(NYTimes) IT’S probably safe to assume that Edgar Allan Poe does not rest quietly in the Baltimore grave that claimed him, at 40, in 1849. In the works that made him famous — poems like “The Raven” and “Annabel Lee,” stories like “The Fall of the House of Usher” and “Ligeia” — death is never quite the end: something lives on, not happily. Continued
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