![]() ![]() It makes me wonder how seriously Poe expected his writing to be taken. My verdict – more effective than hot cocoa at bedtime. Having read some of the authors who followed in his footsteps, I was expecting a bit more from the fount of all horror fiction. ![]() There's a really hypnotic quality to all those tangled sentences. It seems I can only read a couple of pages of Poe's writing before I fall asleep. I've only made it as far as The Fall of the House of Usher, and it's taking a damn long time to fall. But better judges than me have also been complaining on this month's discussion boards: It's partly my fault, having been busy elsewhere. My progress through this book has been singularly slow. Repetition! Did I just write repetition? The word hangs before my eyes, and although I have imbibed an immoderate dose of opium my mind apprehends it as clearly as the shaking hand before my face. ![]() The accumulation of woe after woe, horror upon horror – and of longueurs I still yet tremble to repeat – combined with the repetition of themes and ideas, has become an almost intolerable burden. Rather, to an anomalous species of boredom I have found myself a bounden slave. During the whole dull, dark and laborious process of reading these melancholy tales, I have found not one mote of joy. It was more than eight long days ago – or perhaps more, or less, since I have taken no note of time – that I first opened Edgar Allan Poe's The Murders in the Rue Morgue and Other Tales. ![]()
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