Posted on 01/15/2009 10:40:50 AM PST by rabscuttle385
BY JOHN J. MILLER
On a snowy night toward the end of his life, Edgar Allan Poe delivered a lecture on the origins of the universe. It was an unusual topic -- Poe was always more interested in death than birth -- and the reviews were mixed. Frustrated by the response, Poe announced that 2,000 years would pass before his work was properly admired.
His remarks were soon published as "Eureka: A Prose Poem." The book sold a few hundred copies and then slipped into obscurity, forgotten except for the fact that its author went on to become a giant of American literature in something less than two millennia.
It remains to be seen whether anyone will read Poe in the distant future. As we approach the bicentennial of his birth on Jan. 19, however, it's obvious that Poe is far from "nameless here for evermore."
(Excerpt) Read more at online.wsj.com ...
http://www.videosift.com/video/The-Simpsons-The-Raven
Alan Parson’s “Tales of Mystery and Imagination”, which were songs based upon Poe’s works, was an incredible album... best played loudly and late in the evening.
“His corpse-filled corpus is both engrossing and grotesque.”
Possible new tag line.
Alan Parson’s (your choice), was an incredible album.
bookmark
Poe was one screwed up dude...
Much of his reputation for depravity was due to the scurllious obiturary by Rufus Griswold. His tales were intended as parodies of European Gothic fiction.
Poe was an original. Henry James was a dainty fop who always followed the rules of syntax, convention, and topic. Iconoclasts such as Poe threaten people like James.
Another detractor was Emerson. I believe he once dismissed Poe as "that jingle man." It was probably in reference to "The Bells" -- another original work of poetry by Poe that shattered convention.
But time is the final arbiter of artistic genius. I've read all of Emerson's poems and James' novels. I've also read of all Poe's works -- fiction and poetry.
I still reread Poe. I will never reread Emerson or James.
See my Post # 9.
Uuuh, Henry James was a massive innovator in terms of what the novel could accomplish with psychology, subject matter and point of view. ‘The Turn of the Screw’ is as effective a tale of the supernatural as anything Poe wrote. Harold Bloom doesn’t like Poe either actually.
I thought that most of his writing was conducted under the influence of hallucinogens,
or was that part of the scurrilous obituary?
I would take it with a grain of salt. The idea that drugs spur creativity was always suspect to begin with.
Just for the record, my favorite Poe story is Hop Frog.
That probably says something about me, but I wouldn’t want to explore that road too much... :)
Doesn't surprise me at all. Bloom was a champion of Emerson. Those who champion the charms of "schools" and "literary traditions" have never valued the creativity of those who dismiss tradition.
That seals his doom for me.
I had to read Emerson for a college course. I would rather listen to Bronson Alcott bloviate for days than read Emerson again. Mark Twain's feelings for Emerson mirror my own: The Backwoods Bull in the Boston China Shop.
Emerson was a very outspoken dismisser of tradition. Bloom’s objection to Poe are aesthetic. That he didn’t do anything in his poetry that Shelley and others did better.
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"
Soft upon the rug I treaded,
calm and careful as I headed
Towards his roost atop that dreaded bust of Pallas I deplore.
While the bard and birdie chattered,
I made sure that nothing clattered,
Creaked, or snapped, or fell, or shattered, as I crossed the corridor;
For his house is crammed with trinkets, curios and wierd decor -
Bric-a-brac and junk galore.
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 lept 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.
"Oooo!" my pickled poet cried out,
"Pussycat, it's time I dried out!
Never sat I in my hideout talking to a bird before;
How I've wallowed in self-pity,
while my gallant, valiant kitty
Put and end to that damned ditty" - then I heard him start to snore.
Back atop the door I clambered, eyed that statue I abhor, Jumped - and smashed it on the floor.
Author sadly uncredited
Poe crawls into my bones and stays there. 'nough said.
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