"The boundaries which divide Life and Death are at best shadowy and vague. Who shall say where one ends, and where the other begins?" Edgar Allan Poe, The Premature Burial (Bartlett, 642). To venture into the world of Edgar Allan Poe is to embark on a journey to a land filled with perversities of the mind, soul, and body. The joyless existence carved out by his writings is one of lost love, mental anguish, and the premature withering of his subjects. Poe wrote in a style that characterized the sufferings he endured throughout in his pitiful life. From the death of his parents while he was still a child, to the repeated frailty of his love life, to the neuroses of his later years, his life was a ceaseless continuum of one mind-warping tragedy after another. From the very dawning of his existence, Edgar Allan Poe lived a life of hardship; a quality which was reflected in his writings. Poe was born the son of a pair of traveling actors. His father, David, was at best a mediocre a!
ctor who soon deserted his wife and son. His mother Elizabeth, on the contrary, was a charming woman and talented actress. His life, no doubt, would have been much different were it not for the fact that she died of tuberculosis in 1811 when Poe was not qu
. . .
He sank deeper and deeper into a deep depression. As is frequent with artists, nature in his case imitated art. However, the only accurate portrait would be to show a head with a double profile, like that of the Roman god Janus (Asselineau, 414), with one side turned towards reality and the other towards dreams. " (Asselineau, 429) In a last gasp, he visited the home of his childhood sweetheart, Mrs. You cross wasted landscapes, silent, forgotten lands where life and water have both stagnated. He died on October 7, 1849, and in an instant, one of the literary world's brightest stars was extinguished. Now Poe was at his worst financially!
. Some experts say Poe drunk himself i!
nto a stupor and passed out; while others claim he was kidnaped by a group of political thugs, force-fed alcohol, and drug around to election booths. He longed for wealth and luxury, and yet, for all his talent and frenzied efforts, was condemned to destitution. There was only one thing (other than writing) at which Poe seemed to excel while h!
e was of school age. there sat upon my heart an incubus of utterly causeless alarm.
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