Of him who shall find this paper I must beg a little consideration. It is not the history of my life; the knowledge to write that is denied me. This is only a record of broken and apparently unrelated memories, some of them as distinct and sequent as brilliant beads upon a thread, others remote and strange, having the character of crimson dreams with interspaces blank and black – witch-fires glowing still and red in a great desolation.
Standing upon the shore of eternity, I turn for a last look landward over the course by which I came. There are twenty years of footprints fairly distinct, the impressions of bleeding feet. They lead through poverty and pain, devious and unsure, as of one staggering beneath a burden —
Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow
(вдали от всех, бредет он, согбенный, устало: «уединенный, без друзей, меланхоличный, медленный»;[15]Ah, the poet’s prophecy of Me
(ах, это предсказание меня этим поэтом) – how admirable, how dreadfully admirable (как восхитительно, как ужасно восхитительно)!Backward beyond the beginning of this