The Collected Works of Edgar Allan Poe -

Edgar Allan Poe

Wordsworth Editions

2020

1008 páginas

1d 9h 36m

ISBN-10: 1840221720

Edgar Poe was born the son of itinerant actors on January 19th, 1809 in Boston, Massachusets. Abandoned by his father and the later death of his mother, he was taken into the foster care of John Allan, a Virginia tobacco farmer. Now styled as Edgar Allan Poe, he distinguished himself at the University of Virginia but was equally adept at collecting debts from his assiduous gambling. His stepfather's disapproval shattered their fragile relationship and Poe left home to seek his fortune.

In 1836 he married his cousin Virginia but despite his prolific activities - journalism, poetry, lecturing, short stories, publishing, criticism and experimentation with fictional genres, including the detective novel which he virtually invented with the publication of The Murders in the Rue Morgue (1841) - he received scant recognition for his efforts until the publication of The Raven in 1845. The poem's instant popularity gave him a new visibility in literary circles, but his personal situation remained desperate: poverty, illness, drink, and the physical decline and ultimate death of Virginia in 1847 led to his untimely and premature decline. In 1849 he was found sick, injured and semi-conscious in a Baltimore tavern. Taken to hospital, he lingered on for four days, but never recovered and on October 7th Edgar Allan Poe died at the age of 40.

He was one of the most original writers in the history of American letters - a genius who, thanks to his dire reputation, was tragically misunderstood during his lifetime. It was not until Baudelaire enthusiastically translated his work that he found a wider audience in Europe, and became not only an enormous influence on modern French literature but also on the acclaimed work of writers such as Dostoevsky, Conan Doyle and Jules Verne.

Resenhas (2)

3 (Bom)

Quoth the raven

...Nevermore!
I'm not smart enough for this book - lemme get that out, first and foremost. English is not my native language, and this book is in old english, so it was super challenging on that aspect. And on top of being written on a harder kind of english, Mr. Poe seems to love those long winded sentences, that really begs you to lean over and pay attention. And re-read the same paragraph a couple times. I will admit I didn’t understand a blink of certain stories.
The fact these are all small stories was also a challenge for me (I usually don’t get that gripping urgency in finishing the book), but that is something particular to me. It took me some good 10 years to finally sit down and decide to finish it, once and for all. We don’t DNF books in my house.
That being said, I'd say Mr. Poe's works are a mixed bag. The most famous ones are the ones I enjoyed the most: The Black Cat, The Red Pestilence, the-bug-one... some satires were interesting too, never saw that coming. And, of course, The Raven. I'm not a poem girl, but I liked a lot of poems here.
That being said, this book brought up an old discussion I'm still not quite settled with: Do we separate the Author from the Book? In certain instances, it becomes clear some shades of r*cism bleed onto the pages, but for the most part, it can pass as a reflection the prevalent line of thinking of his era. And this I can.... understand? Minimize?
For this reason The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym was a huge let down. I was loving it, truly. Until, uh.... Yeah, pure and blatant r*cism. Left a bad taste, if you know what I mean.
Other than that, I still think Poe has great works that rightfully so became legends. The Raven is a must read for anyone with any trace of gothic blood in their veins. The Black Cat too.
If r*cism is a sensitive topic to you, you might want to do some research on which tales to avoid. If, on top of it, you DON’T think author and book should be separated, perhaps you should avoid Poe entirely.
I think I'm leaning more towards treating book and author as separate things entirely, for a number of reasons. So despite everything, this was a ride.
A long, looong ride.