I would like to pose a question. Why is it that most of the time amazing, creative people such as Edgar Allan Poe, F. Scott Fitzgerald, H.P. Lovecraft, and several others don’t get to see the fruits of their labor. It always makes me incredibly sad when I research these people and find out that they didn’t get recognized for their work until AFTER they died. Why?! And most of them also died penniless and it’s just so incredible to think that these people struggled until their death pursuing their passion and making nothing of it when I as person know the kind of mark that they’ve made in pop culture. As I’ve mentioned in recent posts I’ve not too long finished reading Z: A Novel of Zelda Fitzgerald, which follows the highs and lows of Zelda’s relationship with famed author F. Scott Fitzgerald. A lot of the book was centered around Scott’s manic obsession with being the best writer in the world and solidifying his mark in American literature and then he never got to see what kind of impact he made. The Great Gatsby is his most notable work and it has been made into two movies and his novel is read by high school and college students every year. These true creative minds will never see how they made a way for future writers and that they truly became literary icons.
Just the other day me and my family were talking about Edgar Allan Poe. Me and my dad were both saying how “The Tell-Tale Heart” is our favorite story by Poe. I absolutely love Poe. I have one big, thick book of all of his collected short stories and poems and Tell -Tale Heart will always be my favorite. I thought that story was always intense. I like the ending:
“I gasped for breath –and yet the officers heard it not. I talked more quickly –more vehemently; but the noise steadily increased. I arose and argued about trifles, in a high key and with violent gesticulations; but the noise steadily increased. Why would they not be gone? I paced the floor to and fro with heavy strides, as if excited to fury by the observations of the men –but the noise steadily increased. Oh God! what could I do? I foamed –I raved –I swore! I swung the chair upon which I had been sitting, and grated it upon the boards, but the noise arose over all and continually increased. It grew louder –louder –louder! And still the men chatted pleasantly, and smiled. Was it possible they heard not? Almighty God! –no, no! They heard! –they suspected! –they knew! –they were making a mockery of my horror!-this I thought, and this I think. But anything was better than this agony! Anything was more tolerable than this derision! I could bear those hypocritical smiles no longer! I felt that I must scream or die! and now –again! –hark! louder! louder! louder! louder!
“Villains!” I shrieked, “dissemble no more! I admit the deed! –tear up the planks! here, here! –It is the beating of his hideous heart.”
*I always thought that was genius writing. The intensity just kept building and building and then bybthe end of the story the man’s paranoia got the better of him and he admitted to his crime. Poe really built a name for himself because of his twisted mind He was really consider the father of horror and father of the detective story. I love writers who are a little off and Poe really messed with your mind.