Edinburgh and Poe.

The other evening I was sitting reading a tad wee bit of Poe and I felt warm inside. Sure his short stories (a book I found lying in the hostel's common room - a rather beautiful 1960's bound editions with exquisite paper almost embroidered gold print ink patterns in the back and front covers). In any case, there I was sitting reading this book, with some hot tea and staring out of the window onto Haymarket station and the silhouette of some church steeples on the distant horizon. Then, like a slow sinking into lovely warm water I felt submerged in this feeling of, "yes, THIS is it. This is happiness. It's in finding a well written entertaining book, on sitting in a safe warm(ish) place, looking out onto a new spectacular city, knowing tomorrow will bring more memories and inspirational love for something." It's peculiar to imagine that Poe's vocabulary choice and flow of sentence structure could be compared to the architecture of Edinburgh, yet at that moment I was sure there was no other author who could be more appropriate to get to know than him in this magical picturesque city.