Edgar Allan Poe Quotes

Quotes tagged as "edgar-allan-poe" Showing 1-30 of 80
Neil Gaiman
“Hey," said Shadow. "Huginn or Muninn, or whoever you are."
The bird turned, head tipped, suspiciously, on one side, and it stared at him with bright eyes.
"Say 'Nevermore,'" said Shadow.
"Fuck you," said the raven.”
Neil Gaiman, American Gods

Edgar Allan Poe
“Men have called me mad; but the question is not yet settled, whether madness is or is not the loftiest intelligence.”
Edgar Allan Poe

Edgar Allan Poe
“Where the good and the bad and the worst and the best have gone to their eternal rest.”
Edgar Allan Poe, Poems

Edgar Allan Poe
“I saw thee once - only once - years ago:
I must not say how many - but not many.
It was a July midnight; and from out
A full-orbed moon, that, like thine own soul, soaring,
Sought a precipitate pathway up through heaven,
There fell a silvery-silken veil of light,
With quietude, and sultriness, and slumber,
Upon the upturn'd faces of a thousand
Roses that grew in an enchanted garden,
Where no wind dared stir, unless on tiptoe -
Fell on the upturn'd faces of these roses
That gave out, in return for the love-light,
Their odorous souls in an ecstatic death -
Fell on the upturn'd faces of these roses
That smiled and died in the parterre, enchanted
By thee, and by the poetry of thy presence.

Clad all in white, upon a violet bank
I saw thee half reclining; while the moon
Fell upon the upturn'd faces of the roses,
And on thine own, upturn'd - alas, in sorrow!

Was it not Fate, that, on this July midnight -
Was it not Fate, (whose name is also Sorrow,)
That bade me pause before that garden-gate,
To breathe the incense of those slumbering roses?
No footsteps stirred: the hated world all slept,
Save only thee and me. (Oh, Heaven! - oh, G**!
How my heart beats in coupling those two words!)
Save only thee and me. I paused - I looked -
And in an instant all things disappeared.
(Ah, bear in mind the garden was enchanted!)
The pearly lustre of the moon went out:
The mossy banks and the meandering paths,
The happy flowers and the repining trees,
Were seen no more: the very roses' odors
Died in the arms of the adoring airs.
All - all expired save thee - save less than thou:
Save only divine light in thine eyes -
Save but the soul in thine uplifted eyes.
I saw but them - they were the world to me.
I saw but them - saw only them for hours -
Saw only them until the moon went down.
What wild heart-histories seemed to lie enwritten
Upon those crystalline, celestial spheres!
How dark a wo! yet how sublime a hope!
How silently serene a sea of pride!
How daring an ambition! yet how deep -
How fathomless a capacity for love!
But now, at length, dear Dian sank from sight,
Into a western couch of thunder-cloud;
And thou, a ghost, amid the entombing trees
Didst glide away. Only thine eyes remained.
They would not go - they never yet have gone.
Lighting my lonely pathway home that night,
They have not left me (as my hopes have) since.
They follow me - they lead me through the years.
They are my ministers - yet I their slave.
Their office is to illumine and enkindle -
My duty, to be saved by their bright fire,
And purified in their electric fire,
And sanctified in their elysian fire.
They fill my soul with Beauty (which is Hope,)
And are far up in Heaven - the stars I kneel to
In the sad, silent watches of my night;
While even in the meridian glare of day
I see them still - two sweetly scintillant
Venuses, unextinguished by the sun!”
Edgar Allan Poe, The Raven and Other Poems

Edgar Allan Poe
“To Helen

I saw thee once-once only-years ago;
I must not say how many-but not many.
It was a july midnight; and from out
A full-orbed moon, that, like thine own soul, soaring,
Sought a precipitate pathway up through heaven,
There fell a silvery-silken veil of light,
With quietude, and sultriness, and slumber
Upon the upturn'd faces of a thousand
Roses that grew in an enchanted garden,
Where no wind dared to stir, unless on tiptoe-
Fell on the upturn'd faces of these roses
That gave out, in return for the love-light
Thier odorous souls in an ecstatic death-
Fell on the upturn'd faces of these roses
That smiled and died in this parterre, enchanted by thee, by the poetry of thy prescence.

Clad all in white, upon a violet bank
I saw thee half reclining; while the moon
Fell on the upturn'd faces of the roses
And on thine own, upturn'd-alas, in sorrow!

Was it not Fate that, on this july midnight-
Was it not Fate (whose name is also sorrow)
That bade me pause before that garden-gate,
To breathe the incense of those slumbering roses?
No footstep stirred; the hated world all slept,
Save only thee and me. (Oh Heaven- oh, God! How my heart beats in coupling those two worlds!)
Save only thee and me. I paused- I looked-
And in an instant all things disappeared.
(Ah, bear in mind this garden was enchanted!)

The pearly lustre of the moon went out;
The mossy banks and the meandering paths,
The happy flowers and the repining trees,
Were seen no more: the very roses' odors
Died in the arms of the adoring airs.
All- all expired save thee- save less than thou:
Save only the divine light in thine eyes-
Save but the soul in thine uplifted eyes.
I saw but them- they were the world to me.
I saw but them- saw only them for hours-
Saw only them until the moon went down.
What wild heart-histories seemed to lie enwritten
Upon those crystalline, celestial spheres!
How dark a woe! yet how sublime a hope!
How silently serene a sea of pride!
How daring an ambition!yet how deep-
How fathomless a capacity for love!

But now, at length, dear Dian sank from sight,
Into western couch of thunder-cloud;
And thou, a ghost, amid the entombing trees
Didst glide away. Only thine eyes remained.
They would not go- they never yet have gone.
Lighting my lonely pathway home that night,
They have not left me (as my hopes have) since.

They follow me- they lead me through the years.
They are my ministers- yet I thier slave
Thier office is to illumine and enkindle-
My duty, to be saved by thier bright light,
And purified in thier electric fire,
And sanctified in thier Elysian fire.
They fill my soul with Beauty (which is Hope),
And are far up in heaven- the stars I kneel to
In the sad, silent watches of my night;
While even in the meridian glare of day
I see them still- two sweetly scintillant
Venuses, unextinguished by the sun!”
Edgar Allen Poe

Edgar Allan Poe
“I have been happy, though in a dream.
I have been happy-and I love the theme:
Dreams! in their vivid colouring of life
As in that fleeting, shadowy, misty strife”
Edgar Allan Poe

Edgar Allan Poe
“Twas noontide of summer,
And mid-time of night;
And stars, in their orbits,
Shone pale, thro' the light
Of the brighter, cold moon,
'Mid planets her slaves,
Herself in the Heavens,
Her beam on the waves.
I gazed awhile
On her cold smile;
Too cold–too cold for me-
There pass'd, as a shroud,
A fleecy cloud,
And I turned away to thee,
Proud Evening Star,
In thy glory afar,
And dearer thy beam shall be;
For joy to my heart
Is the proud part
Thou bearest in Heaven at night,
And more I admire
Thy distant fire,
Than that colder, lowly light.”
Edgar Allan Poe , The Complete Poetry

Edgar Allan Poe
“The best chess-player in Christendom may be little more than the best player of chess; but proficiency in whist implies capacity for success in all those more important undertakings where mind struggles with mind.”
Edgar Allan Poe

Edgar Allan Poe
“From the dim regions beyond the mountains at the upper end of our encircled domain, there crept out a narrow and deep river, brighter than all save the eyes of Eleonora; and, winding stealthily about in mazy courses, it passed away, at length, through a shadowy gorge, among hills still dimmer than those whence it had issued. We called it the "River of Silence"; for there seemed to be a hushing influence in its flow. No murmur arose from its bed, and so gently it wandered along, that the pearly pebbles upon which we loved to gaze, far down within its bosom, stirred not at all, but lay in a motionless content, each in its own old station, shining on gloriously forever.”
Edgar Allan Poe, Eleonora

Edgar Allan Poe
“..bear in mind that, in general, it is the object of our newspapers rather to create a sensation-to make a point-than to further the cause of truth." Dupin in "The Mystery of Marie Roget”
Edgar Allan Poe, The Mystery of Marie Rogêt

Edgar Allan Poe
“THOU wast all that to me, love,
For which my soul did pine:
A green isle in the sea, love,
A fountain and a shrine
All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers,
And all the flowers were mine.

Ah, dream too bright to last!
Ah, starry Hope, that didst arise
But to be overcast!
A voice from out the Future cries,
"On! on!"—but o'er the Past
(Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies
Mute, motionless, aghast.

For, alas! alas! with me
The light of Life is o'er!
No more—no more—no more—
(Such language holds the solemn sea
To the sands upon the shore)
Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree,
Or the stricken eagle soar.

And all my days are trances,
And all my nightly dreams
Are where thy gray eye glances,
And where thy footstep gleams—
In what ethereal dances,
By what eternal streams.”
Edgar Allan Poe To One in Paradise

Henry N. Beard
The End of the Raven

"On a night quite unenchanting, when the rain was downward slanting
I awakened to the ranting of the man I catch mice for.
Tipsy and a bit unshaven, in a tone I found quite craven,
Poe was talking to a Raven perched above the chamber door.
'Raven's very tasty,' thought I, as I tiptoed o'er the floor.
'There is nothing I like more.'

[...]

Still the Raven never fluttered, standing stock-still as he uttered
In a voice that shrieked and sputtered, his two cents' worth -- 'Nevermore.'
While this dirge the birdbrain kept up, oh, so silently I crept up,
Then I crouched and quickly leapt up, pouncing on the feathered bore.
Soon he was a heap of plumage, and a little blood and gore --
Only this and not much more.”
Henry N. Beard, Poetry for Cats: The Definitive Anthology of Distinguished Feline Verse

Henry James
“An enthusiasm for Poe is the mark of a decidedly primitive stage of reflection. Baudelaire thought him a profound philosopher... Poe was much the greater charlatan of the two, as well as the greater genius.”
Henry James, French Poets and Novelists

Daniel Stashower
“I have not only labored solely for the benefit of others (receiving for myself a miserable pittance), but have been forced to model my thoughts at the will of men whose imbecility was evident to all but themselves"
— Edgar Allan Poe”
Daniel Stashower, The Beautiful Cigar Girl: Mary Rogers, Edgar Allan Poe, and the Invention of Murder

Steen Langstrup
“It’s a case of mistaken identity. It’s one big mistake. You weren’t even in the country when it happened.”

Maja in the short story 'Metro' by Steen Langstrup”
Steen Langstrup, Metro

Edgar Allan Poe
“There is no exquisite beauty," says Bacon, Lord Verulam, speaking truly of all the forms and genera of beauty, "without some strangeness in the proportion.”
Edgar Allan Poe, Ligeia

LindaAnn LoSchiavo
“Clocks ticking, wasted time, reminded [Poe]
The coffin waits and pages lie half done
In desolation. Anonymity’s
Curse frightens writers more than Roderick
Encountering his sister’s open crypt.

- - from my poem "Poe and His Women" - -”
LindaAnn LoSchiavo, A Route Obscure and Lonely

LindaAnn LoSchiavo
“Ligeia, Annabel Lee, and Berenice,
Supernal beauties, pleasing to the eye,
Were temporary mates and marble-cheeked
Like timeless funerary monuments.

Tremaine’s Rowena, Lady Madeline,
Insidiously felled and pushed offstage,
Had met goth’s Mister Goodbar on the page.

First, females got top billed — — then burying.
What makes an author kill his heroines?

[Source: "Poe and His Women" a poem by LindaAnn LoSchiavo; first published by Bewildering Stories Magazine, 2019]”
LindaAnn LoSchiavo, A Route Obscure and Lonely

Chris Mentillo
“I am about to break into a dimension of the impossible. To enter this realm., I must set my mind (hypnotize myself) free from the earthly fetters that bind it. If the events to witness are unbelievable, it is only because my imagination is chained. So I now sit back, relax, and believe...so that I may cross the brink of time and space...into that land we sometimes visit in our dreams -- my horrific forsaken dreams.”
Chris Mentillo, Obliterated: Everything is About To Change

Edgar Allan Poe
“Ah! what is not a dream by day
To him whose eyes are cast
On things around him with a ray
Turned back upon the past?”
Edgar Allan Poe, Edgar Allan Poe

“I Killed Poe
Hearken now I do confess:
That I killed Poe (I could do no less).
After all, he murdered the dear Fortunato,
And then wrote of it in arrogant bravado.

Thus, upon the midnight drear I did go,
To greet the poet upon the stroke.
Indeed, the time had long been set,
To meet the man upon his step.

Misfortunes thus, had made him say,
"You look well friend," only yesterday.
Yet, wrote he falsehoods as to my concern,
About my actions that he loathed and spurned.

But alas, the man had bared the door,
And thus I tapped - ta-ta tap-tap - and nothing more.

It was some moments or so it seemed,
That I demoned to the window to watch him dream.
It amused me so to hear him talk,
To run his gamut of raving thought.

To watch the terror slow creep in,
Bedevil the mind that harbored sin.
Soon I entered into his graven room,
And perched atop his timely tomb.

A beating of wings and he lay on the floor,
And this by merely tapping - ta-ta tap-tap - forevermore.

--Poems on the Run Vol. I”
Douglas Laurent

Edgar Allan Poe
“Sus ojos no tenían vida ni brillo y parecían sin pupilas, y esquivé involuntariamente su mirada vidriosa para contemplar los labios, finos y contraídos. Se entreabrieron, y en una sonrisa de expresión peculiar los dientes de la cambiada Berenice se revelaron lentamente a mis ojos. ¡Ojalá nunca los hubiera visto o, después de verlos, hubiese muerto!”
Edgar Allan Poe, Berenice

Edgar Allan Poe
“¡Los dientes! ¡Los dientes! Estaban aquí y allí y en todas partes, visibles y palpables, ante mí; largos, estrechos, blanquísimos, con los pálidos labios contrayéndose a su alrededor, como en el momento mismo en que habían empezado a distenderse.”
Edgar Allan Poe, Berenice

Edgar Allan Poe
“Sin embargo, su recuerdo estaba repleto de horror, horror más horrible por lo vago, terror más terrible por su ambigüedad. Era una página atroz en la historia de mi existencia, escrita toda con recuerdos oscuros, espantosos, ininteligibles. Luché por descifrarlos, pero en vano, mientras una y otra vez, como el espíritu de un sonido ausente, un agudo y penetrante grito de mujer parecía sonar en mis oídos. Yo había hecho algo. ¿Qué era? Me lo pregunté a mí mismo en voz alta, y los susurrantes ecos del aposento me respondieron: ¿Qué era?”
Edgar Allan Poe, Berenice

Edgar Allan Poe
“And, indeed, if ever that spirit which is entitled Romance-if ever she, the wan and the misty-winged Ashtophet of idolatrous Egypt, presided, as they tell, over marriages ill-omened, then most surely she presided over mine”
Edgar Allan Poe, Ligeia

Polly Shulman
“The Library of Fictional Volumes.”

Ahead of us, silhouetted against a brilliant orange sunset, was a tall, rectangular stone building with banks and banks of windows.

“Fictional volumes?” echoed Cole. “You mean novels and short stories? But why would they keep the ship’s logbooks there? Aren’t logbooks nonfiction?”

Andre said, “It’s not a fiction library. It’s a fictional library of fictional books. Some are fictional fiction and some are fictional nonfiction.”

“Isn’t all fiction fictional? Isn’t that what the word means?” Cole objected. “And what’s fictional nonfiction? That doesn’t mean anything.”

Dr. Rust explained, “The Spectral Library is where we keep books that only exist in books. Like . . . What’s a good example, someone?”

The Mad Trist of Sir Launcelot Canning,” suggested Andre.

“Exactly! The Mad Trist of Sir Launcelot Canning is a work of fiction—it’s a medieval romance. But it only exists in the Poe story ‘The Fall of the House of Usher.’ The narrator reads The Mad Trist to his crazy friend. You can’t find it in any ordinary library, but we have a copy here in our library of fictional books. It’s fictional fiction.”
Polly Shulman, The Poe Estate

Liz Braswell
“Why is a raven like a writing desk?" she prompted.
"I don't know, why?" he asked gamely.
"No- you asked me that, last time. I never figured out the answer myself. But I asked everyone when I woke up- er, came back to Angleland, and even read a great many books on puzzles and riddles to try and solve it. So now I have several answers. So tell me which one is right!"
She began counting on her fingers.
"One: because they both have quills dipped in ink."
Her audience just looked at her gravely.
Alice hurried on to the next.
"Two: the American author, Mr. Edgar Allan Poe, wrote on both."
The Dodo and the Gryphon looked at each other and shrugged helplessly.
"And three- my friend Charles came up with this- because each can produce a few notes, tho' they are very flat!”
Liz Braswell, Unbirthday

Donna Tartt
“We’d gotten off on the subject of writers―from T.H. White and Tolkien to Edgar Allan Poe, another favorite. “My dad says Poe’s a second-rate writer,” I said. “That he’s the Vincent Price of American Letters. But I don’t think that’s fair.”
“No, it isn’t,” said Hobie, seriously pouring himself a cup of tea. “Even if you don’ like Poe―he invented the detective story. And science fiction. In essence, he invented a huge part of the twentieth century. I mean―honestly, I don’t care as much for him as I did as when I was a boy, but even if you don’t like him you can’t dismiss him as a crank.”


We’d gotten off on the subject of writers―from T.H. White and Tolkien to Edgar Allan Poe, another favorite. “My dad says Poe’s a second-rate writer,” I said. “That he’s the Vincent Price of American Letters. But I don’t think that’s fair.”
“No, it isn’t,” said Hobie, seriously pouring himself a cup of tea. “Even if you don’ like Poe―he invented the detective story. And science fiction. In essence, he invented a huge part of the twentieth century. I mean―honestly, I don’t care as much for him as I did as when I was a boy, but even if you don’t like him you can’t dismiss him as a crank.”
Donna Tartt, The Goldfinch

Donna Tartt
“We’d gotten off on the subject of writers―from T.H. White and Tolkien to Edgar Allan Poe, another favorite. “My dad says Poe’s a second-rate writer,” I said. “That he’s the Vincent Price of American Letters. But I don’t think that’s fair.”
“No, it isn’t,” said Hobie, seriously pouring himself a cup of tea. “Even if you don’ like Poe―he invented the detective story. And science fiction. In essence, he invented a huge part of the twentieth century. I mean―honestly, I don’t care as much for him as I did as when I was a boy, but even if you don’t like him you can’t dismiss him as a crank.”
Donna Tartt, The Goldfinch

Donna Tartt
“We’d gotten off on the subject of writers―from T.H. White and Tolkien to Edgar Allan Poe, another favorite. “My dad says Poe’s a second-rate writer,” I said. “That he’s the Vincent Price of American Letters. But I don’t think that’s fair.”
“No, it isn’t,” said Hobie, seriously pouring himself a cup of tea. “Even if you don’t like Poe―he invented the detective story. And science fiction. In essence, he invented a huge part of the twentieth century. I mean―honestly, I don’t care as much for him as I did as when I was a boy, but even if you don’t like him you can’t dismiss him as a crank.”
Donna Tartt, The Goldfinch

« previous 1 3