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The very pulse of the machine,"
for such it practically is to him, with wheels and cogs and piston-rods,
all working to produce a certain end.
This analyzing tendency of his mind balances the poetical, and by giving
him the patience to be minute, enables him to throw a wonderful reality
into his most unreal fancies. A monomania he paints with great power. He
loves to dissect one of these cancers of the mind, and to trace all the
subtle ramifications of its roots. In raising images of horror, also,
he has strange success, conveying to us sometimes by a dusky hint
some terrible doubt which is the secret of all horror. He leaves to
imagination the task of finishing the picture, a task to which only she
is competent.
"
For much imaginary work was there;
Conceit deceitful, so compact, so kind,
That for Achilles' image stood his spear
Grasped in an armed hand; himself behind
Was left unseen, save to the eye of mind."
Besides the merit of conception, Mr. Poe's writings have also that of
form.
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