I haven’t always read books myself, but I have read poetry and liked it. John Keats is my favourite poet. He died when he was young of T.B. When I am in despair I read his works and ponder on the meaning of life again. Since my mother’s death the voyage has been hard but I am getting there with a little help from my friends, some dead poets and some dead women writers and this is what I think.
Are there so violent passions in celestial minds? I guess so! I imagine myself as a Romantic person, a poet myself filled to the brim with melancholy – a pantheist drowning in the image of flowers and martyrs, fairies and angels. What’s wrong with that? It helps me.
