I remember a day back in High School when the regular teacher was absent and the substitute used the hour to read a Poe classic to the normally boisterous class.
First, the substitute was a graying, middle-aged gent who might be mistaken for the wrestling coach; however, he was a French teacher and spoke with a willowy lisp. He was precious, in a Percy Dovetonsils way. But he was also a great story-teller and that day he held the class in thrall with Poe’s The Masque of the Red Death.
In this time of Covid-19 we all have plenty of time and hopefully that means lots more reading: books, books, books.
Sadly, I haven’t held Edgar Allen Poe in very high regard for years. It’s not that I see him as a bad writer but possibly too light-weight to earn the common accolades often afforded him. I think the same thing about Kinky Friedman, but I still read an occasional Friedman story so maybe I should go back a reread many of the Poe stories that made such great midnight snacks in my youth. However, I will continue to avoid Stephen King and Anne Rice.
I’ll start with The Masque of the Red Death since it is so topical nowadays. You?