The Fall of the House of Usher

by Edgar Allan Poe

I dread the activities of the future, now not in themselves, however in their outcomes. I shudder at the idea of any, even the most trivial, incident, which may perform upon this insupportable agitation of soul.

And hence, as a more in-depth and nonetheless closer intimacy admitted me greater unreservedly into the recesses of his spirit, the extra bitterly did I understand the futility of all attempt at cheering a mind from which darkness, as if an inherent positive exceptional, poured forth upon all gadgets of the ethical and bodily universe in one unceasing radiation of gloom.

They ought to have been, and had been, in the notes, as well as within the words of his wild fantasias (for he not unfrequently followed himself with rhymed verbal improvisations), the end result of that excessive intellectual collectedness and awareness to which I have previously alluded as observable most effective specially moments of the highest synthetic excitement.

The radiance become that of the full, setting, and blood-purple moon which now shone vividly thru that when slightly-discernible fissure of which I even have earlier than spoken as extending from the roof of the constructing, in a zigzag path, to the bottom.