The Journal of a Disappointed Man

[5] This is from a letter written by the dying Keats in Naples to his friend Brown. [6] Contrast with it Wordsworth rotting at Rydal Mount or Swinburne at Putney. 1917 January 1. The New Year came in like a thief in the night--noiselessly; no bells, no syrens, no songs by order of the Government. Nothing could have been more appropriate than a burglarious entry like this--seeing what the year has come to filch from us all in the next 12 months. January 20. I am over 6 feet high and as thin as a skeleton; every bone in my body, even the neck vertebrae, creak at odd intervals when I move. So that I am not only a skeleton but a badly articulated one to boot. If to this is coupled the fact of the creeping paralysis, you have the complete horror. Even as I sit and write, millions of bacteria are gnawing away my precious spinal cord, and if you put your ear to my back the sound of the gnawing I dare say could be heard. The other day a man came and set up a post in the garden for the clothes' line. As soon as I saw the post I said "gibbet"--it looks exactly like one, and I, for sure, must be the malefactor. Last night while E---- was nursing the baby I most delightfully remarked: "What a little parasite--why you are Cleopatra affixing the aspic--'Tarry, good lady, the bright day is done, and we are for the dark.'"