Regions of sorrow, doleful shades, where peace And rest can never dwell, hope never comes.

~ Milton, Paradise Lost bk. I. 60 ff.

Bereft of hope a man stands strong. There is a suppliant nature that is encouraged by hope. A different nature – not that I believe in phusis, after having read Sartre – desires only to stand like Manfred on the Jungfrau. Shades of my past haunt me. Is that nature? Regions of sorrow kick me in the posterior each day. Is that nature? Rest is a dream and a second death. No nature there. Hope, on the other hand … Someday I hope to see a tall blonde woman strolling through a meadow, white shoes in her hands, bare feet stained green with grass. I’m talking about my ex-wife (a terrible appellation!) Sweetness lives in memory. And I’ll leave off, like I often do, with a quote:

Her blue-veined feet unsandl’d were, And wildly glittered here and there The gems entangled in her hair.

~ Coleridge, Christabel I.63-65. I’m writing / quoting here of my ex-wife. If the pain is not apparent, “I never writ, nor no man ever loved.”