What Makes Poe Tick

Edgar Allan Poe achieves great respect from his unique and morbid style of word play.  His style developed from his early childhood in Boston 1809. The events that occur in his early life reflect in his writing. Each event presents a new chapter in his life, developing new skills and inspiration. This would explain the gloominess and dreariness of his poems. Children are vulnerable at a young age, and he being only three was no exception. This did not affect him in a negative way, but in a way that no other poet would be able to possess.

With the death of his mother at a tender age of twenty-four and his father deserting him and his mother when he was about three, these events may have been enough to short circuit his fuse. His misfortune and despair is the heart and core to his writing. His style, structure, and ingenuity bleed from his head and land upon his paper, thus breaking apart and depicting life. Through all his troubles, he never focused his primary goal on the negative aspects of his life, but rather converted them to beauty.

It is amazing how some one who comes from a background of such hardship and misery can find it within themselves to not only write what they feel, but exactly how they feel, and when they feel it. Poe leaves no emotion unjustified or unexpressed. He scrutinizes, embellishes, and segregates every emotion imaginable with a fine toothed comb. With this in mind, it seems as if he is subconsciously resurrecting a novel from the bits and pieces of his literature. Every poem of his adds a new page to his life. Opening a small portion of Poe at a time.

This method of his causes the readers to become engulfed in his inner thoughts, memorizing them. The truth that lies intermingled below various layers of his writing,

piece together parts of his life, whether it be his love or a friend. Comparing love to a raven; dark, mysterious, indecisive. Why a raven? Is he trying to reveal a message so complex and yet so simple that only he can utilize and comprehend it? Or is he merely stating that love comes and goes at will and is as un-trust worthy as a raven?

A fine line lies between truth and fiction. In his mind, it is our job to see past his morbid and sometimes disturbing word play to enable us to make our own interpretations about his long and twisted life. The broadness of his poetry and stories are thought provoking, causing our thoughts, senses, and perspectives to swell beyond bursting point.

Sadly, our interpretations are all the tangible means left that lead to our understanding of Poe, for he died October 7, 1849. His tranquility, excellence, and gloom expressed in his literature will remain frozen in time unscathed by his departure from this world.

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