Lindsey Graham

Are you not a native son of Boston?

Yes, I was born in Boston, much to my eternal shame.

Their pumpkin pies are delicious.

Their poetry is not so good.

How charming to refer to your hosts with such contempt.

I understand you were paid $50 to perform here tonight.

Yes, a measly fifty dollars, and that tells you what the Boston literati think of my work.

If they're going to insult me like that, then my childhood scribblings are all they deserve.

Mr. Poe, you have many admirers, myself among them, but you are not above reproach.

Some are even saying your talents are wasted.

Stunts like this will only damage your reputation and alienate your supporters.

There's a glimmer of pain in Poe's eyes, and he takes a deep sigh.

I don't expect everyone to understand my work, so let them scorn me.

I welcome it.

His defiant gaze bores into you, and you struggle to find words.

Mr. Poe, you are a talented poet, but I believe if you're not careful, your behavior will overshadow your work.

You walk away, feeling astonished by Poe's arrogance.

It seems to you that whatever he thinks of the Boston literary elite, he's just given them the ammunition to doom his faltering career.

From Wondery, I'm Lindsey Graham, and this is American History Tellers.

Our history, your story.