The story of
pain ought not to be told of us, seeing that by us it would assuredly not
be told.
There is only one other thing that concerns a man still more exclusively,
and that is his own mental illness, or the dreams and illusions of a long
delirium. When he is in common language not himself, amends should be
made for so bitter a paradox; he should be allowed such solitude as is
possible to the alienated spirit; he should be left to the "not himself,"
and spared the intrusion against which he can so ill guard that he could
hardly have even resented it.
The double helplessness of delusion and death should keep the door of
Rossetti's house, for example, and refuse him to the reader. His mortal
illness had nothing to do with his poetry. Some rather affected
objection is taken every now and then to the publication of some facts
(others being already well known) in the life of Shelley. Nevertheless,
these are all, properly speaking, biography. What is not biography is
the detail of the accident of the manner of his death, the detail of his
cremation. Or if it was to be told--told briefly--it was certainly not
for marble.
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