Sea Room

The Beautiful Illness

The Beautiful Illness "Illness is a long lane, . . ." —John Keats I can't forgive an old theme in spring. Powdered aspirin on the lips of white lilies, the antiseptic color injected in these lawns reminds me of a beautiful illness but I can't imagine coming down with it. I'm out walking in a mood; it shames me that six or seven gloomy moths, my pet irrationalities, and all my nervous thoughts are after me. The evenings are warm and busy, an atmosphere of crowded sewing rooms where they make the lace attachments for homely wedding gowns. I think of love, how it should be drowned like a spider in a drop of water. A dull, reluctant drizzle would suffice. Something falls in other lives like footsteps coming or someone kicks a tin can tenderly all night. A careful loitering might attune me to my needs when the cheapest expectation seems too dear. With this in mind, I paid for the last newspaper with its torn headline and read of a place where business was booming, but the faces on money looked so dejected I flattered a cashier who was going off duty. Of course I was joking, I left in a flurry. A circle of insects laughed along with me, convulsed 13 in precise, lonesome amusement. I give up telling the truth to any stranger and I can't worry about women who knew me when I was used as an example. Last winter, pneumonia sent out love notes to many. Now tulips ascend like fevers, the dogwood solicits my sickest responses. It's useless to blame this season or the next, and I don't excuse my part in it— those desires left stupefied in public hospitals. Why does it matter, for love evoked so easily was lost, thank goodness, beyond memory. H ...