This type of sadness kills. I’m exhausted and I want to leave this place but I have too much responsibility here to just run away.
The Modernist poets have been good to me today; distracting and consistent and thought-provoking. I went back to WCW, then onto Pound, over to Stein’s Tender Buttons via Mina Loy, and have been binging on T. S. Eliot for the past couple of hours. I have not left my bed today. I do not plan to.
The highly relevant epigraph of The Waste Land:
“Nam Sibyllam quidem Cumis ego ipse oculis meis vidi in ampulla pendere, et cum illi pueri dicerent: Σιβυλλα τι θελεις; respondebat illa: αποθανειν θελω.”
“I saw with my own eyes the Sibyl of Cumae hanging in a jar, and when the boys said to her: Sibyl, what do you want? she replied: I want to die.”
Treacle Heart 