The Works of Edgar Allan Poe - Volume 1


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Larger of bone and sinew it may be, but the wings are wanting. Talent  
sticks fast to earth, and its most perfect works have still one foot of  
clay. Genius claims kindred with the very workings of Nature herself, so  
that a sunset shall seem like a quotation from Dante, and if Shakespeare  
be read in the very presence of the sea itself, his verses shall but  
seem nobler for the sublime criticism of ocean. Talent may make friends  
for itself, but only genius can give to its creations the divine power  
of winning love and veneration. Enthusiasm cannot cling to what itself  
is unenthusiastic, nor will he ever have disciples who has not himself  
impulsive zeal enough to be a disciple. Great wits are allied to madness  
only inasmuch as they are possessed and carried away by their demon,  
While talent keeps him, as Paracelsus did, securely prisoned in the  
pommel of his sword. To the eye of genius, the veil of the spiritual  
world is ever rent asunder that it may perceive the ministers of good  
and evil who throng continually around it. No man of mere talent ever  
flung his inkstand at the devil.  
When we say that Mr. Poe had genius, we do not mean to say that he has  
produced evidence of the highest. But to say that he possesses it at  
all is to say that he needs only zeal, industry, and a reverence for the  
trust reposed in him, to achieve the proudest triumphs and the greenest  
laurels. If we may believe the Longinuses; and Aristotles of our  
newspapers, we have quite too many geniuses of the loftiest order to  
render a place among them at all desirable, whether for its hardness  
of attainment or its seclusion. The highest peak of our Parnassus is,  
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