Remembering Edgar Allan Poe

Some musings about the great E.A. Poe, written and published in 2019, on the week of his 213th birthday.

“To vilify a great man is the readiest way in which a little man can himself attain greatness,” said Edgar Allan Poe.

It is an apt quote from the famed American writer and poet, whose 210th birthday is celebrated on Jan. 19. After his passing in 1849, Poe’s rival, a little man named Rufus Griswold, wrote an unflattering obituary, amplifying Poe’s personal faults. Griswold later admitted to Poe’s literary genius, but opined that it was “in a singular degree wasted or misapplied.”

Rather than destroying Poe’s reputation, however, Griswold’s calumny may have had the opposite effect. The website of the Poe Museum speculates that the criticism fostered further interest in Poe. Griswold certainly cemented the writer’s reputation, especially among readers who enjoy believing that the writer’s life was as lurid and morbid as his most famous stories, including “The Fall of the House of Usher” and “The Cask of Amontillado.”

Just how unhappy Poe’s life may have been is a matter of some conjecture. Aficionados know the lowlights.

Poe was born in Boston in 1809 and orphaned by the age of 3. He was taken in — but not adopted — by John Allan and his wife, Frances, of Richmond, Virginia. He studied at the University of Virginia, where he amassed a considerable gambling debt in an attempt to pay for his studies. He did not graduate. A later stint at the United States Military Academy at West Point ended with his dismissal.

His fiancee became engaged to another man. He later married his 13-year-old cousin, Virginia Clemm, a fact that incites equal measures of nervous laughter and disgusted looks among high school freshman when they first hear it.

Poe’s dream of becoming a great poet clashed with his constant poverty, and a series of low-paying editorial jobs often ended in termination, either because of his nettlesome personality, penchant for drinking or both.

After his wife’s death from tuberculosis, Poe reconnected with his first fiancee, who was now widowed, and they planned to marry. But then Poe disappeared while on a trip to New York and Philadelphia. When he resurfaced five days later, in Baltimore, he was drunk and raving. He died shortly after, from causes that have been variously attributed to alcoholism, rabies, and even election fraud.

While this has every appearance of a sordid life story, it must be countered with what were undoubtedly pleasant years and events, including a marriage that was, despite the strangeness of its origins, happy; his tenure with the Southern Literary Messenger in Baltimore, where he came into his own as a magazine writer; and the smash success of his poem, “The Raven,” which brought him fame, but not fortune.

Whether these moments were enough to counter the many setbacks Poe encountered is unknown. It’s easy to believe that, because Poe chose such morbid topics for his poetry and fiction, his life must have been equally bleak. Yet authors, like the rest of us, are more than the sum of the milestones from their biographies, and lurking behind Poe’s tragedies and addiction might have been a contented person.

Happiness, however, doesn’t sell as many books.

Ironically, for a man who struggled with debt for most of his life, Poe’s works in the years since his death have generated millions of dollars. His creation of the detective story spawned the mystery genre, which continues to sell more books than anything other than romance, year after year. His stories and poetry have been printed in countless editions and have been adapted for stage, screen, videogames and podcasts.

Those last are especially apt, as Poe was also a visionary. In the 1840s, he correctly read the trends and recognized that magazines were the future of publishing, reflecting Americans’ penchant for shorter works, delivered more often and more efficiently. If he were alive today, he would be tweeting out his stories in 280-character bursts or publishing them as eBooks on Amazon, I’m convinced.

As for Rufus Griswold, perhaps his biggest contribution was disproving the Poe quote at the top of this column. Like Aaron Burr to Alexander Hamilton, Griswold lives on as only a footnote in the life story of a writer far greater than he.

So raise a glass and a book to Edgar Allan Poe this month. His short life spawned literary immortality.