Lord, help my poor soul

I can not imagine that 200 years ago, when he was born, his mother could have suspected that 40 years later the comatose body of her babe would be lying life-less on a ditch in front of a tavern. That mangy dogs and scruffy rats would jump over his inert body, but his repulsive smell would impede them make the traditional sniffing performed by such critters. That her precious son´s life, in practical terms, had been pathetic and miserable. And she never knew, for she departed this life when he was 2. A somber existence, it seems to be, an unfortunate marriage to a 13-year old cousin (who died at 15), zero monetary gains, no properties, gambling debts, addicted to various drugs, a complete and total loser… lying in a puddle besides the sidewalk, being soaked in borrowed clothes. His last four days would be spent in a hospital, amidst delirium and hallucinations, refusing even to drink water. And the causes of his death were inconclusive, either because of his abuse of alcohol, or rabies (he was probably bitten by a bat during his long hours of insomnia, or by any of his numerous dogs and cats he kept in his house), or syphilis, or suicide, or murder, or it simply does not matter. Alcoholic, gambler, unwell, pedophile, incestuous, good for nothing, disinherited, just like that, Edgar Allan Poe died.



Perhaps, the parameters we use to measure success are skewed.