I never wanted to read his poems
more than when I saw this drawing ;)
"The persuasion that I shall see her no more will kill me. . . . My dear Mr. Brown, I should have had her when I was in health, and I should have remained well. I can bear to die -- I cannot bear to leave her. Oh, God! God! God! Every thing I have in my trunks that reminds me of her goes through me like a spear. The silk lining she put in my travelling cap scalds my head. My imagination is horribly vivid about her -- I see her -- I hear her. There is nothing in the world of sufficient interest to divert me from her a moment.
“ 1st I think poetry should surprise by a fine excess and not by a Singularity – it should strike the Reader as a wording of his own highest thoughts, and appear almost a Remembrance. – 2nd Its touches of Beauty should never be half way thereby making the reader breathless instead of content: the rise, the progress, the setting of the imagery should be like Sun come natural too him – shine over him and set soberly . . .”
" 'Tis the most difficult thing in the world to me to write a letter. My stomach continues so bad, that I feel it worse on opening any book, - yet I am much better than I was in Quarantine. Then I am afraid to encounter the proing and conning of any thing interesting to me in England. I have an habitual feeling of my real life having past, and that I am leading a posthumous existence."
'The silk lining she put in my travelling cap scalds my head.'
'the proing and conning of any thing interesting to me...'
I love the realism and the layering he achieves.
The path from the dark to the grey was slick.Time paused when it passed her by. She should want to move. Her head ached on the mattress. Meshed eyelashes clung together. Heavy limbs weighed her down. And coldness spread from the needle that pierced her arm.