De Profundis

. . . Suffering is one very long moment. We cannot divide it by
seasons. We can only record its moods, and chronicle their return.
With us time itself does not progress. It revolves. It seems to
circle round one centre of pain. The paralysing immobility of a
life every circumstance of which is regulated after an unchangeable
pattern, so that we eat and drink and lie down and pray, or kneel
at least for prayer, according to the inflexible laws of an iron
formula: this immobile quality, that makes each dreadful day in
the very minutest detail like its brother, seems to communicate
itself to those external forces the very essence of whose existence
is ceaseless change. Of seed-time or harvest, of the reapers
bending over the corn, or the grape gatherers threading through the
vines, of the grass in the orchard made white with broken blossoms
or strewn with fallen fruit: of these we know nothing and can know
nothing.

For us there is only one season, the season of sorrow. The very
sun and moon seem taken from us. Outside, the day may be blue and
gold, but the light that creeps down through the thickly-muffled
glass of the small iron-barred window beneath which one sits is
grey and niggard. It is always twilight in one's cell, as it is
always twilight in one's heart. And in the sphere of thought, no
less than in the sphere of time, motion is no more. The thing that
you personally have long ago forgotten, or can easily forget, is
happening to me now, and will happen to me again to-morrow.
Remember this, and you will be able to understand a little of why I
am writing, and in this manner writing. . . .

A week later, I am transferred here. Three more months go over and
my mother dies. No one knew how deeply I loved and honoured her.
Her death was terrible to me; but I, once a lord of language, have
no words in which to express my anguish and my shame. She and my
father had bequeathed me a name they had made noble and honoured,
not merely in literature, art, archaeology, and science, but in the
public history of my own country, in its evolution as a nation. I
had disgraced that name eternally. I had made it a low by-word
among low people. I had dragged it through the very mire. I had
given it to brutes that they might make it brutal, and to fools
that they might turn it into a synonym for folly. What I suffered
then, and still suffer, is not for pen to write or paper to record.
My wife, always kind and gentle to me, rather than that I should
hear the news from indifferent lips, travelled, ill as she was, all
the way from Genoa to England to break to me herself the tidings of
so irreparable, so irremediable, a loss. Messages of sympathy
reached me from all who had still affection for me. Even people