Tuesdays with Keats

I feel like half of my posts are just English major nerd out sessions. But, I mean that's a pretty accurate representation of who I am in general. So take me or leave me, readers.

Last week, my on-site class (which I'll be blogging about later in the semester) met at the Spanish steps for class and my professor pointed out the Keats-Shelley Memorial House before we moved on with class to the Borghese gardens. So of course I stayed down in the center and went there immediately after class. Like, duh. 

The museum, located literally next to the Spanish Steps, is actually the apartment where Jonathan Keats lived and eventually died in while in Rome. I took a Brit Lit class in Romantic literature last semester with a professor who was super jazzed about Keats and Byron (I mean how could you not?), so walking through was essentially me reliving my awesome class. 

It's actually really sad for those of you who don't know Keats' story. He trained as a surgeon, which means he was a doctor who actually worked with the body, as opposed to the more high class doctors who dealt with bodies in the abstract. When his younger brother caught tuberculosis, it was Keats who nursed him until his death. Keats was immensely close with his brother and his death wrecked him emotionally. More than that though, it made him into a real poet. Keats had wanted to be a writer his whole life but he wasn't in a class capable of living such a lifestyle, hence the whole doctor thing. The poetry he did write though was horrible. It was only after his brother's death that he improved. And when he himself discovered that he too was dying of tuberculosis, well, he produced some of the greatest poetry in the English language.

Books, on books, on books.

That's why he went to Rome actually. People thought that the warmer climates of Italy helped to cure the disease which sadly it didn't. Keats' time there is recorded by the many letters he wrote. I've actually read a great deal of these letters and they have quite a few of them on display at the house. They're terribly sad. Because of his training and his time with his brother, Keats was highly aware of the fact that he was dying, and at the age of 25. If that doesn't make you write amazing poetry I don't know what will. 

The house itself is mainly devoted to small artifacts from not only Keats but a variety of the Romantic poets, including Lord Byron and the Shelleys. They actually have a first edition of Byron's Don Juan on display. It was open to Canto I and I might have been super excited about it. They also have a lot of little known portraits and letters which are really cool to see. 

No big deal.

Probably the best part of this museum, which is very very small, is Keats' bedroom where he died. Because of the disease, all of the original furniture was burned following his death but, the curators have done a great job of finding replicas. There's not many artifacts in there except for a plaster mold of Keats' face which was made immediately following his death. It's super creepy. Not gonna lie. Cool, but definitely creepy. Especially because it's inches from the bed at a height where he would be lying at.  

I'll spare you the close up of the death mask.

I was one of the only people there that day so I had a good few minutes in his bedroom completely by myself. I took a walk around and looked out the windows down at the Spanish steps trying to imagine him there, slowly dying and writing a legacy to leave behind. It's even stranger, I think, because he was so incredibly young. He was just a few years older than me when he died and I can't imagine what could have been possibly going through his mind from day to day. 

I think my professor put it best, though in a tongue and cheek way. He had just finished telling us his biography and he had a way of telling stories that really compelled you to listen, especially this one. He ended by laughing and saying, "So if you ever want to feel completely inadequate, just remember that at your age Jonathan Keats had already written some of the best poetry ever penned." 

And that's sort of how I felt walking through the apartment: deeply inadequate but at the same time strangely connected to these writers.

And then there's this Tuesday, which involved a visit to the Protestant Cemetery of Rome. It's not limited to Protestants though. It's actually considered one of the oldest burial grounds in Europe-- because it also includes that random pyramid which is also a burial site.

The place is breathtaking. It was actually Percy Shelley, who is buried there, who said, "It might make one in love with death, to think that one should be buried in so sweet a place." It's part cat sanctuary, part jungle, part flower garden-- oh and a cemetery too. The way that the sun pours through the branches of the Cyprus trees honestly makes me agree with Shelley. Death, at least death here, might not be so bad.

There are so many random tomb stones from all different nations and religions. You'll see everything from Arabic to Greek to German on them. Some are simple crosses. Some have full on sculptures covering them. Some of the epitaphs are poetry, others question marks.

Percy Shelley, Jonathan Keats, and Gregory Corso (a famous Beat poet for those of you who don't know) are all buried there. Percy Shelley's grave was really cool-- he has a quote from the Tempest at the bottom-- but, it didn't stand a chance at beating Keats' grave. I mean that is the theme of the week, right?

I technically saw it twice. We originally had some time just to wander when we first got there, so of course I B-lined it for where the signs were pointing for his. I'm glad I did because I had the chance to take a few moments by myself there and feel the weight of being in such a place. It's especially touching because his friend Joseph Severn is buried next to him, even though he died 50 years later. Severn nursed and stayed with Keats while he was on his death bed in Rome. Even in death, he hasn't left his side it seems.

Keats is left, Severn on the right.

His grave reads, "This Grave contains all that was Mortal of a Young English Poet Who, on his Death Bed, in the Bitterness of his Heart, of the Malicious Power of his Enemies, Desired these Words to be engraven on his Tomb Stone. Here lies One Whose Name was writ in Water."

Keats died believing he was a failure. He never thought his poetry was of any worth and never imagined it could be. He thought his name would disappear, the way it does when written in water. Now, he is one of the greatest English poets. And his tombstone is some of the best poetry I've read in a while.

A little later, with my classmates there, I had the chance to read aloud my favorite Keats poem in front of their graves-- La Belle Dame Sans Merci. It was a little surreal; I was basically reading the poem to him, if that sort of thing actually exists. And if there is an afterlife, I can imagine Keats is perhaps smiling at the fact that we are still reading it.

Ciao ragazzi.

xoxo

lauren