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Are you flattered, Poe? I doubt that you are. During your mortal life, you eschewed false modesty -- were certain, nearly from the beginning, that your gifts were great. You might be surprised by what happened immediately after your death. Or, alternatively, might only be amused to see how predictable were the sayings and actions of your peers in their attempts to deal with the fall-out from your life and work. How they punished you for magisterial attitude! How they damned you for impudent and imprudent power, for wayward genius and a ‘bad’ character! Griswold, your literary executor and biographer, of course, betrayed you -- did his best to vilify your memory; you might have known he would had you chosen him for the task, which you did not. And did you reckon that foregone obstacles to unclouded appreciation of your achievement, would give your work even greater luster after it overcame such major impediment? Perhaps you did. You were a clever man; sometimes too clever. Post-mortem events (as often your life story) might have gone other than you had planned. But you were a risk-taker, always. In death, no different. I must admit that I’m having fun. I may never get down to talking about your poems, Edgar, because it is so pleasurable simply to talk to you. Of course, if you could reply, I might get no word in edgewise. You were famed as conversationalist and debater – had a tongue like a dagger, and prided yourself on it. ‘Use ‘em up, Poe!’ they cried when you had your critical teeth into some hapless literary puppy, some hearts-and-flowers virginal poet from the perpetual sticks of sprawling, mostly-unpeopled, America. Well, now, -- even if you can hear me speak or read this page, -- you make no reply. It might be said that a ghost hurts no-one, just as no-one can hurt a ghost. If so, this means that I may criticize as I see fit. Only my fellows in this time and plane will make response – and a limited response at that. For I must tell you, Edgar, that fewer souls each day care still about you and your work, much less care for what I or any like me might say of you or it. If, after all, you were able to speak, I think your gist to that last would be: ‘What’s that? No-one cares? You spoke of readers, critics, biographers innumerable. . .’ |
Epistle to Poe 2 |
