“I became insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity.” - Edgar Allan Poe
At two, he lost his mother, an actress abandoned by her husband along with their three children. Orphaned, he was adopted by a family of a tobacco merchant from Richmond, Virginia while his brother Henry went to their grandparents, and sister Rosalie was taken in by another family.
Such was the early childhood of the man whose life and works continue to exist under a thick veil of mystery and macabre to this date. These were the roots of the man hailed as the "Father of the Detective Story"; a tragic beginning of a brief history of the man whose every aspect still continues to baffle the literary world; a sorry prologue that seems to be narrating a pointless existence, but of a man who served the purpose of laying the foundations of the modern detective stories: the man we all know as Edgar Allan Poe.
This day, the 19th of January, marks the 208th birth anniversary of this mystery- shrouded American poet and story- teller. And so, we remember him today. But not as the man who has been called a "a mad, drunken, womanising opium addict". Instead, we look at him on this day as a misunderstood genius who dedicated his life to the provision of significant contributions in the field of literature.
But before we get into
what he wrote, it is important to consider the
conditions under which Edgar Allan Poe began his literary existence. When he engaged in putting earnest efforts in making a career out of his writing, following his career at the military, his writings were hampered by the lack of an international copyright law: publishers often produced unauthorised copies of British works rather than paying for new work by Americans. Besides, the booming growth in American periodicals was something that did not last well beyond a few issues. Consequently, publishers often refused to pay their writers, or paid them much later than they promised. Throughout his attempts to live as a writer, Poe repeatedly had to resort to humiliating pleas for money and other assistance.
Despite all these hardships, the literary influence of Edgar Allan Poe spans the minds of some of the greatest creators and story- tellers this world has seen. His early detective fiction tales featuring C. Auguste Dupin could be said to have been the foundation for future detectives in literature.
Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, the man who gave us Sherlock Holmes, once said, "Each [of Poe's detective stories] is a root from which a whole literature has developed.... Where was the detective story until Poe breathed the breath of life into it?"
The Mystery Writers of America have named their awards for excellence in the genre the "Edgars".
In science fiction too, the influence of Poe's works can be found, notably through Jules Verne, who wrote a sequel to Poe's "The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym of Nantucket". The sequel was titled "An Antarctic Mystery", a.k.a "The Sphinx of the Ice Fields."
Talking of Poe's original prequel, acclaimed science fiction author H. G. Wells commented, "Pym tells what a very intelligent mind could imagine about the south polar region a century ago," thus hinting to the fact that Poe was a man well ahead of his time.
And maybe this could be the reason for the misunderstanding that surrounds him. Though his works stood out as unique pieces of literature, they might have possibly been crucial in shaping an intriguing image of Poe in the public's minds, besides the aspects that rivals openly bestowed upon him following his mysterious death.
But say what one may, Edgar Allan Poe was a man from the future stuck in a world gone past, which clearly misunderstood him and outed him as an anomaly. Besides being a poet and a writer, Poe was also a critique; that too a relentless one, who showed no mercy in forcing notable writers of his time to look back upon their own works. His criticism attacked the works of significant literary figures of the time with a dire ferocity that is still studied and examined to understand his own literary theory.
On October 3, 1849, Joseph W. Walker, a compositor for the
Baltimore Sun, could have stayed at home owing to the rain that soaked Baltimore that day. But he did not. It was Election Day, and the Gunner's Hall public house was the hub of polling activity for the 4th Ward Polls. And that is where Walker headed out to. And that is where he stumbled upon a barely conscious man, shabbily dressed, and lying in a gutter. The man was Edgar Allan Poe.
A concerned Walker asked the poet if he had any connection in Baltimore who could probably help him. To which Poe had given the name of the name of Joseph E. Snodgrass, a magazine editor with some medical training. Hastily, Walker had then scribbled a letter addressed to Snodgrass, saying this:
Baltimore City, Oct. 3, 1849
Dear Sir,
There is a gentleman, rather the worse for wear, at Ryan's 4th ward polls, who goes under the cognomen of Edgar A. Poe, and who appears in great distress, & he says he is acquainted with you, he is in need of immediate assistance.
Yours, in haste,
JOS. W. WALKER
To Dr. J.E. Snodgrass.
Four days later, on October 7, 1849, Edgar Allan Poe died at the Washington College Hospital. To this day, there exists no record as to explain how Poe had ended up in the streets of Baltimore dressed in clothes that were not his own when, about a week earlier he had left from Richmond to Philadelphia for an editing business. It was found that he had never made it to Philadelphia. Nor to New York to escort his aunt to Richmond for his impeding wedding. There's another mystery to his demise: according to his attending physician Dr. John J. Moran, Poe had repeatedly called out for a "Reynolds" on the night before his death.
As for the cause of death, all of Poe's records have been lost. And in this manner, like his works, Poe's death is a mystery, only without an epilogue where a smart detective solves the puzzle and calls it a day.
So, on this day, we open our hearts to the man who, even in death, gave us a baffling tale of suspense and melancholy, and as we do it, we do it with the understanding a genius like him truly deserved.
Happy Birthday, Poe!
