Like most American grade schoolers, I was introduced to Poe through class readings of “The Raven” and “The Tell-Tale Heart”, both of which I enjoyed immensely despite finding the syntax a bit obscure. Returning to these and other of his works as an adult, one comprehends them better, and wields a broader understanding of the cultural and psychological themes that inform them. The prose, while more palatable, remains not altogether pleasant, and most publishers today would have sent Poe’s manuscripts back for a heavy round of editing. But the stories themselves, the ghastly images they implant in our minds, the dark hearts and tortured consciences—or, worse still, the seemingly unperturbable consciences—we are invited to inhabit and thereby to make our own, render Poe’s work enduringly memorable.
A prominent theme in Poe’s tales—“The Tell-Tale Heart,” “The Fall of the House of Usher,” “The Cask of Amontillado,” and “The Black Cat” among them—is the refusal of certain things the narrator thought long dead and buried to—well—stay dead and buried. Secrets are suppressed; enemies are dismembered and entombed, and a part of their buriers is buried with them; but they live on as grotesque and unassimilable specters. Unsurprisingly, these stories have been of perennial interest to psychologists.
I also hadn’t been aware of the fact that with “The Murders in the Rue Morgue,” Poe essentially invented the modern detective story wholesale, complete with its most familiar tropes. The relationship between the savant C. Auguste Dupin and the narrator almost perfectly anticipates that between Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson. Reading the story, written before the word “detective” was even coined, one wouldn’t suspect that it was the very first of its kind.