leaf.
Smetana died mad. From syphilis.
James died of a stroke.
Gainsborough, on his deathbed, to Joshua Reynolds: Goodbye till we meet in the hereafter—we and van Dyck.
Shaw, Kipling, Housman, and Stanley Baldwin were among Thomas Hardy’s pallbearers.
Chaucer may have died of plague.
Sir Philip Sidney died of a sword wound in the thigh.
Consider Phlebas, who was once handsome and tall as you.
Lautreamont died of tuberculosis at twenty-four.
Bonington died of tuberculosis at twenty-six.
Delacroix died of what began as a neglected cold.
Wittgenstein played the clarinet. Lowry played the ukulele.
Emmy Destinn died of a stroke at fifty-one. Toscanini, Puccini, and Caruso had all been in love with her.
Hie jacet Arthurus Rex, quondam Rex que futurus.
The last book Freud read before his death was La Peau de chagrin by Balzac.
The last book Kafka read before his death was Verdi by Franz Werfel.
A man without feet, walking on his ankles. Someone insisted having seen at Hiroshima.
There is no drinking after death. Say Beaumont and Fletcher.
We shall receive no letters in the grave. Said Johnson.
Samuel Richardson died of a stroke.
Henry Fielding died of dropsy.
There he stood, suffering embarrassment for the mistake of thinking that one may pluck a single leaf from the laurel tree of art without paying for it with his life.
And if thou wilt, remember, And if thou wilt, forget.
Georges Seurat died of what was probably meningitis.
Does Writer still have headaches? And/or backaches?
As from the start, affording no more than renewed verification that he exists.
In a book without characters.
Not being a character but the author, here.
Turning older or no.
Writer is writing, is all. Still.
Chi son? Chi son? Son un poeta. Che cosa facciol Scrivo.
The act of painting transforms the painter’s mind into something similar to the mind of God. Said Leonardo.
God, that other craftsman. Said Picasso.
I am God. Said Matisse.
—And who are you? said he.—Don’t puzzle me ; said I.
You are no a de wrider, you are de espider, and we shoota de espiders in Mejico.
Copernicus died of apoplexy.
Rimbaud died of cancer of the bone. Or of syphilis.
Farewell and be kind.
Say the last words of the original edition of The Anatomy of Melancholy.
Farewell as many as wish me well.
Say the last words of The Unfortunate Traveler.
El Greco was buried in a Toledo monastery in 1614. Four years later, for reasons not recorded, his body was removed from its vault.
To where, no one has learned since.
Did you ever see anyone die? Well, then I pity you, poor Severn.
Everywhere have I sought peace and found it only in a corner with a book.
Said Thomas a Kempis.
Protagoras died in a shipwreck.
Frater, ave atque vale.
Charleville.
Also there is Writer’s tendonitis.
Likewise again merely serving to ratify his existence.
Ben Jonson died partly paralyzed from strokes. And in penury.
Jane Austen died of what was called neuralgia. More recent speculation leaning toward lymphoma.
Escritor. Schttore. Ecrivain. Sciiptor.
Hugh of Lincoln. Simon of Trent.
Six centuries after Marathon, Pausanias was still able to read the names of the Greek dead engraved on columns at the site.
Eight centuries after the death of Pindar he was able to visit his tomb in Thebes, still then extant.
And death shall have no dominion.
Grover Cleveland Alexander died alone in a Nebraska rooming house.
R Scott Fitzgerald, as seen by John O’Hara in the year or two before his death:
A prematurely little old man haunting bookshops unrecognized.
Madame, all stories, if continued far enough, end in death.
Said Hemingway.
Longfellow, Emerson, James Russell Lowell, Oliver Wendell Holmes, and Franklin Pierce were among Nathaniel Hawthorne’s pallbearers.
Timor mortis conturbat me. The fear of death distresses me.
Emerson also later attended Longfellow’s funeral, but after his own lights had dimmed:
The gentleman we have just been burying was
Smetana died mad. From syphilis.
James died of a stroke.
Gainsborough, on his deathbed, to Joshua Reynolds: Goodbye till we meet in the hereafter—we and van Dyck.
Shaw, Kipling, Housman, and Stanley Baldwin were among Thomas Hardy’s pallbearers.
Chaucer may have died of plague.
Sir Philip Sidney died of a sword wound in the thigh.
Consider Phlebas, who was once handsome and tall as you.
Lautreamont died of tuberculosis at twenty-four.
Bonington died of tuberculosis at twenty-six.
Delacroix died of what began as a neglected cold.
Wittgenstein played the clarinet. Lowry played the ukulele.
Emmy Destinn died of a stroke at fifty-one. Toscanini, Puccini, and Caruso had all been in love with her.
Hie jacet Arthurus Rex, quondam Rex que futurus.
The last book Freud read before his death was La Peau de chagrin by Balzac.
The last book Kafka read before his death was Verdi by Franz Werfel.
A man without feet, walking on his ankles. Someone insisted having seen at Hiroshima.
There is no drinking after death. Say Beaumont and Fletcher.
We shall receive no letters in the grave. Said Johnson.
Samuel Richardson died of a stroke.
Henry Fielding died of dropsy.
There he stood, suffering embarrassment for the mistake of thinking that one may pluck a single leaf from the laurel tree of art without paying for it with his life.
And if thou wilt, remember, And if thou wilt, forget.
Georges Seurat died of what was probably meningitis.
Does Writer still have headaches? And/or backaches?
As from the start, affording no more than renewed verification that he exists.
In a book without characters.
Not being a character but the author, here.
Turning older or no.
Writer is writing, is all. Still.
Chi son? Chi son? Son un poeta. Che cosa facciol Scrivo.
The act of painting transforms the painter’s mind into something similar to the mind of God. Said Leonardo.
God, that other craftsman. Said Picasso.
I am God. Said Matisse.
—And who are you? said he.—Don’t puzzle me ; said I.
You are no a de wrider, you are de espider, and we shoota de espiders in Mejico.
Copernicus died of apoplexy.
Rimbaud died of cancer of the bone. Or of syphilis.
Farewell and be kind.
Say the last words of the original edition of The Anatomy of Melancholy.
Farewell as many as wish me well.
Say the last words of The Unfortunate Traveler.
El Greco was buried in a Toledo monastery in 1614. Four years later, for reasons not recorded, his body was removed from its vault.
To where, no one has learned since.
Did you ever see anyone die? Well, then I pity you, poor Severn.
Everywhere have I sought peace and found it only in a corner with a book.
Said Thomas a Kempis.
Protagoras died in a shipwreck.
Frater, ave atque vale.
Charleville.
Also there is Writer’s tendonitis.
Likewise again merely serving to ratify his existence.
Ben Jonson died partly paralyzed from strokes. And in penury.
Jane Austen died of what was called neuralgia. More recent speculation leaning toward lymphoma.
Escritor. Schttore. Ecrivain. Sciiptor.
Hugh of Lincoln. Simon of Trent.
Six centuries after Marathon, Pausanias was still able to read the names of the Greek dead engraved on columns at the site.
Eight centuries after the death of Pindar he was able to visit his tomb in Thebes, still then extant.
And death shall have no dominion.
Grover Cleveland Alexander died alone in a Nebraska rooming house.
R Scott Fitzgerald, as seen by John O’Hara in the year or two before his death:
A prematurely little old man haunting bookshops unrecognized.
Madame, all stories, if continued far enough, end in death.
Said Hemingway.
Longfellow, Emerson, James Russell Lowell, Oliver Wendell Holmes, and Franklin Pierce were among Nathaniel Hawthorne’s pallbearers.
Timor mortis conturbat me. The fear of death distresses me.
Emerson also later attended Longfellow’s funeral, but after his own lights had dimmed:
The gentleman we have just been burying was
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