What one of us think without contradiction
And acts without incoherence? What one
Of us is not mad? What one of us does
Not say with a mixture of pity, comradeship,
Admiration and horror
"Goodnight, sweet love!"
The time is out of Joint O’ cursed spite
That ever I was born to set it right.
I am to be studied and absorbed, to be
Made a part of your habitual landscape
And mental furniture, lest you should miss
Much of what is deepest and rarest in
Human feeling.
My world is preeminently in the interrogative
Mood. It reverberates with questions; anguished,
Meditative, alarmed…
… the interrogations seem to point not
only beyond the contex but beyond life
out of my predicament into everyone else’s.
My life is an epitome of mankind, not an
Individual; a sort of magic mirror
In which all men and women see the
Reflex of themselves, and therefore my life
Has been always, is still, and ever will be
The most popular of tragedies.