[b]Edgar Allan Poe
I am a writer. Therefore, I am not sane.[/b]
He probably actually wasn’t.
And then there stole into my fancy, like a rich musical note, the thought of what sweet rest there must be in the grave.
I can live with that he thought.
From childhood’s hour I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw
That makes [at least] two of us.
There are some secrets which do not permit themselves to be told. Men die nightly in their beds, wringing the hands of ghostly confessors, and looking them piteously in the eyes — die with despair of heart and convulsion of throat, on account of the hideousness of mysteries which will not suffer themselves to be revealed.
Let’s reveal them anyway.
Sensations are the great things, after all. Should you ever be drowned or hung, be sure and make a note of your sensations; they will be worth to you ten guineas a sheet.
How much is that in American dollars?
After reading all that has been written, and after thinking all that can be thought, on the topics of God and the soul, the man who has a right to say that he thinks at all, will find himself face to face with the conclusion that, on these topics, the most profound thought is that which can be the least easily distinguished from the most superficial sentiment.
But don’t take it personally of course.