»Edgar Allan Poe

Belatedly, and reminded by fresh news reports of the Poe Toaster, I celebrate the life of Edgar Allan Poe.

In the dead of night, someone came again to the Baltimore cemetery, as happens every Jan. 19. When the figure melted into the darkness, three red roses and a half-filled bottle of cognac were found at the grave site. Once more, tribute had been paid to Edgar Allan Poe, poet and master of horror; born Jan. 19, 1809, in Boston; died Oct. 7, 1849, in Baltimore and buried in the cemetery of Westminster Presbyterian Church. For years — exactly how many is a matter of dispute — a person who has come to be known as the Poe Toaster has made an annual pilgrimage to the site. This year, nearly 150 people gathered outside the cemetery, but Jeff Jerome, above, the curator of the Poe House and Museum, said the toaster was able to avoid being spotted, The Associated Press reported.

The first line I encountered by Poe is cemented in memory: "The thousand injuries of Fortunato I had borne as I best could ; but when he ventured upon insult, I vowed revenge." The story that unfolds in The Cask of Amontillado has chilled and enchanted me as no other. Although Poe's poetry and stories have all gripped me, none has stuck in my mind as much as this, with its passionate dialogue and diabolical, calculated protagonist. I read it just after starting primary school, and I wonder (now) how one explains jokes about Masonry to eight-year-olds. In those days, each new story or poem I read offered beautiful new vocabulary: niter, flaçon, roquelaire, motley, and the hypnotic plural flambeaux.