Discussed Because It Is Obscure; In The Ninety-nine Remaining It Is Obscure Because It Is Excessively Discussed.
That Man Is Not Truly Brave Who Is Afraid Either To Seem Or To Be, When It Suits Him, A Coward.
If You Wish To Forget Anything On The Spot, Make A Note That This Thing Is To Be Remembered.
The Generous Critic Fann'd The Poet's Fire, And Taught The World With Reason To Admire.
Of Puns It Has Been Said That Those Who Most Dislike Them Are Those Who Are Least Able To Utter Them.
The Rudiment Of Verse May, Possibly, Be Found In The Spondee.
It Is The Nature Of Truth In General, As Of Some Ores In Particular, To Be Richest When Most Superficial.
I Would Define, In Brief, The Poetry Of Words As The Rhythmical Creation Of Beauty.
I Am Above The Weakness Of Seeking To Establish A Sequence Of Cause And Effect, Between The Disaster And The Atrocity.
I Need Scarcely Observe That A Poem Deserves Its Title Only Inasmuch As It Excites, By Elevating The Soul. The Value Of The Poem Is In The Ratio Of This Elevating Excitement.
Lord, Help My Poor Soul.
I Became Insane, With Long Intervals Of Horrible Sanity.
A Strong Argument For The Religion Of Christ Is This - That Offences Against Charity Are About The Only Ones Which Men On Their Death-beds Can Be Made - Not To Understand - But To Feel - As Crime.
Science Has Not Yet Taught Us If Madness Is Or Is Not The Sublimity Of The Intelligence.
All That We See Or Seem Is But A Dream Within A Dream.
They Who Dream By Day Are Cognizant Of Many Things Which Escape Those Who Dream Only By Night.
I Have No Faith In Human Perfectability. I Think That Human Exertion Will Have No Appreciable Effect Upon Humanity. Man Is Now Only More Active - Not More Happy - Nor More Wise, Than He Was 6000 Years Ago.