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 I have missed commenting on the actual 200^th anniversary of Edgar Allan Poe ’s birth by one day, but I felt I had to at least mark the week in which festivities are occurring.

Today, I read this wonderful Poe reminiscence by horror and fantasy writer Cherie Priest. Her vivid (and frankly personal) account of the impact of discovering Poe’s uniquely dark visions reminded me forcibly of my own first Poe readings.

I encountered Poe’s work when I was roughly 10 years old. My elementary school library had a badly misused paperback collection of his stories. The first story I read was almost certainly the Black Cat…or possibly the Tell Tale Heart…either way I remember being actually afraid. But frightened in the best possible way—goosebumps and thrilled shivers. I also vaguely remember not being clear on whether or not the heart was actually beating.

The Cask of Amontillado would have been next and even at 10 its black-hearted humour was plain to me. Although I suspect that I pictured the Amontillado as some sort of barrel or something.

At this point I would have read The Masque of the Red Death, and it remains far and away my favourite—although as an adult M. Valdemar and Hop Frog have crept up on that list. At 10, quite a bit of Masque would have been opaque. But there is a power to that story that transcends almost any challenges presented by advanced (or archaic) vocabulary. The appearance of Death upon the scene is unmistakeable.

And I think this is a glimpse into the real, undying genius of Poe’s writing: he can be read at almost any age—10 to 110—and something new can be gained. I appreciate the lyricism and beauty of the prose in The Masque of the Red Death more now than I did as a child.

But when I get to that ending, and Death reveals himself as the true master of the gathered revellers, I’m instantly ten years old again.