Today, as you may know, is the 162nd anniversary of the
mysterious death of
Edgar Allan Poe. I've babbled about this before, in
...Wearing Clothes That Were Not His Own and in
This Time the Burial ISN'T Premature! (where you can see Sarah J. and me paying special tribute to Edgar at the
Poe Museum here in Richmond, VA), so I won't belabor the point. What I will say is, long before the Intarwebs decided
H. P. Lovecraft and
Great Cthulhu were
über-memes, cultural poachers
focused their attention upon Poe.
And who better? While Lovecraft grappled with dark, unspeakable cosmic forces infesting the universe with malign intent with humans merely inconsequential window dressing, Poe dealt with what were essentially human tragedies, albeit deeply macabre ones. Nothing wrong with either approach, but there's something more...
personal... in Poe's stories.
Which makes them that much more unnerving.
And perfect for late-night October reading.
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Occasional fake date Sarah J. and I pay tribute at the
Poe Birthday Bash in Richmond, VA, January 19, 2009
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