The

The Welcome back, everyone to one thousand one classic short stories and tales. This is your host, John Haggardorn. It's been a long time since we've done an Edgar Allan Poe story,

and I have one here that you probably have not heard, but it's known to be a pretty good story.

This story is an example of the unreliable narrator technique skillfully employed by Poe in so many of his stories.

And now, The Angel of the Odd by Edgar Allan Poe.

It was a chilly November afternoon.

I had just consummated an unusually hardy dinner, of which the dyspeptic truffle formed

not the least important item, and was sitting alone in the dining room with my feet upon the

fender, and at my elbow a small table which I had rolled up to the fire, and upon which

were some apologies for dessert, with some miscellaneous bottles of wine, spirit, and liqueur.

In the morning I had been reading Glover's Leonidas, Wilkie's Epigonead, La Martine's Pilgrimage,

Barlow's Columbiad, Tuckerman's Sicily, and Griswold's curiosities.

I am willing to confess, therefore, that I now felt a little stupid.

I made effort to arouse myself by frequent aid of Lafitte, and all failing, I betook myself to a stray newspaper in despair.

Having carefully perused the column of H to let and the column of dogs lost, and then the columns of

wives and apprentices runaway, I attacked with great resolution the editorial matter,

and reading it from beginning to end without understanding a syllable, conceived the possibility of

it being Chinese, and so reread it from the end to the beginning, but with no more satisfactory result.

I was about throwing away and disgust. I was about throwing away and disgust this folio of four pages,

happy work, which not even critics

criticize, when I felt

my attention somewhat aroused by the paragraph

...