Writings Showcase
The Last Journal Entries of Thomas Chatterton
(This is pure fiction)
18th of August 1770, Brooke Street
Smith’s Publishing House turned down my collection. They would not hear of publishing any of it. They were as anxious to get rid of me as Waterstone’s, Pemberley, Knightsbridge, Coldham’s and all the rest. There are more publishers I could see, but it is only folly to continually subject myself to ridicule and humiliation. I cannot go on like this. I must wait, I must concentrate fully on writing from now on, and not see another publisher until I have something worthy to present. Something that can truly measure up to the great poets of our time.
My works so far are all worthless, I see that now, though I was so fond of them earlier, especially A Gust of Southern Wind. But though the imagery of that poem was very fine, and the rhythm flawless, I must say, the most important thing was still missing. I, or the reader, failed to truly feel that golden gust of wind on the face. All the elements in that poem are right, but together they still do not work. It must be my dying imagination.
Yes, it is dying. More and more I have to struggle to have the words come out. What happened to the old days, when they simply poured out abundantly whenever I held a pen in my hand? I did not have so many worries then. I was never rich, I know as much, but I used to have what I needed. I scorned my mother’s home, and am too proud to return an even lesser man, than when I went away, as did the Prodigal Son.
I never had a close friend, but in Bristol I was at least among people who knew my name. And though mama could never understand my troubled soul, at least she did have some love for me. She used to say, that I must be trustful and commend myself to others if I wanted friends. They would not show up at my door all by themselves. But how is that possible for me? I am sure that if I ever approached anyone, they would either laugh scornfully at me, or, if they were quite decent people, feel pity for me and to some extent tolerate my presence, but never truly appreciate it.
Tears are falling on the table now. Even they scorn me, crying out: “how pitiful, how useless and stupid you are, Thomas Chatterton. We wish not to know anything of you. Wipe us away at once!” What shall I do? Not even the good Lord can help a soul as utterly disgraceful and hideous as mine. What on earth shall I do, I am all alone in the world, and cannot even love myself.
23rd of August 1770, Brooke Street
Tonight I shall close my eyes on this world for the last time. I have only to breathe the treacherous air, which forces my tired heart to keep on beating, a few hours longer. What bliss lies in the knowledge, that I shall never again feel the cruel stab in my heart, that is the first moment of consciousness, when I wake in the morning. That stab, which has killed me every day for as long as I can remember. In fact, taking one’s own life cannot be such a terrible thing after all, when your soul is already gone, and all that is left is this flesh, an empty vessel. I am sure my soul must be gone, or I should have been able to write worthy poetry. But there is nothing left in me to give the words life, like in the days when I was still a boy. That is the reason everyone finds my poems dull and dry. And therefore I am less afraid of the judgment of the Almighty: I am not truly ending my life - it was ended long ago, though I know not how.
I bought a vial of arsenic at the Hill’s Apothecary this morning. I feel pity for mama, who shall be dreadfully sorry upon receiving the news of what I have done, and for my relatives in town, who shall probably suffer some days of ill conscience, and for the poor housemaid who shall be very shocked to find my dead body in this room tomorrow. But all of their suffering added together could never measure up to my own misery, and I pray they will all understand, that I merely chose the lesser of two evils.
In a library book I read, that arsenic poisoning causes rapid and painful organ failure. My death shall not be a peaceful one then, but I no longer fear the pain, it shall be a minor addition to that which already torments my mind and soul. I had thought of sitting by the window, looking at the stars appearing in the sky for one last time, but it seems any and all beauty of this world has faded - I may as well swallow the drink of death, which is sitting right here on the table, this very moment and be free of it ...
The vial is now empty; it’s content tasted sweet in my mouth, but already I feel its destructive power spread through my gut, and I can barely hold on to my pen ... I must g ...
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