Edgar Allen Poe’s writing is like caviar. Caviar is very rich and dark, but It is an acquired taste preference; people either love it, or hate it. It is the first time you try caviar. You, the eater, sit there not exactly sure what you think of it. You chew, more and more: unaware of what exactly you are consuming. Then the fancy waiter comes along, and after asking, you receive your answer only to realize you have been gnawing on black fish eggs. The thought of the poor underdeveloped fish you have unknowingly killed, disturbs you; goose bumps cover your arms, and your stomach becomes queasy, undoubtedly turning your face green. Yet you continue devouring the baby fish because they taste too delicious, in an unusual way: the saltiness adding to the flavor. Lastly, it makes you think about the way the world works regarding life, and cycles of life, as well as death, those that cause it, and their motives.