If I had a fine memory (one of the basic ingredients of talent), I might be able to write Memoirs, better than George Kennan for instance because, from my worm’s eye view, I do believe I saw the world more truly. But I have absolutely no memory; this is not a joke.
I dont [sic] know when I will appear in Lincoln next, nor do I much care. One of the charms of the Province is that one gets indifferent toward everything, even suicide. “Then think of me as one already dead, and laid within the bottom of a tomb.”
Anything really made to speak or sing is bound to lose on the page, unless the readers have some sense of sound.
My Book is out and I hate it and so no doubt will you.
That is what the artist does: he sees, he is the witness, the one who remembers, and finally works out the pattern and the meaning for himself, and gives form to his memories.
and Santa Claus himself—sweet old Gentleman, was even gallanter than usual—Visitors from the Chimney were a new dismay, but all of them brought their Hands so full, and behaved so sweetly—only a Churl could have turned them away—
In the following letter, John Keats describes to his brothers, George and Tom, various Christmas gatherings, and his general displeasure with the company. He also describes his notion of “negative capability,” an important concept for the Romantic Movement. Keats coined … Continued
And to-day is Christmas—it is at such periods that the vagabondage of my nature succumbs to a latent taste for domesticity. Away with the many corners of this round world! I am deaf to the call of the East and West, the North and South…
There is no telling what is to become of the work I have attempted with the Protestant ministers and scholars. Evidently someone has complained to Rome about my doing work that is “not fitting for a contemplative” and there have been notes of disapproval…
But I have no connection with the rest of people, I am only at war with them, at war with the whole body of mankind…
