And I suppose have only made myself more unpopular: ah yes: but freer. That’s the point.

A sharp character—no youth as I feared—a Faubourg Marigny type, Mediterranean, big-nosed, lumpy-jawed, a single stitched-in wrinkle over his eyebrows from just above which there springs up a great pompadour of wiry bronze hair. His face aches with it. He has no use for me at all.

You have no excuse for not knowing who you are. You've found solace and laziness in relying on someone else to tell your story.

And all the charms of face or voice Which I in others see, Are but the recollected choice Of what I feel for thee.

Written By John Clare

About us

Featured posts

Featured Topics

Quick Links