I feel in utter despair every time I watch the PM flanked by his ‘Advisors’. Maybe they are in as much despair as I am to hear him talk about ‘Sending it packing in twelve weeks’. We need transparency which is something that Cummings and his crew don’t seem to know the meaning of. Maybe they should cast out on a … Ship of Fools
In the meantime I want to post this letter:
A LETTER FROM F. SCOTT FITZGERALD, QUARANTINED IN 1920 IN THE SOUTH OF FRANCE DURING THE SPANISH INFLUENZA OUTBREAK:
It was a limpid dreary day, hung as in a basket from a single dull star. I thank you for your letter. Outside, I perceive what may be a collection of fallen leaves tussling against a trash can. It rings like jazz to my ears. The streets are that empty. It seems as though the bulk of the city has retreated to their quarters, rightfully so. At this time, it seems very poignant to avoid all public spaces. Even the bars, as I told Hemingway, but to that he punched me in the stomach, to which I asked if he had washed his hands. He hadn’t. He is much the denier, that one. Why, he considers the virus to be just influenza. I’m curious of his sources.
The officials have alerted us to ensure we have a month’s worth of necessities. Zelda and I have stocked up on red wine, whiskey, rum, vermouth, absinthe, white wine, sherry, gin, and lord, if we need it, brandy. Please pray for us.
You should see the square, oh, it is terrible. I weep for the damned eventualities this future brings. The long afternoons rolling forward slowly on the ever-slick bottomless highball. Z. says it’s no excuse to drink, but I just can’t seem to steady my hand. In the distance, from my brooding perch, the shoreline is cloaked in a dull haze where I can discern an unremitting penance that has been heading this way for a long, long while. And yet, amongst the cracked cloudline of an evening’s cast, I focus on a single strain of light, calling me forth to believe in a better morrow.
F. Scott Fitzgerald
I have just heard and confirmed this letter is a spoof in circulation which appeared last week in but nevertheless I wish I could write like that! It appeared in the literary magazine Illustoria by Nick Farriella.
What I find most frightening about my determination – regardless of how tired I am – to maintain a daily diary entry is because like the Raft of Medusa, (I don’t know where this marine energy is coming from) none of us know, not even the PM, who will be the survivors. I have seen too much trauma in my life to want to be a survivor at the expense of losing anyone who is in my current iPhone Contacts.
And to end up for today the reason I called these diaries The Coronet Diaries apart from the obvious association is because in Sixteenth Century London when syphilis was everywhere and incurable one of its many identifying marks was a skin deformation or ochre type of rosacea that encircled the forehead like a crown. Later on we get, Goldilocks and the Three Bears!https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2020/mar/20/boris-johnson-covid-19-prime-minister-brexit