It’s the birthday of one of the true great American writers: Edgar Allan Poe.
I’ve owned quite a few different compilations of Poe’s work throughout my lifetime, and usually have 2 on my shelf at any one time. Why? Well, I’m not quite sure, but that just happens to be the way it is. I’m certainly not complaining. One is usually much nicer than my beat up copy from school.
Poe is such an interesting case. Not only did he deal with horror and the Macabre, he also beautifully portrayed love.
And nothing highlights Poe’s propensity to combine love and horror than my favorite Poe writing: his poem Annabel Lee.
Isn’t that just the most beautiful and horrifying thing all at once? I’ve never read another writer who makes me enjoy horror in the way that I do with Poe. In fact, I hate being scared. But there’s something about the beauty with which Poe writes that always makes me come back again and again.
So, happy birthday EAP! Thanks for the poems and the stories.