tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4445844569294316288.post3282783530097993102..comments2024-01-28T03:56:39.351-08:00Comments on TOM CLARK: There Are Still Not Enough Stars: John Keats and Lyra (The Lyre)Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger2125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4445844569294316288.post-2934517470251705212009-03-22T12:00:00.000-07:002009-03-22T12:00:00.000-07:00Zeph,Your point seems absolutely worth making over...Zeph,<BR/><BR/>Your point seems absolutely worth making over and over again: we have heard so much of the vulnerable, frail Keats, and so little of the brave, forward soul "history" would find it so much easier to see him as, had he not died so very young. <BR/><BR/>"A lot of fun" he surely was, a delight to all his friends, who loved his enthusiasm and good cheer (and felt deeply for him when he suffered his intermittent "lunes" or blue moods); really, in that un-self-assuming way that was characteristically his, he was the life and heart of a little social circle whose "textual center" (were one to speak silly-academically of so unpretentious a poet) was his poetry.<BR/><BR/>And aren't those letters still absolutely wonderful, absorbing, engaging reading, in which the intimacy, sweet openness and generosity of heart feel so real to us even now?Anonymousnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4445844569294316288.post-89089530445710337082009-02-28T13:21:00.000-08:002009-02-28T13:21:00.000-08:00I liked 'small street boxer's hands'... it's alway...I liked 'small street boxer's hands'... it's always good to re-assert that Keats was quite a tough little person even though he was intensely emotional; that Victorian greenery-yallery image of him as the wispy soul too good for this world still persists. I suppose people who die young leave their unfulfilled future as a convenient blank on which the world can project its own fantasies.<BR/><BR/>This is a lovely piece of work, Tom, reading it sent me back to Keats's letters, and I was reminded that he must often have been a lot of fun before the illness began to drag him down. Forgive me if I post a rather long extract from a letter to Jane Reynolds, but it is kind of irresistible:<BR/><BR/>"Give my sincerest Respects to Mrs Dilke saying that I have not forgiven myself for not having got her the little Box of Medicine I promised for her after dinner flushings - and that had I remained at Hampstead I would have made precious havoc with her house and furniture - drawn a great harrow over her garden - poisoned Boxer - eaten her Cloathes pegs, - fried her Cabbages fricaceed (how is it spelt?) her radishes - ragouted her Onions - belaboured her beat root - outstripped her Scarlet Runners - parlezvou'd with her french Beans - devoured her Mignon or Mignonette - metamorphosed her Bell handles - splintered her looking glasses - bullock'd at her cups and Saucers - agonized her decanters - put old Philips to pickle in the Brine-tup - disorganized her Piano - dislocated her Candlesticks - emptied her wine bins in a fit of despair - turned out her Maid to Grass and Astonished Brown - whose Letter to her on these events I would rather see than the original copy of the Book of Genesis."Zephirinehttps://www.blogger.com/profile/02809525772159756122noreply@blogger.com