Edgar Allan Poe

Men of genius are far more abundant than is supposed. In fact, to appreciate thoroughly the work of what we call genius, is to possess all the genius by which the work was produced.

The generous Critic fann'd the Poet's fire, And taught the world with reason to admire.

The death of a beautiful woman, is unquestionably the most poetical topic in the world.

I am above the weakness of seeking to establish a sequence of cause and effect, between the disaster and the atrocity.

Believe me, there exists no such dilemma as that in which a gentleman is placed when he is forced to reply to a blackguard.

In efforts to soar above our nature, we invariably fall below it.

The goodness of your true pun is in the direct ratio of its intolerability.

Dreams are the eraser dust I blow off my page._x000D_ _x000D_ They fade into the emptiness, another dark gray day._x000D_ _x000D_ Dreams are only memories of the plans I had back then._x000D_ _x000D_ Dreams are eraser dust and now I use a pen.

Every poem should remind the reader that they are going to die.

In death - no! even in the grave all is not lost. Else there is no immortality for man. Arousing from the most profound slumbers, we break the gossamer web of some dream. Yet in a second afterward, (so frail may that web have been) we remember not that we have dreamed.

If you are ever drowned or hung, be sure and make a note of your sensations.

That single thought is enough. The impulse increases to a wish, the wish to a desire, the desire to an uncontrollable longing, and the longing (to the deep regret and mortification of the speaker, and in defiance of all consequences,) is indulged.

And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.

Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!” Quoth the raven, “Nevermore.

If we cannot comprehend God in his visible works, how then in his inconceivable thoughts, that call the works into being?

Alas! for that accursed time They bore thee o'er the billow, From love to titled age and crime, And an unholy pillow! From me, and from our misty clime, Where weeps the silver willow!

True! - nervous - very, very nervous I had been and am; but why will you say that I am mad?

The pioneers and missionaries of religion have been the real cause of more trouble and war than all other classes of mankind.

A short story must have a single mood and every sentence must build towards it.

And the Raven, never flitting, Still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas Just above my chamber door; And his eyes have all the seeming Of a demon's that is dreaming, And the lamplight o'er him streaming Throws his shadow on the floor, And my soul from out that shadow, That lies floating on the floor, Shall be lifted - nevermore.

Sometimes I’m terrified of my heart; of its constant hunger for whatever it is it wants. The way it stops and starts.