For whatever reason, the spirit of Edgar Allen Poe has been tapping at my chamber door this week. Two events related to the late great writer and poet occurred within days of each other, causing me to ponder, "what could he be trying to tell me?"

Just a few days ago, one of the most enduring legends and mysteries of 20th century literary history was (supposedly) revealed. The story goes back to 1949, exactly 100 years after Poe's death, when a mysterious shadowy black-clad figure with a silver cane paid a visit to Poe's grave and paid tribute to the late author by raising (and drinking) a glass of cognac as a toast, then leaving three roses and the remaining half bottle of cognac on the grave. This strange figure eventually came to be known as the Poe Toaster, as he returned every year thereafter on Poe's birth date, January 19, to repeat the tradition. So this tradition has naturally captured the imaginations of gajillions of mainly horror and mystery literature buffs (and maybe a handful of actual historians), till this week when a 92-year-old former historian of Westminster Church announced that it was him all along. Regardless if this story is true or not, it goes to show just how sensational any little thing having to do with a celebrity, living or dead, is these days. I'm pretty sure the only reason this hasn't been a bigger story is because there were no paparazzi photos of the toaster getting out of a limo with his private parts showing.

In another Poe-related event, I finally watched The Raven the other night, starring Vincent Price and Peter Lorre, two masters of the horror/suspense film genres. What I expected was a spine-tingling ode to the classic poem by Poe, also titled The Raven, and it looked promising as the stylishly shot intro and soundtrack oozed horror and suspense. But alas, this was just a tease, and by the time Vincent Price came on the screen and began doodling a magic raven in the air with his hands, I had a funny feeling in my gut that this wasn't going to be a scrary movie after all. As it turned out, the film was a comedic romp in the slapstick tradition of so many other cheesy Roger Corman films. Of some note, the film also starred Boris Karloff (the original Frankenstein monster from the 1931 film classic) and a very young Jack Nicholson, both of whom must have had a lot of work to do in order to get their careers back on track after this movie came out.
Not one to ignore coincidences, I have to wonder if there isn't a lesson to be learned here. One thing I have realised is that no matter how seriously you may take yourself as an artist, once you're dead you really have no control over how your legacy will live on. In the case of Edgar Allen Poe, perhaps the gravest of American authors, that means you'll be honoured in ways that would make you turn over in your grave.