BS: Thought for the Day -- Aug 19

Subject: BS: Thought for the Day -- Aug 19
From: Peter T.
Date: 19 Aug 08 - 07:32 AM

There are times when I wonder if any of the things I have in my head about history (and everything else, but that is for another time) are true, maybe not in the sense of whether or not they happened, but in the way I have settled them into a nice little space in my world. I have something nicely packed away, and then a little fact comes along and either tosses it out or reframes it in such a way that it is completely unsettling.

For example, I thought I knew just about everything about the death of Keats. He died in 1821 in a little house on one side of the Spanish Steps in Rome, where he had come in the futile hope of curing himself of his tuberculosis. I have read the letters, and the biographies, and visited the house, and the grave, and there it all was settled away. Then, yesterday, I was reading a life of Mrs. Gaskell, the Victorian novelist, who happened to make a visit to Rome some years later. The biographer (Winifred Gerin), painting a little picture of the life of Rome, suddenly mentions the fact that the Spanish Steps was the traditional place where all the models in Rome went every day to display themselves for potential artists. They would dress in possible costumes and walk or pose up and down the steps: Roman centurions, Renaissance maidens, gypsies, kings, queens.   There is something about this that reframes for me the whole of Keats' short dying in Rome -- I am sure he must have delighted in this Fellini-esque scene while he had the chance, and it is a surreal backdrop to his last days. My way of thinking about his death is not completely different, but it is changed: perhaps because I always thought it was one of the saddest things I know of, and that it couldn't be any sadder, and now in some way it is.

Subject: RE: BS: Thought for the Day -- Aug 19
From: Lizzie Cornish 1
Date: 19 Aug 08 - 08:05 AM

I think he may have died with a smile on his face..watching those models on the Spanish Steps, from of his window, Peter.


Lovely piece of writing, leading to many thoughts. Thank you.

:0)

Subject: RE: BS: Thought for the Day -- Aug 19
From: Emma B
Date: 19 Aug 08 - 08:32 AM

'On 17 September 1820, a struggling young painter named Joseph Severn sailed from England as companion to John Keats. They arrived in Rome on 15 November. The trip was supposed to cure Keats's lingering illness. The poet suspected it was tuberculosis; his friends and several doctors disagreed. They urged convalescence in a warm climate. Instead, Keats died just three months after his arrival.

Joseph Severn found himself in a most difficult situation. He had left England against his father's wishes; he had no money; worst of all, he had no idea of the severity of Keats's condition. Yet Severn rose to the challenge and became a devoted nurse. His troubles were noted and understood by Keats himself, and Severn was later thanked for his devotion by Percy Shelley in the preface to 'Adonais'.

While in Rome, Severn wrote numerous letters about Keats to their mutual friends in England. These remarkable letters are the definitive account of the poet's final months.'

At this site, you can read them in their entirety:

Subject: RE: BS: Thought for the Day -- Aug 19
From: Little Hawk
Date: 19 Aug 08 - 10:23 AM

Death might seem sad from our perspective, but I think it's a graceful step through a gauze curtain into a wondrous experience of total liberation.

Subject: RE: BS: Thought for the Day -- Aug 19
From: katlaughing
Date: 19 Aug 08 - 10:59 AM

It does seem a rather poignant and melancholy scene, but I would bet he did have a few smiles for the delight of it all - the contrast between the finality and inevitability of his soon-to-be demise and outrageous life parading past his window.

When I was bedridden for five months, waiting for a new heart valve, I watched a lot of old, funny movies. I could not abide sad ones. I often had my grandson with me, on the bed as we watched and laughed together. There was a significant poignancy there all of the time, though. I would look at him, all of 1.5 years old, and burst out in tears for fear I'd not live to see him grow up; then he would smile and laugh about something and lift me up and out of any despondency...my own little "parade" of Life.