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“Hey," said Shadow. "Huginn or Muninn, or whoever you are."
The bird turned, head tipped, suspiciously, on one side, and it stared at him with bright eyes.
"Say 'Nevermore,'" said Shadow.
"Fuck you," said the raven.”
― Neil Gaiman, American Gods

“Every moment of the night
Forever changing places
And they put out the star-light
With the breath from their pale faces”
― Edgar Allen Poe

“I am no king, and I am no lord,
And I am no soldier at-arms," said he.
"I'm none but a harper, and a very poor harper,
That am come hither to wed with ye."

"If you were a lord, you should be my lord,
And the same if you were a thief," said she.
"And if you are a harper, you shall be my harper,
For it makes no matter to me, to me,
For it makes no matter to me."

"But what if it prove that I am no harper?
That I lied for your love most monstrously?"

"Why, then I'll teach you to play and sing,
For I dearly love a good harp," said she.”
― Peter S. Beagle, The Last Unicorn

“Men have called me mad; but the question is not settled whether madness is or is not the loftiest intelligence -- whether much that is glorious -- whether all that is profound -- does not spring from disease of thought -- from moods of mind exalted at the expense of the general intellect. They who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who only dream by night. In their gray visions they obtain glimpses of eternity, and thrill, in waking, to find that they have been upon the verge of the great secret. In snatches, they learn something of the wisdom which is of good, and more of the mere knowledge which is of evil. They penetrate, however rudderless or compassless, into the vast ocean of the ‘light ineffableâ€�.”
― Edgar Allan Poe, Eleonora

“For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling- my darling- my life and my bride,
In the sepulchre there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.”
― Edgar Allan Poe

“Say 'Nevermore,'" said Shadow.
"Fuck You," said the Raven.”
― Neil Gaiman, American Gods

“I

Hear the sledges with the bells -
Silver bells!
What a world of merriment their melody foretells!
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,
In the icy air of night!
While the stars that oversprinkle
All the heavens, seem to twinkle
With a crystalline delight;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells
From the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells -
From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.


II

Hear the mellow wedding bells -
Golden bells!
What a world of happiness their harmony foretells!
Through the balmy air of night
How they ring out their delight! -
From the molten - golden notes,
And all in tune,
What a liquid ditty floats
To the turtle - dove that listens, while she gloats
On the moon!
Oh, from out the sounding cells,
What a gush of euphony voluminously wells!
How it swells!
How it dwells
On the Future! - how it tells
Of the rapture that impels
To the swinging and the ringing
Of the bells, bells, bells -
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells -
To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells!


III

Hear the loud alarum bells -
Brazen bells!
What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells!
In the startled ear of night
How they scream out their affright!
Too much horrified to speak,
They can only shriek, shriek,
Out of tune,
In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,
In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire,
Leaping higher, higher, higher,
With a desperate desire,
And a resolute endeavor
Now - now to sit, or never,
By the side of the pale - faced moon.
Oh, the bells, bells, bells!
What a tale their terror tells
Of Despair!
How they clang, and clash and roar!
What a horror they outpour
On the bosom of the palpitating air!
Yet the ear, it fully knows,
By the twanging,
And the clanging,
How the danger ebbs and flows;
Yet the ear distinctly tells,
In the jangling,
And the wrangling,
How the danger sinks and swells,
By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells -
Of the bells -
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells -
In the clamor and the clanging of the bells!


IV

Hear the tolling of the bells -
Iron bells!
What a world of solemn thought their monody compels!
In the silence of the night,
How we shiver with affright
At the melancholy menace of their tone!
For every sound that floats
From the rust within their throats
Is a groan.
And the people - ah, the people -
They that dwell up in the steeple,
All alone,
And who, tolling, tolling, tolling,
In that muffled monotone,
Feel a glory in so rolling
On the human heart a stone -
They are neither man nor woman -
They are neither brute nor human -
They are Ghouls: -
And their king it is who tolls: -
And he rolls, rolls, rolls,
Rolls
A paean from the bells!
And his merry bosom swells
With the paean of the bells!
And he dances, and he yells;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the paean of the bells: -
Of the bells:
Keeping time, time, time
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the throbbing of the bells -
Of the bells, bells, bells: -
To the sobbing of the bells: -
Keeping time, time, time,
As he knells, knells, knells,
In a happy Runic rhyme,
To the rolling of the bells -
Of the bells, bells, bells -
To the tolling of the bells -
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells, -
To the moaning and the groaning of the bells. ”
― Edgar Allan Poe

“When, indeed, men speak of Beauty, they mean, precisely, not a quality, as is supposed, but an effect - they refer, in short, just to that intense and pure elevation of soul - not of intellect, or of heart.”
― Edgar Allan Poe

“Ceux qui revent eveilles ont conscience de 1000 choses qui echapent a ceux qui ne revent qu'endormis.
The one who has day dream are aware of 1000 things that the one who dreams only when he sleeps will never understand.
(it sounds better in french, I do what I can with my translation...)”
― Edgar Allan Poe

“Headache is always preferable to heartache, and if you’re focusing on not throwing up, you aren’t thinking about how the friends of your youth are dying around you.”
― T. Kingfisher, What Moves the Dead

“Is it also true that you drank to excess?â€� Isobel asked, flipping to the next index card.
Poe scoffed at the question, his response simply “Nyeh.�
Varen’s head snapped so quickly toward her father that Isobel was surprised the sunglasses hadn’t flown off.
“Well, sometimes,� Poe corrected himself. Shifting, he stooped in his seat.
Varen’s stare remained.
“Often,â€� Poe growled, angling away, pulling his already tight jacket around himself even tighter.”
― Kelly Creagh, Nevermore

“A wrong is unredressed when retribution overtakes its redresser. It is equally unredressed when the avenger fails to make himself felt as such to him who has done the wrong.”
― Edgar Allan Poe

“...like a scene from the swamps of Louisiana or the mind of Poe on opium.”
― Dean Koontz, The Taking

“To him, who still would gaze upon the glory of the summer sun, there comes, when that sun will from him part, a sullen hopelessness of heart.”
― Edgar Allan Poe

“Sing a song of suspense in which the players die.
Four and twenty ravens in an Edgar Allan Pie.
When the pie was broken, the ravens couldn't sing.
Their throats had been sliced open by Stephen, the new King.
The King was in his writing house, stifling a laugh
While his queen was in a tizzy of her bloody Lovecraft.
When the dead maid got the garden for her rank as royal whore,
King's shovel made it double and he married nevermore.”
― Jessica McHugh

“The modern story begun, one might say, with Edgar Allan Poe, which proceeds inexorably, like a machine destined to accomplish its mission with the maximum economy of means.”
― Julio Cortázar, Around the Day in Eighty Worlds

“En la extraña anomalía de mi existencia, los sentimientos en mí nunca venían del ³¦´Ç°ù²¹³úó²Ô, y las pasiones siempre venían de la inteligencia.”
― Edgar Allan Poe, Berenice

“If I could dwell where Israfel hath dwelt and he where I he might not sing so wildly well a mortal melody while a bolder note then this might swell from my lyre in the sky.”
― Edgar Allan Poe

“After reading Edgar Allan Poe. Something the critics have not noticed: a new literary world pointing to the literature of the 20th Century. Scientific miracles, fables on the pattern A+ B, a clear-sighted, sickly literature. No more poetry but analytic fantasy. Something monomaniacal. Things playing a more important part than people; love giving away to deductions and other forms of ideas, style, subject and interest. The basis of the novel transferred from the heart to the head, from the passion to the idea, from the drama to the denouement.”
― Jules De Goncourt, Journal des Goncourt, tome 2

“Poe is to poetry what I am to duck farming. You can quote me on that. And if that’s not good enough, you can go quote a raven.”
― Jarod Kintz, Ducks are the stars of the karaoke bird world

“you ruptured
the love lakes
of my longing
and scattered
the continents
of my heart.”
― K. Y. Robinson, The Chaos of Longing

“Must you keep up that wretched beat, Thomas?" I asked. "It's driving me as mad as one of Poe's unfortunate characters. Plus, poor Mrs. Harvey must be dreaming awful things. "

"Poe? Will you carve my heart out and place it beneath your bed, then, Wadsworth? I must admit, it's not an ideal way of ending up in your sleeping quarters.”
― Kerri Maniscalco, Hunting Prince Dracula

“Madeline lived there with her twin brother, Roderick Usher,
who was nothing like the richest man in Europe. Even by Ruravia’s small,
rather backward standards, the Ushers were genteelly impoverished. By the
standards of the rest of Europe’s nobility, they were as poor as church mice,
and the house showed it.”
― T. Kingfisher, What Moves the Dead

“...tu belleza es para mí como esas barcas niceas que, dulcemente, sobre un mar perfumado, traían al cansado viajero errabundo de retorno a sus playas nativas”
― Edgar Allan Poe

“My dear reader, have you seen the bizarre contraption that the inhabitants of this futuristic age carry in their pockets? It is a miniature computer, a gateway to knowledge itself, and yet so much more.

This strange device seems to do everything for its owner, from telling the time to cooking meals. It maps their journeys, provides entertainment, and even claims to be able to predict the future! It holds the world's information in its palm, yet some use it merely to gaze at the visages of strangers.

Such is the confusion of progress, that it gives with one hand and takes away with the other. For all its wonders, this pocket computer seems to me a dubious invention. It renders men dependent rather than self-reliant, and alters solitude into a deficit rather than a richness.

Do none gather 'round the midnight fire anymore to share tales of mystery and imagination? Have stories been supplanted by streams and alerts? And must every waking hour be filled with stimulation and information?

Some may call me a curmudgeon, fretting over innovations I do not comprehend. But I believe there is virtue to be found in simple pleasures and uninterrupted contemplation. Not everything that glitters is gold, and there is beauty to be discovered away from screens and lights.

So observe this curious device if you like, but do not forget to look up from its glow. Seek out the darkness and the quiet, explore without maps or GPS. For there you may find truths more valuable than all the knowledge in the world.

In suspense,
Your friend,
Edgar Allan Poe

(Poe talking about the smartphone.)”
― Edgar Allan Poe

“Eurêka. Poe attachait une grande importance à cette Å“uvre, à la fois cosmogonie et poème, qui commence par un discours de la méthode et se termine par une métaphysique.
L’influence des idées de Poe, qui se répandent en Europe à partir de 1845, est si considérable, et se fait sentir avec une telle intensité sur certains écrivains (tels que Baudelaire ou Dostoïevski) que l’on peut dire qu’il donne un sens nouveau à la littérature. Poe joignait en lui des éléments de culture assez hétérogènes ; d’une part, élève de l’École polytechnique de Baltimore (où passa aussi Whistler), il avait une formation scientifique ; de l’autre, ses lectures l’avaient mis en contact avec le romantisme allemand des Lumières, et avec tout le XVIIIe siècle français, représenté souvent par des ouvrages oubliés aujourd’hui, tels que conteurs, poètes mineurs, etc. Ne pas négliger chez Poe l’élément cabaliste (de même que chez Goethe), la magie, telle qu’elle devait hanter, en France, l’esprit d’un Nerval, en Allemagne, Hoffmann, et bien d’autres. Enfin, l’influence de la poésie anglaise (Milton, Shelley, etc.).
Poe avait lu tout jeune les deux ouvrages les plus répandus de Laplace qui l’avaient beaucoup frappé. Le calcul des probabilités intervient constamment chez lui. Dans Eurêka, il développe l’idée de la nébuleuse (de Kant), que reprendra plus tard Henri Poincaré.
Poe introduit dans la littérature l’esprit d’analyse. À ce propos, il convient de répéter que pensée réfléchie et pensée intuitive peuvent et doivent coexister et se coordonner. Le travail littéraire pouvant se décomposer en plusieurs « temps », on doit faire collaborer ces deux états de l’esprit, l’état de veille où la précision, la netteté sont portées à leur point le plus haut, et une autre phase, plus confuse, où peuvent naître spontanément des éléments mélodiques ou poétiques. Du reste, quand un poème est long (cf., dans « La Genèse d’un poème », le passage ayant trait à la « dimension »), ce « bonheur de l’instant » ne saura se soutenir pendant toute sa durée. Il faut donc toujours aller d’une forme de création à l’autre, et elles ne s’opposent pas.”
― Paul Valéry, Cours de poétique (Tome 1) - Le corps et l'esprit (1937-1940)

“Never to suffer would never to have been blessed”
― Edgar Allan Poe

“INSUFFICIENT VEGETABLE OIL,â€� quoth the replicator.”
― Izumi Suzuki, Terminal Boredom: Stories

“Take me back to those days,
when you knew of my love,
yet liked me nonetheless,
and when I smiled at you,
you smiled back innocently too...”
― C. Madan

“Lies made it arduous to find a coffin that fit”
― Richard Carl Evans, Prosopography In Blue