Edgar Allan Poe

[size=3][color=009933]Thank Heaven! the crisis --The danger, is past, and the lingering illness, is over at last --, and the fever called "Living" is conquered at last. Lord help my poor soul. Were I called on to define, very briefly, the term Art, I should call it 'the reproduction of what the Senses perceive in Nature through the veil of the soul.' The mere imitation, however accurate, of what is in Nature, entitles no man to the sacred name of 'Artist.' Beauty, of whatever kind, invariably excites the human soul to tears. I don't suffer from insanity but enjoy every minute of it. I have great faith in fools; my friends call it self-confidence. Science has not yet taught us if madness is or is not the sublimity of the intelligence. Sleep, those little slices of death, how I loathe them. The true genius shudders at incompleteness - and usually prefers silence to saying something which is not everything it should be. Everything is but a dream within a dream. You have conquered, and I yield. Yet, henceforward, art thou also dead - - dead to the World, to Heaven, and to Hope! In me didst thou exist - - and, in my death, see by this image, which is thine own, how utterly thou hast murdered thyself. The Educated look down on the illiterate because they do not know the wonders of knowledge. The Uneducated look down on the illiterate becasue they have to deal with problems. [/color][/size]