July 26, 2025 • 25 mins
Dive into the captivating final journal entries of British naturalist Bruce Frederick Cummings. This poignant narrative stretches from March 1918 to June 1919, a tumultuous period that saw the end of WWI. It’s a book that follows the successful publication of Cummings previous journal, The Journal of a Disappointed Man. In this more concise volume, Cummings offers his contemplative reflections on the end of the war, tinged with the realization that while the world celebrated peace, he was grappling with failing health. His body may have been succumbing to multiple sclerosis, but his emotional and intellectual clarity remained until the end. This journal is not only a vibrant historical document but also a profoundly moving and poetic piece of personal literature. - Summary by Adam Whybray
Mark as Played
Transcript
Episode Transcript
Available transcripts are automatically generated. Complete accuracy is not guaranteed.
Speaker 1 (00:00):
Section one of A Last Diary by W. N. P. Barbellion.
This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. A Last
Diary nineteen eighteen March twenty first, nineteen eighteen. Misery is
(00:24):
protean in its shapes, for all are indescribable. I am
tongue tied. Folk come and see me, include It's not
so bad after all, just as civilians tore the front
and suppose they have seen war on account of the
soldier with a broken head or an arminous sling. Others
are getting used to me, though I'm not getting used
(00:46):
to myself. Honest British jurymen would say, temporarily insane. If
I had a chance of showing my metal, I wish
I could lapse into permanent insanity. Twould be a relief
to let go control and slide away down, Down, which
(01:07):
is the farthest star. I would get away there and
start afresh, blot out all memory of this world and
its doings. Here. Even the birds and flowers seem soiled.
It makes me impatient to see them. They are indifferent,
they do not know. Those that do not know are pathetic,
(01:30):
and those knowing are miserable. It is ghostly to live
in a house with a little child at the best
of times, now at the worst of times, a child's
innocence haunts me always. March twenty fifth, nineteen eighteen. I
shall not easily forget yesterday Sunday. It was just like
(01:54):
Mon's Sunday. The spring shambles began on Thursday in brilliant summer.
Yesterday also was fine, the sky cloudless, very warm, with
scarcely a breeze. They wheeled me into the garden for
an hour, primroses, violets, butterflies, bees, the song of the
(02:16):
chaffinches and thrushes. Otherwise silence, with the newspaper on my knee.
The beauty of the day was oppressive. Its unusualness at
this time of year seemed of evil import Folks shake
their heads, and they say in the village there is
to be an earthquake on account of the heat. In
(02:39):
rural districts, simple songs believe it is the end of
the world coming upon us. At such times as these,
my isolation here is agonizing. I write the word, but
itself alone conveys little. I spend hours by myself, unable
to talk or write, but only to think. The war
(03:03):
news has barely crossed my lips once, not even to
the bed post. In fact, I have no bedpost, and
the cat and canary and baby would not understand. It
is hard even to look them in the face without shame.
All the while I hear the repeated cling in my
(03:25):
ears as the wheel of my destiny comes full circle,
not once, but a hundred superfluous times. When am I
going to die? This is a death in life. I
intended never try in this diary again, but the relief
(03:46):
it affords could not be refused any longer. As surprised
to find I could scribble at all legibly. Yet it
is tiring. March twenty sixth, nineteen eighty, in reply to
a query from me if there are any fresh news
in the village this afternoon, my mother in law thus
(04:08):
an orbiter dictum while dandling the babe, No, no good
news anyway. Still, when there's a thorough assault, we're bound
to loose some dancy dancy popper deepin, etc. But we
are all mules in cities as in villages, burrowing blindly
(04:32):
into the future. These enormous prospects transcend vision. We just
go on and go on, following instinct nursing babies and
killing our enemies. How unspeakably sorrowful. The whole world is
poor men killing each other, murder say of a rival.
(04:56):
And love is comparatively a hallowed thing because of the
personal passion, liberty, freedom, These are things of the spirit.
Every man is free if he will. Yet, who is
going to lend an ear to the words of a
prostrated paralytic I expect I'm wrong, and I'm past hammering
(05:20):
out what is right. I must aneath the tize thought
and accept without comment. My mind is in an agony
of muddle, not only about this world, but the next
publication of the Journal May twenty ninth, nineteen eighteen. This
(05:43):
journal in part is being published in September DV. In
the tempest of misery of the past three weeks, this fact,
at odd intervals has shone out like a bar of
stormy white light. By September, I anticipate a climax, as
a sin off to the achievement of my books. Perhaps,
(06:04):
like Semel, I shall perish in the lightning. I long
for my dear E has had a nervous breakdown. Her
despairing words haunt me. Poor, poor dear I cannot go
on June one, nineteen eighteen, a fever of impatience and
(06:25):
anxiety over the book. I'm terrified lest it miscarry. I
wonder if it is being printed in London a bomb
on the printing works. When it is out and in
my hands, I shall believe I've been out in a
beautiful lane where I saw a white horse led by
a village child. In a field, A sunburnt laborer with
(06:49):
a black, wide brimmed hat lifted it, smiling at me.
He seemed happy, and I smiled too. I am immensely
relieved that he is better. I cannot cannot endure the
prospect of breaking her life and health. Dear woman, how
I love you. Regard these entries as so many wheels
(07:15):
under the lash. June third, nineteen eighteen. When it is
still scolding, grief cannot be touched. But now, after twenty
five days, I look back on those dreadful pictures and
crave to tell the story. It would be terrible as
(07:36):
scorned such self indulgence, for the grief was not mine alone,
not chiefly, and I cannot desecrate hers. The extraordinary thing
is that all this has no effect on me. The
heart still goes on beating. I am not shriveled. June fifteenth,
(07:58):
nineteen eighteen. I get tired of these inferior people drawn
together to look after me and my household. If, as
to day, I utter a witticism, they hastily slur it
over so as to resume the more quickly. The flap
flap monotone of dull gossip and a suspicion, wants that
(08:20):
my fun was at fault. I was ill and perhaps
had softening of the brain and delusions. So I made
an experiment. I foisted off as my own some of
the acknowledged master strokes of Samuel Foote and Oscar Wilde,
but with the same result. So I breathed again. However,
(08:49):
I accept the old village woman come in to nurse
me while he is away. She is a dear talks
little and laughs a lot. Is mousey quiet. If I
wish has lost a son in the war, has another
an elementary schoolmaster who teaches sciences, A fine scientist. She
(09:10):
keeps on feeling my feet and says they're lovely warm.
Ralse is horrified because they are cold. Perhaps she calls
little miss I like this and attempts to caress her with, well,
my little pet, But Pea is a ruthless imp and
screams at her. I sat up in my chair to
(09:33):
tea yesterday. It was all very quiet, and two mice
crept out of their holes and audaciously ate the crumbs
that fell from my plate. It is a very old
cottage in the ivy outside a nest of young starlings
keep up a clamor. The doctor has just been three
days since and says I may live for thirty years.
(09:56):
I trust and believe he is a damned liar. The
prospect of getting the proofs makes me horribly restless. The
probability of an air raid depresses me, as I am
certain the bombs will reign on the printers. Oh, do
hurry up? These proofs are getting on my mind. Malignant fate.
(10:22):
June sixteenth, nineteen eighteen. I'm damned, My malignant fate has
not forsaken me. After the agreement on each side has
been signed and the book partly set up in type,
the publishers ask to be relieved of their undertaking. The
(10:42):
fact is the reader who accepted the manuscript has been
combed out and his work continued by a member of
the firm, a godly man afraid of the injury to
the firm's reputation as publishers of school books and bibles. H. G. Wells,
who is writing an introduction, will be amused at the
(11:04):
best it means an exasperating delay till another publisher is found.
June seventeenth, nineteen eighteen. He comes home on Thursday. A
robin sits warming her eggs in a mossy hole in
the woodshed. A little piece of her russet breast just
shows her bill lies like a little dart over the
(11:27):
rim of the nest, and her beady eyes gleam in
a fury at the little old nurse in her white bonnet,
and apron who stands about a yard away, bending down
with hands on her knees, looking in and laughing till
the tears run down her face.
Speaker 2 (11:43):
Poor little potty, Poor little potty. She's got one egg
up on her back. They were a pretty duet. She
is Flabbert's coarse Sample one, nineteen eighteen, turning out my
desk I found the other day, thirty seven West Frans Avenue, Columbus, Ohio,
(12:12):
September thirtieth, nineteen fifteen. Mister Bruce Cummings, England. Dear sir,
I wonder if you will pardon my impertinence in writing
to you. You see, I haven't even your address. I
am doing this in a vague way, but I wanted
to tell you how much I appreciated your crying for
(12:34):
the moon, which I read in the April Forum. You
have expressed for me, at.
Speaker 1 (12:40):
Least most completely, the insatiable thirst for knowledge. I can't
live enough in the short time allotted to me. But
I've seldom found anyone so eager, so desirous as you
to secure all that this world has to offer in
the way of knowledge. My undergraduate work was done at
Ohio State UNIV. Then, for two years following I was
(13:02):
a fellow in English at the same school, and at
present I am here as a laboratory assistant in psychology.
Always I'm taking as much work as possible to secure
as varied a knowledge as possible. I'm working now for
my doctor's degree. I have my master's. I've had the
idea of trying only so much. I can't get away
(13:25):
from the Greek idea of nemesis. But to your article
gave me the suggestion that one should try everything better
to be scorched than not to know anything about everything,
And so this year I am trying to lead a
fuller life. The article has inspired and helped me to
attain a clearer vision of the meaning of life. As
(13:47):
one of your readers, allow me to thank you for
the splendid treat you gave us. I am touched, beggars,
can't be choosers, and grateful. Dear Miss Vona mac dononger,
thank you so much for your sympathy and your truly
wonderful name. Perhaps you are married now and have lost it.
(14:09):
Perhaps there is a baby for owner. Perhaps I don't know,
but I am curious about you. Four weeks of happiness
August seventh, nineteen eighteen, in the cottage, alone with e
and nurse. Four weeks of happiness with the obvious reservation.
(14:35):
I am in love with my wife. Oh dear woman,
What agony of mind and what happiness do you give
me to think of you alone struggling against the world,
and you are not strong. You want to protect her
someone's strong arm. But we are happy these few weeks.
(14:56):
I record it because it's so strange, A deeply in
love and long to have something so as to sacrifice
it all with a passion, with a vehemence of self abnegation.
August fifteenth, nineteen eighteen. The bishops are very preoccupied just
(15:16):
now in justifying the ways of God to man. I
presume it an even harder task to justify the ways
of man to God. Why does not God stop the war?
The people are asking, So the bishops complain, but why
did man make it? Man made the war, and we
(15:38):
know his reasons. God made the world, but he keeps
his own counsel. Yet, if man who aspires to goodness
and truth can sincerely justify the war, I am willing
to believe. This is my faith that God can justify
the world its pain and suffering and death. We made
(16:03):
the war and must assume responsibility. Yet, why is not
the world instantaneously redeemed by a few words of reproach
coming from a dazzling figure in the heavens, revealed unmistakably
at the same instant to every man, woman and child
in the world. Why not a sign from heaven? September first,
(16:27):
nineteen eighteen, eighteen months ago, I refused to take any
more wrap poison with food, so dear, and I refuse
to have any more truck with doctors. I insist on
being left alone this grotesque disease, and I, meanwhile, I
must elaborately observe it, getting worse by inches. But I
(16:50):
scoff at it so damned ridiculous, and I only give
ground obstinately, for I have two supreme objects in life
which are not yet achieved. Though I am near, I'm
so very near the victory. The days creep past, shrouded
in disappointment. Still I cling to my spa. If not today,
(17:13):
why then tomorrow perhaps, And if not tomorrow, it won't
be so bad, not so very bad, because the time's
literary supplement comes. Then that lasts for two days, and
then the nation. My thoughts move about my languid brain
like caterpillars on a ravage tree, all the while I
(17:35):
am getting worse. They are all so slow. If they
don't hurry, it'll be too late. Oh make haste, But
I must wait, and the caterpillars must cruel. They are
(17:56):
looper caterpillars, I think, which span little space. A splendid
dream September two, nineteen eighteen. It was a brilliantly fine
day to day with the gray avenue of blue sky
and sunlight through groups of cloud ranged on either side.
(18:17):
I rolled along a very magnificent way bordered by tall
silver bracken, and found two tall hedges. It irked me
to remain on the hard road between those two high hedges,
fending me off from little groups of desirable birch trees
in the woodlands on each side. Suddenly I sprang from
my chair, upset it, dumbfounded the nurse, and disappeared through
(18:40):
the hedge into the woods. I went straight up to
the birches, and they whispered joyously, Oh, he's come back
to us. I pressed my lips against their smooth, virginal cheeks.
I flung myself down on the ground and passionately squeezed
the cool, soft leaf mold as a man presses a
(19:02):
woman's breasts. I scraped away the surface leaves, and, bending down,
drew in the intoxicating smell of the earth's naked flesh.
It was a splendid dream. But I wonder if I
could do it absent mindedly, if I forgot myself an
(19:22):
immense desire. September third, nineteen eighteen passed by the birches
again to day. Their leaves rustled as I approached, thrilling
me like the liquefaction of Julia's cloves. But I shook
(19:42):
my head and went by. Instantly they ceased to flutter,
and no doubt, turned to address themselves to prettier and
more responsive young men who will pass along that road
in the years to come. September fourth, nineteen eighteen. Still
no news. I have to reinforce all the strength of
(20:05):
my soul to be able to sit and wait day
by day, impotent and idle and alone. Goodness the chief thing.
September seventh, nineteen eighteen. During the past twelve months, I
have undergone an upheaval, and the whole bas of my
(20:27):
life has gone across from the intellectual to the ethical.
I know that goodness is the chief thing. Thatching a
Kodak film, September twenty fourth, nineteen eighteen. Two brown men
on a yellow round rick thatching. In the background a
(20:48):
row of green elms above a wind hover poised in
mid air, perpendicular silver streaks of rain, bright sunlight, and
a rain encircling all. It was as simple as a diagram.
One could have cut out the picture with a pair
of scissors. I looked with a cold, detached eye for
(21:12):
all the world, as if the thatchers had no bellies
nor immortal songs, as if the trees were timber and
not vibrant vegetable life. I forgot that the motionless wind
Hover contained a wonderful and complex anatomy, rapidly throbbing all
the while, and that the sky was only a painted ceiling.
(21:35):
But this simplification of the universe was such a relief.
It was nice for once in a way, not to
be teased by its beauty or overstimulated by its wander
I merely received the picture like a photographic plate. September
twenty fifth, nineteen eighteen. Saw a long tailed tip to day,
(22:00):
exquisite little bird. It was three years since I saw one.
I should like to show one to Hindenburg and watch
them in juxtaposition. I wonder what would be their mutual
effect on each other. I want to dissected a specimen.
God forgive me, but I didn't find out anything. Emily Bronte,
(22:24):
September twenty sixth, nineteen eighteen. It was over ten years
ago that I read Wavering Heights. Have just read it
again aloud to E and am delighted and amazed. When
I came to the dreadfully moving passaures of talk between
Kathy and Heathcliff. Let me alone, Let me alone, sobbed Catherine.
If I have done wrong, I'm dying for it. It
(22:47):
is enough you left me too. But I won't upbraid
you for it. I forgive you, forgive me. It is
hard to forgive, and to look at those eyes and
feel those wasted hands here answered, kiss me again, and
don't let me see your eyes. I forgive you for
what you have done to me. I love my murderer,
(23:08):
but yours. How can I? I had to stop and
burst out laughing, or I should have burst into tears.
He came over and we read the rest of the
chapter together. I can well understand the remark of Charlotte,
a little startled and propitatory, that having created a book,
(23:30):
Emily did not know what she had done. She was
the last person to appreciate her own work. Emily was
fascinated by the u U of fierce male cruelty, and
she herself, once in a furious rage, blinded her pet
bulldog with blows from a clenched fist. Rotherin Height is
(23:53):
a story of fiendish cruelty and maniacal love passion. It's
preternatural power is the singular result of free factors in
rarest combination, rare genius, rare moorland surroundings, and rare character.
One might almost write her down as Missus Nietzsche, her
(24:15):
religious beliefs being a comparatively minor divergence. However, that may
be the young woman who wrote in the poem a
Prisoner that she didn't care whether she went to heaven
or hell so long as she was dead. Is no
fit companion for the young ladies of a seminary. No
(24:36):
coward soul is mine, she tells us in another poem,
with her fist held to while wincing nose. I, for one,
believe her. It would be idle to pretend to love
Emily Bronte, But I venerate her most deeply. Even at
(24:56):
this distance, I feel an immediate awe of her person.
For her nothing held any menace. She was adamant over
her ailing flesh, defiant of death and the lightnings of
her mortal anguish. And her name was thunder the end
(25:19):
of section one of last Stary
Section one of A Last Diary by W. N. P. Barbellion.
This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. A Last
Diary nineteen eighteen March twenty first, nineteen eighteen. Misery is
(00:24):
protean in its shapes, for all are indescribable. I am
tongue tied. Folk come and see me, include It's not
so bad after all, just as civilians tore the front
and suppose they have seen war on account of the
soldier with a broken head or an arminous sling. Others
are getting used to me, though I'm not getting used
(00:46):
to myself. Honest British jurymen would say, temporarily insane. If
I had a chance of showing my metal, I wish
I could lapse into permanent insanity. Twould be a relief
to let go control and slide away down, Down, which
(01:07):
is the farthest star. I would get away there and
start afresh, blot out all memory of this world and
its doings. Here. Even the birds and flowers seem soiled.
It makes me impatient to see them. They are indifferent,
they do not know. Those that do not know are pathetic,
(01:30):
and those knowing are miserable. It is ghostly to live
in a house with a little child at the best
of times, now at the worst of times, a child's
innocence haunts me always. March twenty fifth, nineteen eighteen. I
shall not easily forget yesterday Sunday. It was just like
(01:54):
Mon's Sunday. The spring shambles began on Thursday in brilliant summer.
Yesterday also was fine, the sky cloudless, very warm, with
scarcely a breeze. They wheeled me into the garden for
an hour, primroses, violets, butterflies, bees, the song of the
(02:16):
chaffinches and thrushes. Otherwise silence, with the newspaper on my knee.
The beauty of the day was oppressive. Its unusualness at
this time of year seemed of evil import Folks shake
their heads, and they say in the village there is
to be an earthquake on account of the heat. In
(02:39):
rural districts, simple songs believe it is the end of
the world coming upon us. At such times as these,
my isolation here is agonizing. I write the word, but
itself alone conveys little. I spend hours by myself, unable
to talk or write, but only to think. The war
(03:03):
news has barely crossed my lips once, not even to
the bed post. In fact, I have no bedpost, and
the cat and canary and baby would not understand. It
is hard even to look them in the face without shame.
All the while I hear the repeated cling in my
(03:25):
ears as the wheel of my destiny comes full circle,
not once, but a hundred superfluous times. When am I
going to die? This is a death in life. I
intended never try in this diary again, but the relief
(03:46):
it affords could not be refused any longer. As surprised
to find I could scribble at all legibly. Yet it
is tiring. March twenty sixth, nineteen eighty, in reply to
a query from me if there are any fresh news
in the village this afternoon, my mother in law thus
(04:08):
an orbiter dictum while dandling the babe, No, no good
news anyway. Still, when there's a thorough assault, we're bound
to loose some dancy dancy popper deepin, etc. But we
are all mules in cities as in villages, burrowing blindly
(04:32):
into the future. These enormous prospects transcend vision. We just
go on and go on, following instinct nursing babies and
killing our enemies. How unspeakably sorrowful. The whole world is
poor men killing each other, murder say of a rival.
(04:56):
And love is comparatively a hallowed thing because of the
personal passion, liberty, freedom, These are things of the spirit.
Every man is free if he will. Yet, who is
going to lend an ear to the words of a
prostrated paralytic I expect I'm wrong, and I'm past hammering
(05:20):
out what is right. I must aneath the tize thought
and accept without comment. My mind is in an agony
of muddle, not only about this world, but the next
publication of the Journal May twenty ninth, nineteen eighteen. This
(05:43):
journal in part is being published in September DV. In
the tempest of misery of the past three weeks, this fact,
at odd intervals has shone out like a bar of
stormy white light. By September, I anticipate a climax, as
a sin off to the achievement of my books. Perhaps,
(06:04):
like Semel, I shall perish in the lightning. I long
for my dear E has had a nervous breakdown. Her
despairing words haunt me. Poor, poor dear I cannot go
on June one, nineteen eighteen, a fever of impatience and
(06:25):
anxiety over the book. I'm terrified lest it miscarry. I
wonder if it is being printed in London a bomb
on the printing works. When it is out and in
my hands, I shall believe I've been out in a
beautiful lane where I saw a white horse led by
a village child. In a field, A sunburnt laborer with
(06:49):
a black, wide brimmed hat lifted it, smiling at me.
He seemed happy, and I smiled too. I am immensely
relieved that he is better. I cannot cannot endure the
prospect of breaking her life and health. Dear woman, how
I love you. Regard these entries as so many wheels
(07:15):
under the lash. June third, nineteen eighteen. When it is
still scolding, grief cannot be touched. But now, after twenty
five days, I look back on those dreadful pictures and
crave to tell the story. It would be terrible as
(07:36):
scorned such self indulgence, for the grief was not mine alone,
not chiefly, and I cannot desecrate hers. The extraordinary thing
is that all this has no effect on me. The
heart still goes on beating. I am not shriveled. June fifteenth,
(07:58):
nineteen eighteen. I get tired of these inferior people drawn
together to look after me and my household. If, as
to day, I utter a witticism, they hastily slur it
over so as to resume the more quickly. The flap
flap monotone of dull gossip and a suspicion, wants that
(08:20):
my fun was at fault. I was ill and perhaps
had softening of the brain and delusions. So I made
an experiment. I foisted off as my own some of
the acknowledged master strokes of Samuel Foote and Oscar Wilde,
but with the same result. So I breathed again. However,
(08:49):
I accept the old village woman come in to nurse
me while he is away. She is a dear talks
little and laughs a lot. Is mousey quiet. If I
wish has lost a son in the war, has another
an elementary schoolmaster who teaches sciences, A fine scientist. She
(09:10):
keeps on feeling my feet and says they're lovely warm.
Ralse is horrified because they are cold. Perhaps she calls
little miss I like this and attempts to caress her with, well,
my little pet, But Pea is a ruthless imp and
screams at her. I sat up in my chair to
(09:33):
tea yesterday. It was all very quiet, and two mice
crept out of their holes and audaciously ate the crumbs
that fell from my plate. It is a very old
cottage in the ivy outside a nest of young starlings
keep up a clamor. The doctor has just been three
days since and says I may live for thirty years.
(09:56):
I trust and believe he is a damned liar. The
prospect of getting the proofs makes me horribly restless. The
probability of an air raid depresses me, as I am
certain the bombs will reign on the printers. Oh, do
hurry up? These proofs are getting on my mind. Malignant fate.
(10:22):
June sixteenth, nineteen eighteen. I'm damned, My malignant fate has
not forsaken me. After the agreement on each side has
been signed and the book partly set up in type,
the publishers ask to be relieved of their undertaking. The
(10:42):
fact is the reader who accepted the manuscript has been
combed out and his work continued by a member of
the firm, a godly man afraid of the injury to
the firm's reputation as publishers of school books and bibles. H. G. Wells,
who is writing an introduction, will be amused at the
(11:04):
best it means an exasperating delay till another publisher is found.
June seventeenth, nineteen eighteen. He comes home on Thursday. A
robin sits warming her eggs in a mossy hole in
the woodshed. A little piece of her russet breast just
shows her bill lies like a little dart over the
(11:27):
rim of the nest, and her beady eyes gleam in
a fury at the little old nurse in her white bonnet,
and apron who stands about a yard away, bending down
with hands on her knees, looking in and laughing till
the tears run down her face.
Speaker 2 (11:43):
Poor little potty, Poor little potty. She's got one egg
up on her back. They were a pretty duet. She
is Flabbert's coarse Sample one, nineteen eighteen, turning out my
desk I found the other day, thirty seven West Frans Avenue, Columbus, Ohio,
(12:12):
September thirtieth, nineteen fifteen. Mister Bruce Cummings, England. Dear sir,
I wonder if you will pardon my impertinence in writing
to you. You see, I haven't even your address. I
am doing this in a vague way, but I wanted
to tell you how much I appreciated your crying for
(12:34):
the moon, which I read in the April Forum. You
have expressed for me, at.
Speaker 1 (12:40):
Least most completely, the insatiable thirst for knowledge. I can't
live enough in the short time allotted to me. But
I've seldom found anyone so eager, so desirous as you
to secure all that this world has to offer in
the way of knowledge. My undergraduate work was done at
Ohio State UNIV. Then, for two years following I was
(13:02):
a fellow in English at the same school, and at
present I am here as a laboratory assistant in psychology.
Always I'm taking as much work as possible to secure
as varied a knowledge as possible. I'm working now for
my doctor's degree. I have my master's. I've had the
idea of trying only so much. I can't get away
(13:25):
from the Greek idea of nemesis. But to your article
gave me the suggestion that one should try everything better
to be scorched than not to know anything about everything,
And so this year I am trying to lead a
fuller life. The article has inspired and helped me to
attain a clearer vision of the meaning of life. As
(13:47):
one of your readers, allow me to thank you for
the splendid treat you gave us. I am touched, beggars,
can't be choosers, and grateful. Dear Miss Vona mac dononger,
thank you so much for your sympathy and your truly
wonderful name. Perhaps you are married now and have lost it.
(14:09):
Perhaps there is a baby for owner. Perhaps I don't know,
but I am curious about you. Four weeks of happiness
August seventh, nineteen eighteen, in the cottage, alone with e
and nurse. Four weeks of happiness with the obvious reservation.
(14:35):
I am in love with my wife. Oh dear woman,
What agony of mind and what happiness do you give
me to think of you alone struggling against the world,
and you are not strong. You want to protect her
someone's strong arm. But we are happy these few weeks.
(14:56):
I record it because it's so strange, A deeply in
love and long to have something so as to sacrifice
it all with a passion, with a vehemence of self abnegation.
August fifteenth, nineteen eighteen. The bishops are very preoccupied just
(15:16):
now in justifying the ways of God to man. I
presume it an even harder task to justify the ways
of man to God. Why does not God stop the war?
The people are asking, So the bishops complain, but why
did man make it? Man made the war, and we
(15:38):
know his reasons. God made the world, but he keeps
his own counsel. Yet, if man who aspires to goodness
and truth can sincerely justify the war, I am willing
to believe. This is my faith that God can justify
the world its pain and suffering and death. We made
(16:03):
the war and must assume responsibility. Yet, why is not
the world instantaneously redeemed by a few words of reproach
coming from a dazzling figure in the heavens, revealed unmistakably
at the same instant to every man, woman and child
in the world. Why not a sign from heaven? September first,
(16:27):
nineteen eighteen, eighteen months ago, I refused to take any
more wrap poison with food, so dear, and I refuse
to have any more truck with doctors. I insist on
being left alone this grotesque disease, and I, meanwhile, I
must elaborately observe it, getting worse by inches. But I
(16:50):
scoff at it so damned ridiculous, and I only give
ground obstinately, for I have two supreme objects in life
which are not yet achieved. Though I am near, I'm
so very near the victory. The days creep past, shrouded
in disappointment. Still I cling to my spa. If not today,
(17:13):
why then tomorrow perhaps, And if not tomorrow, it won't
be so bad, not so very bad, because the time's
literary supplement comes. Then that lasts for two days, and
then the nation. My thoughts move about my languid brain
like caterpillars on a ravage tree, all the while I
(17:35):
am getting worse. They are all so slow. If they
don't hurry, it'll be too late. Oh make haste, But
I must wait, and the caterpillars must cruel. They are
(17:56):
looper caterpillars, I think, which span little space. A splendid
dream September two, nineteen eighteen. It was a brilliantly fine
day to day with the gray avenue of blue sky
and sunlight through groups of cloud ranged on either side.
(18:17):
I rolled along a very magnificent way bordered by tall
silver bracken, and found two tall hedges. It irked me
to remain on the hard road between those two high hedges,
fending me off from little groups of desirable birch trees
in the woodlands on each side. Suddenly I sprang from
my chair, upset it, dumbfounded the nurse, and disappeared through
(18:40):
the hedge into the woods. I went straight up to
the birches, and they whispered joyously, Oh, he's come back
to us. I pressed my lips against their smooth, virginal cheeks.
I flung myself down on the ground and passionately squeezed
the cool, soft leaf mold as a man presses a
(19:02):
woman's breasts. I scraped away the surface leaves, and, bending down,
drew in the intoxicating smell of the earth's naked flesh.
It was a splendid dream. But I wonder if I
could do it absent mindedly, if I forgot myself an
(19:22):
immense desire. September third, nineteen eighteen passed by the birches
again to day. Their leaves rustled as I approached, thrilling
me like the liquefaction of Julia's cloves. But I shook
(19:42):
my head and went by. Instantly they ceased to flutter,
and no doubt, turned to address themselves to prettier and
more responsive young men who will pass along that road
in the years to come. September fourth, nineteen eighteen. Still
no news. I have to reinforce all the strength of
(20:05):
my soul to be able to sit and wait day
by day, impotent and idle and alone. Goodness the chief thing.
September seventh, nineteen eighteen. During the past twelve months, I
have undergone an upheaval, and the whole bas of my
(20:27):
life has gone across from the intellectual to the ethical.
I know that goodness is the chief thing. Thatching a
Kodak film, September twenty fourth, nineteen eighteen. Two brown men
on a yellow round rick thatching. In the background a
(20:48):
row of green elms above a wind hover poised in
mid air, perpendicular silver streaks of rain, bright sunlight, and
a rain encircling all. It was as simple as a diagram.
One could have cut out the picture with a pair
of scissors. I looked with a cold, detached eye for
(21:12):
all the world, as if the thatchers had no bellies
nor immortal songs, as if the trees were timber and
not vibrant vegetable life. I forgot that the motionless wind
Hover contained a wonderful and complex anatomy, rapidly throbbing all
the while, and that the sky was only a painted ceiling.
(21:35):
But this simplification of the universe was such a relief.
It was nice for once in a way, not to
be teased by its beauty or overstimulated by its wander
I merely received the picture like a photographic plate. September
twenty fifth, nineteen eighteen. Saw a long tailed tip to day,
(22:00):
exquisite little bird. It was three years since I saw one.
I should like to show one to Hindenburg and watch
them in juxtaposition. I wonder what would be their mutual
effect on each other. I want to dissected a specimen.
God forgive me, but I didn't find out anything. Emily Bronte,
(22:24):
September twenty sixth, nineteen eighteen. It was over ten years
ago that I read Wavering Heights. Have just read it
again aloud to E and am delighted and amazed. When
I came to the dreadfully moving passaures of talk between
Kathy and Heathcliff. Let me alone, Let me alone, sobbed Catherine.
If I have done wrong, I'm dying for it. It
(22:47):
is enough you left me too. But I won't upbraid
you for it. I forgive you, forgive me. It is
hard to forgive, and to look at those eyes and
feel those wasted hands here answered, kiss me again, and
don't let me see your eyes. I forgive you for
what you have done to me. I love my murderer,
(23:08):
but yours. How can I? I had to stop and
burst out laughing, or I should have burst into tears.
He came over and we read the rest of the
chapter together. I can well understand the remark of Charlotte,
a little startled and propitatory, that having created a book,
(23:30):
Emily did not know what she had done. She was
the last person to appreciate her own work. Emily was
fascinated by the u U of fierce male cruelty, and
she herself, once in a furious rage, blinded her pet
bulldog with blows from a clenched fist. Rotherin Height is
(23:53):
a story of fiendish cruelty and maniacal love passion. It's
preternatural power is the singular result of free factors in
rarest combination, rare genius, rare moorland surroundings, and rare character.
One might almost write her down as Missus Nietzsche, her
(24:15):
religious beliefs being a comparatively minor divergence. However, that may
be the young woman who wrote in the poem a
Prisoner that she didn't care whether she went to heaven
or hell so long as she was dead. Is no
fit companion for the young ladies of a seminary. No
(24:36):
coward soul is mine, she tells us in another poem,
with her fist held to while wincing nose. I, for one,
believe her. It would be idle to pretend to love
Emily Bronte, But I venerate her most deeply. Even at
(24:56):
this distance, I feel an immediate awe of her person.
For her nothing held any menace. She was adamant over
her ailing flesh, defiant of death and the lightnings of
her mortal anguish. And her name was thunder the end
(25:19):
of section one of last Stary
Popular Podcasts
New Heights with Jason & Travis Kelce
Football’s funniest family duo — Jason Kelce of the Philadelphia Eagles and Travis Kelce of the Kansas City Chiefs — team up to provide next-level access to life in the league as it unfolds. The two brothers and Super Bowl champions drop weekly insights about the weekly slate of games and share their INSIDE perspectives on trending NFL news and sports headlines. They also endlessly rag on each other as brothers do, chat the latest in pop culture and welcome some very popular and well-known friends to chat with them. Check out new episodes every Wednesday. Follow New Heights on the Wondery App, YouTube or wherever you get your podcasts. You can listen to new episodes early and ad-free, and get exclusive content on Wondery+. Join Wondery+ in the Wondery App, Apple Podcasts or Spotify. And join our new membership for a unique fan experience by going to the New Heights YouTube channel now!
Dateline NBC
Current and classic episodes, featuring compelling true-crime mysteries, powerful documentaries and in-depth investigations. Follow now to get the latest episodes of Dateline NBC completely free, or subscribe to Dateline Premium for ad-free listening and exclusive bonus content: DatelinePremium.com
On Purpose with Jay Shetty
I’m Jay Shetty host of On Purpose the worlds #1 Mental Health podcast and I’m so grateful you found us. I started this podcast 5 years ago to invite you into conversations and workshops that are designed to help make you happier, healthier and more healed. I believe that when you (yes you) feel seen, heard and understood you’re able to deal with relationship struggles, work challenges and life’s ups and downs with more ease and grace. I interview experts, celebrities, thought leaders and athletes so that we can grow our mindset, build better habits and uncover a side of them we’ve never seen before. New episodes every Monday and Friday. Your support means the world to me and I don’t take it for granted — click the follow button and leave a review to help us spread the love with On Purpose. I can’t wait for you to listen to your first or 500th episode!