Jenna

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But none of these elements does more than forward the real subject of Poe’s work, which is the anguish of knowing nothing for sure about the construct of the universe, or about the existence of a moral order within it—anything that would clarify its seemingly total and imperial indifference toward individual destiny. Poe is no different from any of us—we all choke in such vapors, somewhat, sometimes. A normal life includes the occasional black mood.
Winter Hours: Prose, Prose Poems, and Poems
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