The Astonishing Life of Octavian Nothing, Traitor to the Nation (Volume 2): Parts IX-X

The handwriting at this point in his diary is extremely enfeebled and palsied, occasionally illegible.

I hv ceas’d the Course of Lime for the Irruptions only grow, my Arm is all involved with them, & I divine phps twas the Lime.

The House is filled with Whispers & Exclamations. I will not believe it haunted but prepare to delve into the Plasticity of Sound.

I have soothed myself with nervine bitters. [Illegible sentence.]

The nervous Particles are in full Operation, & the Spirits agitated, with conspicuous vaporous Disordering in the whole of the Pulmonary Apparatus & the Arm.

Your Mother was the Cynosure of all Eyes.

I have long been concerned in the question, Whether Reason is inherent in the World, & is simply clouded by the Frailties of Mortal Man, or whether Reason is but an imperfect Illusion, & further, whether Man is a Reasonable Creature hamper’d by Passions, or a Passionate Creature hamper’d by Reason; & whether, if Reason prevailed, that had made him more generous in his Motions.

I have long been concerned in the question, Whether Reason is inherent in the World, & is simply clouded by the Frailties of Mortal Man, or whether Reason is but an imperfect Illusion, & further, whether Man is a Reasonable Creature hamper’d by Passions, or a Passionate Creature hamper’d by Reason; & whether, if Reason prevailed, that had made him more generous in his Motions.

Today for a space of five Minutes perhaps I became assured that the Answer to this lay in the Sheet upon my Bed, & did I wind it one Way around my Hand, I was sensible of Reason predominating, & the other, Passion was at the Core, I rapidly twined it each Way seeking which was Right, until the Distemper lifted, & I saw my Folly.

His Studies continue apace & he reads & writes all day by the Fire.

Oct. demurred, using as his Excuse my Infirmity and the small Distance to their Shop.

He did but I could not read the Greek, something being amiss with my Eyes.

The Son call’d me many Names I shall not deign to repeat & tho’ the Father sought to mollify he did so merely for Fear of their Rent & I informed them to [illegible] & they are to be out in the Morning.

In all such Buffets it behooves us to use Patience with the Offenders, that they might be brought back to the Path of Right.

In all such Buffets it behooves us to use Patience with the Offenders, that they might be brought back to the Path of Right.

I yet recall his simpering Face as he offered us Tea.

You cannot leave, say I. I have Need of you here. —(As I spake it, sensible of the Spleen Disemboguing nervous Vapors & the whole Frame altering in its chemical Condition.)

How may you obstruct me?

He is returned now, and writing, but he is [illegible] to be hung in a Gibbet, were there equal Justice, he is of so contrary a Temper...

17 Years—17 Years—you have burnt 17 Years—all lost—no Record—my God!—you Child!—you fool Intransigent—

I hear her Step above me as she learn’d the Ways of Hoops & I see him as a Lad disporting himself upon the miniature Fiddle we had wrought for him & there was never more solemn Poppet.

...let me be thy praise-singer, though I, living last, live least: Morenike, called Cassiopeia, most dazzling of mothers, mistress of the mask; Richard Sharpe, who sought profit even in the skies; Pompey Lewis, called Pomp, gentle teller of horrors; Slant Croak, mild Slant, who witnessed the ravages of kindness; Olakunde, lost, who drummed gods into being; and John Trefusis, who loved mankind so fiercely he could not do other than despise it.

Heraclitus saith that “War is the father of all things,” for we could not subsist without strife within us and unease. I lament that I can see no flaw in this bitter axiom.

We have vowed we shall be different from either of these lumbering powers we have witnessed; and setting out thus into a land where we might discover new bonds of amity and social union, perhaps we shall keep those vows.

There are some who believe that the mind is a blank tablet, on which experience is writ until the page be full, and the cryptic world is known; but I see rather that my own life hath been one long forgetting, the erasure of what was drawn, a terrible redaction; til all that remains is blank white and comfortless.