Yea, pretty much a psychotic bundled in nutso sack of neuroses...but brilliant.
Today marks the 201st birthday of Edgar Allen Poe, Victorian writer of gothic tales of suspense, horror, a poet and -most importantly- the creator of the mystery novel. Everyone knows of his well-documented neuroses, his addiction to various substances, and the mysterious (still unknown) manner of his death.
Marrying your 13 year old, first cousin...pretty hot...In Missouri.
Crazy he may be, but he's also one of our own; a literary giant that -while not completely distanced from mother England, did enough to all-but create an essential American noir style of writing, even if he wasn't necessarily the definitive American Author.
Definitive American author, that's me dammit...
But, the truly sad news today is that -for the first time in 60 years, the mysterious visitor to Poe's grave did not come. While the original man died in 1998, his sons were apparently keeping up the tradition of spiriting into the Baltimore lichyard and leaving gifts of cognac and roses. That did not happen, and the world is a poorer place for it. Guess we'll have to start a new tradition next year, then, eh?
Somewhere, a teenager with a Bauhaus album and a dog-eared copy of "The Raven" vowed that this shit won't ever, ever happen again....
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.
`'Tis some visitor,' I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door -
Only this, and nothing more.'
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore -
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
Nameless here for evermore.
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