In October, quoth the Poe fan: Read more

Edgar Allan Poe had the good fortune to die a few weeks before the only holiday that could possibly be a seasonally appropriate match for his grim oeuvre. Thus, October is the season for living entombment and death by murderous "Ourang-Outang."

Poe's work is in near-ubiquitous circulation in American high school curricula, so there's a temptation to be contrary and champion his lesser-known tales. But there's a reason you were assigned "The Pit and the Pendulum" instead of "The Gold Bug." (The latter is not only racist but profoundly boring; its only redeeming feature is that it partly inspired Robert Louis Stevenson's Treasure Island.) Poe's weird ideas are always the best part of his storytelling, but, in some of the longer pieces, his brilliant imaginings are bogged down by overwrought prose and repetitive characterization - all the men are tragic, mad, weirdly ill, or thoroughly debauched; the women are usually dead, or soon will be.

But Poe's legacy has easily withstood worse slander. Although his poem about an especially brusque bird is one of the most famous in the language, critics have long savaged his rhymes. Leaving aside his contemporaneous enemies (most of whom are remembered only for their choice of foe), a more distinguished battery of haters has rarely been assembled.

Aldous Huxley's 1930 essay "Vulgarity in Literature" is largely devoted to arguing that Poe's poetry is so well-regarded in France because they can't speak English. Almost exactly 29 years ago, Harold Bloom continued the attack in the New York Review of Books: "No reader who cares deeply for the best poetry written in English can care greatly for Poe's verse." Henry James' slander was indiscriminate as to literary form: "An enthusiasm for Poe is the mark of an extremely primitive stage of reflection."

These august admonishments of the august have not dimmed Poe's appeal. A poll of most Americans would surely reveal more fans of "The Tell-Tale Heart" than Daisy Miller. But there are plenty of worthwhile Poe stories that have probably escaped the notice of the average reader. While his comedic works aren't uniformly successful (nothing ages as badly as humor), some are still worth a look.

The overlong "Some Words With a Mummy" features what would become a classic horror trope - an undead Pharaoh is unsealed from his tomb and awakes - and goes to an unexpected place. Poe's Count Allamistakeo does not seek vengeance or human sacrifice; instead, he chats with the narrator and his pals over "a supply of cigars and wine." He discourses with dignity about the technological and supernatural superiority of ancient Egypt over 19th-century America.

"I perceive you are yet in the infancy of Calvinism, and cannot accomplish with it what was a common thing among us in the old days," the count tells his audience, upon being questioned about his unusual longevity.

On a more familiar note, fans of "The Masque of the Red Death" will probably enjoy "Hop-Frog," another story set in an opulent court stuffed with cruel and complacent aristocrats. (In this case, vengeance comes in the form of an enslaved dwarf jester.) Or "Berenice," a wonderfully appalling early story that sets the tone for his later work - "Misery is manifold. The wretchedness of earth is multiform" - and stars one of his many fallen rich boys.

In "Berenice," as in Poe's later stories, the depiction of sin is relentlessly unappealing; rarely has literary dissipation seemed less fun. Perhaps that's because Poe couldn't hold his liquor (he would reportedly get thoroughly sloshed from just a few drinks). Reports of Poe's excesses have been greatly exaggerated, according to Edward Pettit, who teachers horror literature at La Salle University. The author's perpetual indigence was a far greater influence than his incapacity for drink. There is a reason Poe's narrators are often destitute, destitute men of good background. Although born to an impoverished actress, his adopted parents were exceedingly wealthy and he lived in privilege for much of his youth, attending boarding school in England and West Point.

But Poe's decision to take up a career as a writer doomed him to poverty. His stepfather would not help him. The literary markets of his time, plagued by recession, offered few jobs and small pay for piecework. Poe was periodically employed as an editor of magazines, but more often he struggled as a freelance writer and lived story to story, supplementing his meager income by begging from both friends and remote acquaintances.

It seems likely that Poe dealt almost exclusively in short stories and poems because he could turn them around quickly. The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym of Nantucket is the sole exception, and it still punches out at fewer than 200 pages. He simply did not have the economic security to write novels. (Also afflicted by drink and poverty, Raymond Carver articulated a similar motivation for his universally short work: "I needed to write something I could get some kind of a payoff from immediately, not next year, or three years from now. Hence, poems and stories.")

For many years, Philadelphia was the site of Poe's struggles for recognition and a livable income. The Edgar Allan Poe House, on Seventh and Spring Garden, is the only one of the houses he lived in that is still standing (in this city). It is run by the National Park Service and open 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. Friday to Sunday (closed from noon to 1 p.m.).

In addition, Pettit will be talking about, and then performing, The Raven at the Glenside Free Library, 215 S. Keswick Ave., on Thursday at 7 p.m. And all of Poe's writing is available free online, for those who prefer to spend their discretionary income on the struggling artists of today, who can make better use of it than their long-dead forebear.