"Men have called me mad; but the question is not yet settled, whether madness is or is not the loftiest intelligence– whether much that is glorious– whether all that is profound– does not spring from disease of thought– from moods of mind exalted at the expense of the general intellect "
Today is the birthday of the master of horror, Edgar Allen Poe. The pioneer of darkness slipped from this world a young man of forty. It is amazing how young that seems the older I get. The inventor of mystery lived hard. He lived a life of loss, sadness, longing, passion and poverty. (I fear I identify with him way too much.) The last few days of his life are shrouded in mystery. Found by the editor acquaintance in Baltimore he was hospitalized and died of what we don't know.
Adding to the mysterious lore of Poe for the last 200 years a cloaked figure has come to his grave. Leaving roses and cognac was a yearly tradition that has come to an end. For the second year in a row the midnight visitor was no more.
I am pretty sure there is a story there...mmm.
(Favorite Poe Poem Quote)
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door--
Only this, and nothing more."
To find more information on the life of Poe.
To see the article that inspired this post.