A Borrowed Home
As far back as Keats could remember, all his ideas of careers, of cities to live in and the means of living there, had been born in ignorance. The less he knew, the more he loved. But again and again, he must reach into the mist of the future and grasp some solid form; and once grasped, it was future no longer. The page he had thought a perfect blank was already written over, front and back. He was in a fumy back room with fifty camphora pills to make up, or a shabby Westminster apartment with a pamphlet to review on the divine right of kings, and he knew a lifetime of any such task should scrape his heart dry.
How it was with women he didn’t know. He’d gone to women now and then, like anyone. But in the real history of his heart there was only Fanny’s name, and since fat
