Capitolo 76
alarmed, perhaps the fear that is so terrible that I have not written him
so that it doesn't seem to grow indeed, it is only a foolish fear. I have to write, I owe
a name is manufactured. To bring him/it that, to the place of dowry, it would be
anything; but poor, unknown, and of a dark birth.--Desire I don't have
did it earn a short rental lease of the happiness, if I realize the fame for his/her cause?
I will swap all for one week,--no, one day--of the happiness. I don't do
you wish to grow old to survive to my illusions. Only a short truce from
cares and it is distressed, a brief time of flowers and music, and it loves, and
laughter and ecstatic torn wounds and the intense emotion. I am able so well
understands the slave in the de of nuit of "glorious _Un Cleopatre_" that
clarified a life-time in twelve hours, and having any more gone away to
desires, calmly drank death as as are a draught of wine.
_January_, 9 18--.
"Elsie, mine poor small sister is sick. Only a childish indisposition but me
he/she has not written for three days, and she has lain, weak and languid,
in my arm, and I have told his/her histories. We have moved again there, and here,
Thank goodness! the furniture, and the carpets and the paper don't swear to
each other so violently. I say me, thank goodness! with due reverence. I am
really and devotedly thankful for the liberation from that sense of nervousness
caused by the red arabesques and greens twisted on the floor. Here all are
dark. The walls are a dull shade, the neutral carpet, the furniture
the grown weak brocatelles devote to boarding-houses; but it is not so bad.
The light and gilded lies along the floor, and you/he/she is reflected on mine 'the Birth of
Venus on the wall. Above my desk it is a small shelf of mine it good-loved
now books,--beloved; I will perhaps destroy them next year, while having
absorbed all of their nourishment, also as now, 'I burn all to that I have used
adoration. I adore everybody that I burned.' Under the bookrack a copy is of
The last squirt of Severn of Keats, the won, dying head of the killed ones