Writ in Water, A Novel of John Keats

By James Sulzer

Beloved British poet John Keats died in 1821 at age 25. What was his life really like? Did he find love? What experiences led to his great poetry?

This captivating novel reimagines Keats at the moment of death as he undergoes a series of heart-wrenching trials that offer answers to these questions.

It is February 23, 1821. John Keats’ time on earth has come to an end, and he finds himself in a “way station” somewhere above Rome, where he spent the last months of his life. Alongside him is a mysterious spirit who seems to wish to communicate with him but is unable to speak.
Keats receives short, dramatic visits from spirits out of his past. Cruel critics. The tight-fisted guardian of his grandfather’s estate. His brother and sister. A painter who hounded him for loans. And Fanny Brawne, his off-and-on love.

Meanwhile, key memories from his life unfold for his review. The moment when his grandmother died and he and his siblings were left orphans. A time he stood up for his brother Tom when he was bullied by a school official. Tom’s death from consumption. A pivotal hike through the Lake District, the home of Keats’ hero William Wordsworth. His dramatic meeting and courtship of Fanny Brawne.

Along the way he undergoes three judgments from the universe on his relations with his siblings, with his peers, and finally on his life and accomplishments in sum.
He also learns the surprising identity of his spirit guide and—in the breathtaking conclusion—he is witness to the stunning secret that will decide his fate.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fuze Publishing
• Release date: Apr 21, 2021
• ISBN: 9781733034432

James Sulzer

James Sulzer, author of "The Voice at the Door," lives on Nantucket Island, Massachusetts and teaches reading and writing to students in grades 5-8. A graduate of Yale University, where he was a Yale National Scholar, he is also the author of Nantucket Daybreak (Walker and Co.) and the memoir Mom Comes Home. He has produced countless “sonic id’s” for National Public Radio, some of which aired on Ira Glass’s This American Life. He has spent the past 40 years of his life reading, living with, and cherishing the poetry of Emily Dickinson.

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Writ in Water

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Writ in Water

A novel of John Keats

by James Sulzer

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Ashland, Oregon

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Writ in Water Copyright © 2021 by James Sulzer All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions. Fuze Publishing, Ashland, Oregon

Book design by Ray Rhamey

ISBN978-1-7330344-3-2

Library of Congress Control Number: 2021905364

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For Barbara

Bright star, steadfast

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Ode to a Nightingale

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains

My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,

Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains

One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:

‘T is not through envy of thy happy lot,

But being too happy in thine happiness,—

That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees,

In some melodious plot

Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,

Singest of summer in full-throated ease.

O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been

Cool’d a long age in the deep-delved earth,

Tasting of Flora and the country-green,

Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!

O for a beaker full of the warm South,

Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,

With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,

And purple-stained mouth;

That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,

And with thee fade away into the forest dim:

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget

What thou among the leaves hast never known,

The weariness, the fever, and the fret

Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;

Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last grey hairs,

Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;

Where but to think is to be full of sorrow

And leaden-eyed despairs;

Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,

Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.

Away! away! for I will fly to thee,

Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,

But on the viewless wings of Poesy,

Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:

Already with thee! tender is the night,

And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,

Cluster’d around by all her starry Fays;

But here there is no light,

Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown

Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,

Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,

But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet

Wherewith the seasonable month endows

The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;

White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;

Fast fading violets cover’d up in leaves;

And mid-May’s eldest child,

The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,

The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.

Darkling I listen; and, for many a time

I have been half in love with easeful Death,

Call’d him soft names in many a mused rhyme,

To take into the air my quiet breath;

Now more than ever seems it rich to die,

To cease upon the midnight with no pain,

While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad

In such an ecstasy!

Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain—

To thy high requiem become a sod.

Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!

No hungry generations tread thee down;

The voice I hear this passing night was heard

In ancient days by emperor and clown:

Perhaps the self-same song that found a path

Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,

She stood in tears amid the alien corn;

The same that oft-times hath

Charm’d magic casements, opening on the foam

Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.

Forlorn! the very word is like a bell

To toll me back from thee to my sole self!

Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well

As she is fam’d to do, deceiving elf.

Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades

Past the near meadows, over the still stream,

Up the hill-side; and now ‘t is buried deep

In the next valley-glades:

Was it a vision, or a waking dream?

Fled is that music:—do I wake or sleep?

I

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N

It was a curious sight.

Three of the wingless creatures known as humans stood in a row. Each of them straddled a skinny two-wheeled thing with one large wheel in front and a smaller one behind. Planting their feet under them, the men shoved themselves forward with great thrusts of their legs. The wheels hummed like honeybees.

Directly in their path sat a young man, his head cradled in his arms. I wondered if he was in pain. He looked up as the travelers zipped up to him and stopped just short of his face. They called out to him in the harshest of voices:

Cockney poet!

Never was there a young man so encrusted with conceit!

Back to the apothecary shop, Mr. John, back to plasters, pills, and ointment boxes!

Then, perfectly in time, they each lifted a leg like a dog and released a spray of liquid that splashed onto the face and chest of the young man. The deed done, they galloped off on their wheeled mounts.

Adding to the strangeness, all this was happening in midair, in the deepening dusk, in the middle of a great city, high above a broad flight of worn grey stairs and a vast nest of stone buildings and fountains.

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A young woman, clothed in the color of leaves, flickered up to the dripping young man and perched near him. Her face was long and smooth, and her mouth was the red of berries.

As I’ve said before, I wish to be appreciated for more than mere beauty. I have never loved nor never will love you, John.

She turned and walked off on the arm of a tall man in a red jacket and a high black cap.

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A dried-up old man in breeches and half boots glided into sight, seated at a great desk and patting a bag that overflowed with a shiny metal. He pointed his nose, sharp and protruding like the beak of a raven, toward the young man.

You again? It was almost more than I could bear, trying to usher the wayward Keats brood into lives as responsible adults. After your parents left you with nothing but their weakness for sins of the flesh and of the bottle.

I am not here to listen to your insults, the young man replied.

Then I suppose you have come again to ask for money. But it’s a bit too late for that now, don’t you think? Do I need to remind you of your boast, I mean to rely upon my abilities as a poet?

He extended a long arm, plunged a claw into the young man’s chest, and tore out his heart. He dropped it to the floor, where it fluttered like the wings of a wounded sparrow.

With a dry chuckle, Raven man turned his attention back to the columns of figures on the parchment before him.

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Somewhere inside me, in the place where songs are born, I knew I needed to stay with this young man and keep him company.

But why? What could I offer him?

We are simple birds.

We sing. We eat. We sleep.

We sing of summer in full-throated ease and are no strangers to ecstasy. When it is time, we depart from this earth with no care or concern for what comes next.

True, I had met him once or twice before. For several hours early one morning, I trilled my songs high in the boughs of my plum tree while he—quite alive then—lounged in a chair below, glancing up every now and then. I could tell he was listening closely, and I added some special, joyful notes. It wasn’t long before his hand sprang to life and began to fill up some white squares with long trails of those things they call words.

There might have been one brief, earlier encounter as well.

But that was all.

When I am near him now, I feel a strange tug—as if I owe him something. Something feels incomplete, like at the start of nest-building season, but what could it be?

The young man was hunched over again. I darted up to him, intending to demand, What do I owe you?

But no song sprang forth. Several times I tried—nothing. Not a whistle, trill, warble, buzz. I was silent.

Yet somehow he realized I was there, for he glanced up at me. I will never forget the look in his eyes.

He was in pain. More than pain. The young man was in peril.

J

Nothing ever becomes real till it is experienced. All my life and death remain a mystery but for one certainty.

In every dream that I cherished, I failed.

No epic poem to number me among the English poets. No great love that bottled up its fiery beginnings, then mellowed over a lifetime like a fine vintage. No wise insights that could offer light and hope to the lives of men and women.

My one success was an intimate acquaintance with pain—physical and mental anguish. In all else, I fell short.

In truth, I have only myself to blame. I vowed early on that I would sooner fail than not be among the greatest.

The last few months of my life, as I languished in a fevered dream in Rome, felt like a posthumous existence. But what was then a simile has become my new reality. Where is the mood, the tense, the syntax to capture this?

Wafting above the Spanish Steps like a hot-air balloon, I have stalled over an open area. Could this be some sort of way station? Beneath me my life unravels, scattered like a pack of cards.

What bashful and curious spirit is this that gleams in the dusk beside me? As small as a tumbler, as wayward as a firefly, it flits here and there but never quite leaves my side.

Do you know who I am? Or was? Or hoped to be? I ask.

It flutters before me as if listening.

I was a poet.

II

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