How Did Edgar Allan Poe Work?

enough to conjure up a sense of eeriness. This early American writer has been credited with inventing the detective story, pioneering science fiction, and of course, revolutionizing dark fiction. He's the subject of three museums, the Poem Museum in Richmond, Virginia, the Edgar Allan Poe House and Museum in Baltimore, Maryland, and the Edgar Allan Poe National Historic Site in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. Many fans of the writer also enjoy visiting his grave

at Westminster Hall and Burying Ground in Baltimore. Along with his long lasting literary popularity, Poe was equally known for his literary criticism and if his career as a writer now seems inevitable. No one would have suspected it at the beginning. Born in Boston to traveling actors in eighteen o nine, Poe had become an orphan by the age of three. A Scottish immigrant and tobacco merchant, John Allen and his wife Francis, brought Poe to Richmond and raised

him as their foster child. His new father expected that Poe would become a businessman like he was, but the boy had other aspirations. Poe left home to study at the University of Virginia in eighteen twenty six without much support from Allen, who provided him with a meager allowance. In an attempt to increase his income, Poe began gambling, which led him to debt rather than prosperity. Allen refused to cover his losses, and Poe dropped out of university.

The relationship with his father strained. Poe joined the U. S Army and later entered the United States Military Academy at West Point. By that time, he determined that he would become a writer and published his first book, Tamerlane and Other Poems, pieces, largely inspired by Lord Byron. His time at West Point was cut short when he was expelled, probably not as rumors have had it, for drinking, fighting, or nudity, but rather for offenses like skipping class and chapel.

Perhaps the end of his military career was for the best. Poe always knew he was meant to be a writer, and he was right. After West Point, Poe returned to Baltimore, got left out of Allen's will when he died, and began publishing his own short stories, acquiring an editorial position with the magazine Southern Literary Messenger in Richmond. Poe added, literary critics is m to a skill set. His reviews

were known for their critical and exacting nature. But if critics are sometimes accused of operating from a perspective of arrogance, not having done the work themselves, Poe was different. He was a writer himself. Indeed, Pope felt it was his duty to bring American writers up to higher standards. According to the Edgar Allan Poe National Historic Site for the article this episode is based on How Stuff Works. Spoke with Paul Voss, Associate professor of English at Georgia State University.

He said he was on the leading edge of what it meant to be a professional writer. He was a craftsman. He put in the time when Poe was writing, American literature was still in its infancy. Post contemporaries included Herman Melville and Nathaniel Hawthorne, while Mark Twain was just a teenager when Poe died. As a writer and magazine editor, Poe campaigned to improve the profession, pushing for better pay

and copyright laws. At the age of twenty seven, he married thirteen year old for Ginia Clem, his first cousin. He continued writing, moved to New York and Philadelphia, and struggled financially. His situation improved in eighteen forty five when his poem The Raven made him a household name, but two years later, in eighteen forty seven, Virginia died of tuberculosis,

and Poe would soon follow her to the grave. His works include stories like The Tell Tale Heart and The Fall of the House of Usher, plus poems like The Bells and Annabelle Lee. If you're looking to dip your toe in Poe's greatest hits, start with the select works on the Poem Museum website. They're available in full for free online as are his other works now in the

public domain. Following Virginia's death, Poe is reported to have increased his alcohol consumption, but by the summer of eighteen forty nine he had become re engaged to his ex fiancee, Sarah Elmira Royster, but the two were not destined to marry. Stopping in Baltimore while traveling, Poe disappeared for five days. He was spotted near a pub, possibly drunk, wearing strange clothing that was not his, in and out of consciousness. A few mornings later, he died in a hospital at

the age of forty. Many theories have been suggested about his death, ranging from alcohol poisoning to epilepsy to tuberculosis, but another theory posits that Poe fell victim to corrupt politicians in Baltimore who attacked men, drugged and disguised them, and took them to vote repeatedly at various polling places,

and then left them for dead. Originally buried in an unmarked grave and an inauspicious location at Westminster, Poe was moved thanks to Baltimore school children who raised enough money with their eighteen seventy five pennies for Poe project to earn him a monument and a place at the front of the cemetery. He lies near Virginia and her mother, Maria Poe clem among heroes from the American Revolution and

the War of eighteen twelve. Outside of inspiring lovers of the macabre, Poe's work has had a lasting effect on the literature and popular writing that followed him. The Guardian lists Arthur Conan Doyle, Peter Straub, and Jules Verne among those who were influenced by Poe, and states that he quote signals the beginning of what would become a great

Anglo American literary dialogue. The master of Celluloid's Spence, none other than Alfred Hitchcock, has been quoted as stating, it's because I liked Edgar Allan Poe's stories so much that I began to make suspense films. But he was more than a writer. According to Voss, Poe held the belief that there was no puzzle that the human mind can make that the human mind cannot then solve. He tried to test that theory in The Purloined Letter by looking

at the operation of intellect and rationality. His was a rational approach, even to something as carnal and visceral as revenge. As Voss said, his stories still continue to fascinate. Also, not many writers can boast a sports team being named in honor of them, but Poe can. The Baltimore Ravens NFL team owes its name to the hometown heroes most famous poem, and fittingly, its mascot is named Poe. And now this is where an episode would usually wrap up.

But please stay tuned headphones on if you've got them, for a special three D presentation of Poe's poem The Raven. Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary over many acquainting curious volume of Forgotten Law. While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came tapping, as of someone gently rapping, wrapping at my chamber door. To some visitor, I muttered, tapping at my chamber door, Only this and

nothing more. Distinctly, I remember it was in the bleak samber, and each separate dying amber wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished to themorrow. Vainly I had sought to borrow from my book secrease of sorrow, sorrow for the lost Lenore, for the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore, nameless here forever more. And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain thrilled me, filled me

with fantastic terrors never felt before. So that now to still the beating of my heart, I stood, repeating, tis some visitor and treating entrance at my chamber door, some late visitor, in treating entrance at my chamber door. This it is, and nothing more. Presently my soul grew stronger, hesitating than no longer, sir, said I, or madam, truly

your forgiveness, I implore. But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, and so ly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, that I scarce was sure I heard you here. I opened wide the door. Darkness there, and nothing more. Deep into that darkness, peering long, I stood there, wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams. No mortals ever dared to dream before. But the silence was unbroken,

and the stillness gave no token. And the only word they're spoken was the whispered word lenor this, I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word merely this and nothing more, back into the chamber, turning, Oh, my soul within me burning Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before. Surely, said I, surely that is something

at my window lattice. Let me see then what they're attics, And this mystery explore, Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore tis the wind, and nothing more open Here I flung the shutter, when with many a flirt and flutter in their stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore, not the least obesiance made he not a minute stopped or stated he, but with mien of Lord or lady, perched above my chamber door, perched upon a bust of palace just above my chamber door,

perched and sat, and nothing more then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling by the grave and stern decorum of the countenance at war. Though thy crest be shown and shaven, thou, I said, art show no craven, ghastly, grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore. Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Knight's Plutonian shore. Quote the raven never more much. I marveled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, though its answer little meaning,

little relevancy bore. For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door, bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door, with such name as never more. But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only that one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour nothing farther than he uttered, not a feather than he fluttered, till I scarcely more

than muttered other friends have flown before. On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before. Then, the bird said, never more. Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, doubtless, said I what it utters is its only stock and store caught from some happy master, whom a merciful disaster followed fast, and followed faster till his songs one burden bore till the dirges of his hope, that melancholy burden bore of never never more.

But the raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling Straight, I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door. Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking fancy and to fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of Yore, Oh, what this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore meant in croaking? Never more? This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing to the foul, whose fiery eyes now burned into my

bosom's core. This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease, reclining on the cushion's velvet, lining the the lamplike gloated. Or but whose velvet violet lining with the lamplike gloating, Or she shall press nevermore? Then methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censor swung by seraphim, whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor. Hrett I cried, Thy God hath lent thee by these angels.

He hath sent thee rest spite, rest spite, and the penthee from thy memories of Lunore quaf o quaff this kind of penthey, and forget this lost Ludore. Quote the Raven never more profit said, I thing of evil profits still, If bird or devil, whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, desolate yet all undaunted on this desert land, and shaunted on this home by horror, haunted, Tell me truly, I implore. Is there is there balm

in Gilead, Tell me, tell me, I implore. Quote the raven nevermore profit said, I think of evil profits still, if bird or devil, by that heaven that bends above us, by that god we both adore, Tell this soul was sorrow lad, and if within the distant aid and it shall clasp the sainted maiden whom the angel's name Lenore, clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angel's name Lenoir. Quote the raven nevermore be that word our sign of parting bird of fiend, I shrieked up, starting get thee

back into the tempest and the night's plutonian shore. Leave no black plume as a token of the lie thy soul hath spoken, Leave my loneliness unbroken, Quit the bust above my door, Take thy beacout from my heart, and take thy form from off my door. Quote the raven nevermore, and the raven never flitting still, is sitting still, is sitting on that pallid bust of palace just above my

chamber door. And his eyes of all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming, and the lamplight or him streaming throws his shadow on the floor, And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor shall be lifted nevermore. This episode was brought to you an i Heeart three D audio. To experience more podcasts like this, search for i Heeart three D audio in the i heart Radio app. It was based on the article Life and Mysterious Depth of Edgar Allan Poe on

how stuff Works dot Com, written by Carrie Whitney. Brainstuff is a production of I Heart Radio in partnership with how stuff Works dot Com and is produced by Tyler Klang. Or more podcasts in general from my heart Radio, visit the i heart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you listen to your favorite shows