The delightful tales and quick-witted drawings of Edward Gorey (American, 1925–2000) reflect a special kind of genius that resides in the effect of what is left unwritten and unseen. In Gorey’s vaguely Victorian world of well-tended gardens and opulent estates, smoke-belching factories and fog-shrouded streets, nothing seems certain or quite as it should be. The probability of chaos lurks just beneath life’s tidy surface, occasionally erupting in surprising events with unexpected, perhaps horrific consequences. But when tragedy befalls Gorey’s quirky cast of characters—hapless waifs, dusty dowagers, scheming tycoons, and unhinged maidens—sometimes we are permitted to laugh. Far from being morbid, Gorey simply reminds us to relax occasionally, and contemplate mortality.