How influential is Edgar Allan Poe? Let's look at the numbers. The mystery or detective story, a category virtually invented by Poe, represents 10% of fiction book sales in the current day. The horror genre, in which Poe set the standard for all later writers, accounts for another 3-4%. The suspense of thriller story, another specialty of this author, generates around 15% of current-day fiction sales. Poe also dabbled in science fiction, comedy and other categories, but you hardly need to consider his efforts in those areas in order to conclude that he exerted a greater influence on modern storytelling than any other author in history.
But are you ready for Poe the postmodernist? Can you make room for him in the pantheon of avant-garde innovators? Yes, the careful student of his writings finds, again and again, extravagant literary devices that few other adopted until the second half of the 20th century.
For example, did Poe invent the unreliable narrator? Consider, as evidence in his favor, the opening to his story The Black Cat:
"For the most wild, yet most homely narrative which I am about to pen, I neither expect nor solicit belief. Mad indeed would I be to expect it, in a case where my very sense reject their own evidence...."
This is standard fare for Poe. In the opening paragraph of The Tell-Tale Heart the narrative admits that listeners think he is insane. At the start of The Pit and the Pendulum he declares that his sense are leaving him. Again and again we encounter this opening gambit. Did anyone before Poe populate stories with narrators who insist with such vehemence, in advance of the tale, that they simply can't be believed?
Indeed, we encounter other postmodern elements in Poe's writing. Note, for example, his deliberate blurring of the line between fiction and non-fiction. In The Premature Burial, he even insists at the outset that his story is only worth telling because it is scrupulously true - and he actually sticks with fact-based reportage for the first half of his tale, although this is merely a ruse to lure the reader deeper into the deception. In The Mystery of Marie Rogêt, he even boasts that he solved a real-life murder with the deductions made by his fictional detective C. Auguste Dupin - a greatly exaggerated claim, but presented persuasively in the context of the story. Poe was so good at this kind of manipulation of textual expectations that many readers actually thought that his tale The Facts in the Case of M. Valdemar - in my opinion, the most gruesome Poe story, almost repulsive in its particulars - was a trustworthy account of an actual incident.
The most basic expectations are thwarted again and again by this author. One of the most time-honored rules of horror fiction is to start with an appearance of normalcy and conventionality - if only so that the terrors ahead will have all the more shock value. Even the lowliest director of the most tawdry slasher films understands the importance of doing this. But Poe will have none of it. His narrators (and almost every one of his masterpieces is told by a first-person narrator) typically launch their testimonies with grand declarations in the opening paragraph. They will tell us that they are falling into lunacy, or seeking extreme revenge, or that the reader can hardly expect to believe the dark and eerie things that have happened to them. Poe is so fixated on setting an extreme mood for his tales that he dispenses with the slow and gradual build-up and instead immediately thrusts us into the manias and deliriums of his protagonists.
Poe maintains his intensity of vision even in passages where we might expect formulaic prose. Consider the opening sentences of Ligeia where Poe's narrator describes the facial features of his beloved - a passage that, in the hands of another writer, would take up a few phrases with the familiar modifiers and metaphors. Not so with Mister Poe. Instead he launches into a feverish and obsessed disquisition on the limits of the memory and aesthetics as it grapples with the ineffable qualities of an effulgent countenance. The description lingers much longer then we expect, eventually stretching out for almost one thousand words. Before the expostulation is finished, the reader is repulsed by its neurotic quality. This perhaps enhances the effect of the story, but we still might wonder at Poe's willingness to destroy the symmetry of his tale by focusing so much on the symmetry of his heroine's visage. But at the story's conclusion, when the narrator recognizes these same features, but now transplanted to the face of his dead second wife Lady Rowena, the reader feels the horror amplified - and only because of the elaborate care Poe had lavished on the appearance of Ligeia at the outset. Compare how other, lesser authors handle stories of the resurrected dead - usually with all the subtlety of a Hollywood zombie film - and marvel at the means by which Poe achieves a much grander effect. Here the key to the entire story resides in the skill with which Poe can depict a woman's face in prose - the very passages that most genre authors would fill with clichés.
Poe is equally unconventional in his constructed of detective stories. Even the most basic requirements of the genre are flagrantly violated. But who can blame the author who essentially invented the genre for imposing his own rules? Even so, what could be more basic than the expectation that the murder be committed by a murderer? Yet in his debut mystery, The Murders in Rue Morgue, Poe refuses to accept even this obvious stricture.
We have had more than 150 years to assimilate Poe, but it's still bloody hard to treat him as part of the literary mainstream. Too many stranger ingredients show up in these stories...and I'm not just talking about the phantasmagoria of the plots. For example, at the mid-point in The Fall of the House of Usher, Poe inserts a poem - a strange choice for a short story writer, signaling a rupture in the narrative, but one that this author resorted to in other tales. The poem in question, entitled The Haunted Palace, is ostensibly about a stately residence that has been taken over by some strange power, marked by "vast forms, that move fantastically to a discordant melody" and a "hideous throng" that rushes out the door, but never seems to have left the premises.
What could this possibly mean? When Poe had previously submitted this poem to a literary magazine, the editor rejected it, claiming that he found it incomprehensible. Most scholars today interpret the poem as an allegory of the collapse of a person's mind and personality - a view supported by the many comparisons in the text between the palace and a human head. In the context of the short story, the poem is sung by Roderick Usher, who is undergoing precisely this kind of collapse. This is one of the most evocative moments in Poe's oeuvre, but few authors today would dare emulate its discords and arcane misdirection. Instead of abandoning a poem few readers could hope to understand, he puts it in a story!
Note that this interpretation of The Haunted Palace could be applied, with more than a little justice, to most of Poe's tales. Again and again in his work, the author obsesses over setting scenery, and in almost every instance, these details represent a kind of externalization of the psychological malaise embedded in the narratives. Few nineteenth century writers were more sensitive to mental states than Poe, and this is true even when he seems to be describing a landscape, or a building, or even a raven perched upon a pallid bust of Pallas just above his chamber door. His plots can be outlandish, the particulars so beyond the conventional bounds of realism that the mind rebels at the required 'suspension of disbelief'. But Poe remains convincing nonetheless, and almost entirely because of the extraordinary conviction of his narrators. They are committed entirely - and sometimes ought to be committed legally - and this intensity of vision draws us in to depths of the story, even when our rational mind rebels.
How strange, nonetheless, that this author of genius should have set in motion the world of American genre fiction—the most despised segment of the literary marketplace. Yet perhaps here, above all, does Poe prove his prescience. We are now living through a golden age in which literary fiction is borrowing heavily from genre concepts. A host of highbrow literary stars—Cormac McCarthy, Salman Rushdie, Jennifer Egan, Junot Díaz, Margaret Atwood, Jonathan Lethem and many, many others—have come to realize that horror, sci-fi, fantasy and suspense plots can serve
as springboards for masterpieces. And with that leap of imagination and embracing of mystery they have finally caught up with Poe’s extraordinary Tales of Mystery & Imagination.