Edgar Allan Poe Quotes

Quotes tagged as "edgar-allan-poe" Showing 1-30 of 79
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

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

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 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

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

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

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
“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

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

Anya Seton
“I admire the man's genius, I sense in his writings a strong kinship with my own mind; they have a macabre quality, a voluptuous flavor of mystery and evil which attracts me strongly.”
Anya Seton, Dragonwyck

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

E.L. Doctorow
“Committing himself to the freelance’s life he lived at the edge of poverty, a southerner he stood outside of the literary establishment of new England. Poe’s pale expression in his most famous photo shows a man who believed he was born to suffer. If circumstances in his life were not propitious to suffering, he made sure to change them until they were, deep in his understanding almost as to be unconscious was a respect for the driving power of his misery. That it could take manifold forms in ways that he didn’t have to be aware of as if not he, but it could create. “ E.L. Doctorow on Edgar Allan Poe”
E.L. Doctorow, Creationists: Selected Essays: 1993-2006

Edgar Allan Poe
“La desdicha es diversa. La desgracia cunde multiforme sobre la tierra. Desplegada sobre el ancho horizonte como el arco iris, sus colores son tan variados como los de este y también tan distintos y tan íntimamente unidos.”
Edgar Allan Poe, Berenice

Charles Baudelaire
“A martyr to a barburous realm equipped with gas fixtures, a flower that took on strange new colours because its roots had been dipped in poison.
Baudelaire on Edgar Allen Poe”
Charles Baudelaire

Izumi Suzuki
“INSUFFICIENT VEGETABLE OIL,’ quoth the replicator.”
Izumi Suzuki, Terminal Boredom: Stories

Benarrioua Aniss
“The final phrases of Eureka aspire to an era when humanity will collectively merge in union with God. And as we saw before the final phrases of Poe’s works always aspire to this return to the original source, whereas man is faced before the truth, and not yet the universal truth of oneness, but a conclusion that aspires to this call to emergence within the divine. This pantheistic notion that he called to in his works became a multi-universal realization in Eureka. Poe reflected everything on God and God to everything but also celebrated that individuality of Man and he saw it as the reflection of God. In this view, each becomes his own God with unlimited powers of creativity through which he too builds his own universe within another universe, and potentially many other universes. What happens afterward, is something we have to find ourselves. But what Poe displayed in his works to us was the perfect example of Jungian Individuation, of gnostic solar consciousness, mystical experience and cosmological unity all condensed in a short lifetime of Poe’s most metaphysical and divine works.”
Benarrioua Aniss

Edgar Allan Poe
“The mental features discoursed of as the
analytical, are, in themselves, but little susceptible of analysis. We appreciate
them only in their effects. We know of them, among other things, that they are
always to their possessor, when inordinately possessed, a source of the liveliest
enjoyment. As the strong man exults in his physical ability, delighting in such
exercises as call his muscles into action, so glories the analyst in that moral
activity which disentangles. He derives pleasure from even the most trivial
occupations bringing his talents into play. He is fond of enigmas, of
conundrums, of hieroglyphics; exhibiting in his solutions of each a degree of
acumen which appears to the ordinary apprehension preternatural. His results,
brought about by the very soul and essence of method, have, in truth, the whole
air of intuition.”
Edgar Allan Poe, The Murders in the Rue Morgue

Sarah Helen Whitman
“Star of resplendent front! thy glorious eye
Shines on me still from out yon clouded sky, —
Shines on me through the horrors of a night
More drear than ever fell o'er day so bright, —
Shines till the envious Serpent slinks away,
And pales and trembles at thy steadfast ray.

Hast thou not stooped from heaven, fair star! to be
So near me in this hour of agony? —
So near, — so bright, — so glorious, that I seem
To lie entranced as in some wondrous dream, —
All earthly joys forgot, — all earthly fear,
Purged in the light of thy resplendent sphere:
Kindling within my soul a pure desire
To blend with thine its incandescent fire, —
To lose my very life in thine, and be
Soul of thy soul through all eternity.”
Sarah Helen Whitman

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