[b]Edgar Allan Poe
And then there are times, Mr. Osgood, when one must just let go. His gaze softened. I believe, he said after a moment, that those are the happiest of times.[/b]
Just not always, right?
…there is no beauty without some strangeness.
Not to mention the other way around.
I was deeply interested in the little family history which he detailed to me with all that candor which a Frenchman indulges whenever mere self is the theme.
Mere self? Isn’t that the center of the universe these days?
The moaning and groaning, The sighing and sobbing, Are quieted now, With that horrible throbbing At heart:—ah, that horrible, Horrible throbbing! The sickness—the nausea— The pitiless pain— Have ceased, with the fever That maddened my brain— With the fever called “Living” That burned in my brain.
That can’t be good.
I’ve been destroying, destroying, destroying myself in longing for poetic truth…
Whatever the fuck that is.
Long suffering had nearly annihilated all my ordinary powers of mind. I was an imbecile—an idiot.
Almost a “chimp” perhaps.