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 entreating entrance at my chamber door — Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; — This it is, and nothing more.

A poem deserves its title only inasmuch as it excites, by elevating the soul.

I wish I could write as mysterious as a cat.

The nose of a mob is its imagination. By this, at any time, it can be quietly led.

..bear in mind that, in general, it is the object of our newspapers rather to create a sensation-to make a point-than to further the cause of truth." Dupin in "The Mystery of Marie Roget

And Darkness and Decay and the Red Death held illimitable dominion over all.

There is no beauty without some strangeness