Скорбь сатаны

Chapter 35

           IlivedhowstrangeitseemsthatIshouldbewritingnowofmyself,aspastanddonewith!yes,Ilivedinadreamy,moreorlessidyllicstateofmind,thinkingwithoutbeingconsciousofthought,fulloffanciesconcerningtheflowers,treesandbirdswishingforthingsofwhichIknewnothingimaginingmyselfaqueenattimes,andagain,apeasant.IwasanomnivorousreaderandIwasspeciallyfondofpoetry.IusedtoporeoverthemysticverseofShelley,andjudgedhimthenasasortofdemi-god;andnever,evenwhenIknewallabouthislife,couldIrealizehimasamanwithathin,shriekingfalsettovoiceand‘loose’notionsconcerningwomen.ButIamquitesureitwasgoodforhisfamethathewasdrownedinearlyyouthwithsomanymelancholyanddramaticsurroundingsitsavedhim,Iconsider,fromapossiblyviciousandrepulsiveoldage.IadoredKeatstillIknewhehadwastedhispassiononaFannyBrawnandthentheglamourofhimvanished.IcanoffernoreasonforthisImerelysetdownthefact.ImadeaheroofLordByroninfacthehasalwaysformedformetheonlyheroicaltypeofpoet.Stronginhimselfandpitilessinhisloveforwomen,hetreatedthemforthemostpartastheymerited,consideringthesingularandunworthyspecimensofthesexitwashismisfortunetoencounter.Iusedtowonder,whenreadingthesemen’samorouslines,whetherlovewouldevercomemyway,andwhatbeatificstateofemotionIshouldthenenjoy.

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