Hoagies tintinnabulating

October 11, 2007

For the love of God, Montre- sor!

Yes, I said, for the love of God (or at least the love of Baltimore).

I forced the last stone into its position; I plastered it up.

In pace requiescat! (That means here, hon).

For a century and a half, no mortal has disturbed the bones of the author of The Cask of Amontillado, a story about a murder told from the point of view of the murderer. Now somebody in Philadelphia is suggesting that the last remains of Edgar Allan Poe, the murderer-imaginer, be snatched away to the banks of the Schuylkill, as reported yesterday by the sharp-eyed Laura Vozzella of this newspaper (the sober eye of Reason).

We won't plague you with jokes about the Ravens (who are doing better than the Eagles), or quoth you anything about nevermore, or even suggest sending John Wilkes Booth in Poe's stead (though if they want him, they can have him). We'll just suggest that Poe, tormented as he was in life, is happy in Baltimore, in the sepulchre there by the sea (or by the Patapsco, at any rate).

Would he rather be living in Philadelphia?

Oh, horror! - oh, any horror but this!

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