constantly beset by idle fears. . . Hogg, p. 243.
Oh Miss Wordsworth. . . this service. . . Jordan, p. 297.
to fly from himself. . . Hogg, p. 139.
Druggists than to the Shoe Maker. . . Coburn, p. 310.
pretty uniformly = o. . . Morrison, p. 248.
What a wonderful city Edinburgh is. . . Griggs, II, p. 988.
The man is a fool. . . Miller, p. 128.
Socrates, Plato, Aristotle. . . Japp, II, pp. 44–5.
a less mysterious outward appearance. . . Morrison, p. 203.
the double-faced old gentleman. . . Eaton, p. 309.
I am wedded to you so closely. . . James Hogg, The Private Memoirs and Confessions of a Justified Sinner, edited by John Carey, Oxford: Oxford World’s Classics, 1969, p. 229.
O that I had the wings of a dove. . . Hogg, Private Memoirs and Confessions, p. 224.
So often had I been hoaxed. . . Hogg, Private Memoirs and Confessions, p. 245.
Turks, Persians and Chinamen. . . MacFarlane, Reminiscences of a Literary Life, p. 80.
Mrs De Quincey seemed on the whole. . ..E. de Selincourt (ed.), The Letters of Dorothy and William Wordsworth, The Later Years, part 1, 1825–1828, revised by Alan G. Hill, Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1978, p. 485.
tone laconic, or curt. . . Poe, ‘How to Write a Blackwood Article’, p. 70.
Pleasant it is, no doubt . . . De Quincey was remembering Thomas Carew’s ‘Epitaph on the Lady Mary Villiers’: ‘For thou perhaps at thy return,/ May’st find thy Darling in an Urn’.
these horrid details . . . Gordon, Memoir of John Wilson, p. 62
created the taste by which he is to be enjoyed. . . ‘On Murder’, p. 10.
‘Fire! Fire!’. . . ‘On Murder’, p. 11.
the great gallery of murder. . . the old transcendentalist. . . ‘On Murder’, pp. 16–23.
mere plagiarism. . . ‘On Murder’, p. 30.
a log on the floor. . . ‘On Murder’, p. 27.
the murderer was a poet, the poet was a murderer. . . see A. S. Plumtree’s excellent essay, ‘The Artist as Murderer. . .’: ‘I would propose that De Quincey’s conception of the murderer as artist springs from an intuition of the artist as murderer. . .’ Also suggestive is Margo Ann Sullivan’s Murder and Art, Thomas De Quincey and the Ratcliffe Highway Murders, New York: Garland, 1987.
Impenitent as a snake . . . demandin’ back their ain atomies. . . Blackwood’s Magazine, Mar 1829, p. 389.
Pray do not be alarmed . . . filthy plagiarist. . . ‘To the Editor of Blackwood’s Magazine’, in Morrison (ed.), On Murder, pp. 156–60.
grew pale as ashes. . . not yet begun to write. . . C. R. Saunders (ed.), Collected Letters of Thomas and Jane Welsh Carlyle, Durham NC: Duke University Press, 1970, IV, pp. 282–3, 300.
some things from my Conversation. . . Morrison, p. 260.
too florid. . . some peculiar brilliance. . . Masson, V, pp. 263–8, 278.
I wish you would praise me. . . Elsie Swann, Christopher North (John Wilson), London: Oliver and Boyd, 1934, p. 197.
Paying only the annual interest . . . Lindop, p. 292.
the love that we all bear the place . . . Lindop, p. 308.
Father called on Mr de Quincey. . . Jordan, p. 300.
Chapter 13: Same Subject (continued)
De Quincey owed money to fifty-one tradespeople. . . see Kenneth Forward, ‘De Quincey’s Cessio Bonorum’, PMLA, liv, No. 2 (Jun 1939), pp. 511–25.
Mr De Qunshy. . . land o’ Nod. . . Blackwood’s Magazine, Jun 1830.
with a pencil of light. . . Blackwood’s Magazine, Jun 1830, pp. 814, 943.
Some one of my ancestors . . . interesting creatures. . . Blackwood’s Magazine, Jun 1830, p. 943.
the last letter she’ll ever write. . . Lindop, p. 298.
had a father. . . Lindop, pp. 299–300.
My extremity is complete. . . Eaton, p. 341.
about the South end of Clerk Street. . . Morrison, p. 279.
deliver me from an abyss. . . Lindop, p. 303.
to suit his own eyesight. . . Virginia Woolf, ‘Impassioned Prose’, Times Literary Supplement, 16 Sep 1926.
not the action and situation to the feeling. . . Brett and Jones (eds), Lyrical Ballads, p. 293.
most irreclaimable Tories now extant. . . Saunders (ed.), Collected Letters of Thomas and Jane Welsh Carlyle, VI, 18 Apr 1833.
bright summer mornings. . . Eaton, p. 365.
the struggles of departing life. . . ‘Suspiria’, p. 102.
an uncared-for dog. . . on the watch in all directions. . . Morrison, p. 283.
I knew Mrs Hannah More . . . intimate acquaintance. . . Masson, XIV, pp. 96–7.
pink ribbons. . . Masson, XIV, pp. 116–17.
I was born in a situation. . . De Quincey, ‘Sketches of Life and Manners, from the Autobiography of an English Opium-Eater’, Tait’s Edinburgh Magazine, Feb 1834, p. 18.
The reading public of England. . . J. R. de J. Jackson (ed.), Coleridge: The Critical Heritage, London: Routledge, 1970, pp. 436–51.
fat flabby incurvated personage. . . letter to John Carlyle, 1824, quoted in Holmes, Coleridge: Darker Reflections, pp. 543–4.
a kind of Magus, girt in mystery and enigma. . . Thomas Carlyle, The Life of John Sterling, Boston: Philips, Sampson and Co., 1851, pp. 69, 70.
I grieved then that I could not grieve. . . Charles Lamb, ‘On the Death of Coleridge’, The Works of Charles Lamb, New York: Thomas Y. Crowell, 1882, p. 140.
not in any sense, nor at any time. . . Lindop, p. 317.
elder brother or doppelgänger. . . Holmes, Darker Reflections, p. 102.
apparition of the Brocken. . . Payne Collier, Seven Lectures, p. 101.
recollection of some family distresses. . . Morrison, p. 288.
everlasting silence and forgetfulness. . . H. A. Page, I, p. 305.
I believe that in the course. . . Eaton, p. 364.
I will assert finally . . . Shakespeare in modern. . . Recollections, pp. 40–1.
no personal charms. . . Recollections, p. 53.
no particular civility. . . Recollections, p. 52.
last person in the world. . . Recollections, p. 74.
on the highway by himself. . . Recollections, p. 79.
What is become of all this mighty heap of hope . . . William Hazlitt, Spirit of the Age, Or Contemporary Portraits, Oxford: World’s Classics, 1904, p. 42.
Worlds of fine thinking. . . Recollections, p. 76.
speaks of his kindness of heart. . . H. A. Page, I, p. 301.
an anomaly and a contradiction. . . MacFarlane, Reminiscences of a Literary Life, pp. 81–2.
must be incorrect. . . Eaton, p. 366.
Rhadamanthine rage . . . Carlyle, Reminiscences, p. 324.
It is not to be doubted. . . obnoxious publication. . . see Daniel Sanjiv Roberts, Revisionary Gleam: De Quincey, Coleridge and the High Romantic Argument, Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 2000, p. 16.
in a disreputable magazine. . . Japp, II, p. 173.
Any of us. . . would be jealous . . . Wordsworth’s doppelgänger. . . Masson, XI, p. 461.
echoes of joy . . . records of sighs. . . Recollections, p. 299.
I was under a possession. . . Morrison, p. 291.
Yet in the lowest deep . . . Masson, XII, p. 158.
Not only has she absorbed. . . Eaton, p. 365n.
unhinged by sorrow. . . Japp, II, pp. 219–20.
Delicate health. . . than our mother. . . H. A. Page, I, p. 195.
those who weep in secret. . . Eaton, p. 363.
trembled with anger. . . blindness. . . Jordan, p. 233.
in a long, long time. . . Eaton, p. 373.
for his own enjoyment. . . Eaton, p. 375.
too little discretion. . . Eaton, p. 373.
no man a shilling. . . Masson, XII, p. 161.
never ridded myself. . . Masson, XII, p. 168.
the juggernaut of social life. . . Masson, XII, p. 160.
She is, or she is not, guilty. . . Masson, XII, p. 204.
Wrath, wrath immeasurable. . . Masson, XII, p. 208.
My revenge. . . was perfect. . . Masson, XII, p. 233.
misery has a privilege. . . Masson, XII, p. 189.
as though it were a future thing. . . Masson, XII, p. 210.
that which sometimes. . . one deep calling to another. . . ‘The Avenger’, in Morrison (ed.), On Murder, p. 36.
Mr De Quincey’s young, fair-haired . . . Morrison, p. 299.
north and south banks. . . Eaton, p. 375.
groanings unutterable. . . Eaton, p. 375.
the prevailing mystery in which he delighted. . . Japp, II, p. 192.
when he was the successful man. . . Eaton, p. 420.
assumed the beau . . . Recollections, p. 167.
And here I may mention . . . drowning world. . . Recollections, p. 170.
in expecting too much. . . Recollections, p. 146.
trace, in brief outline . . . Recollections, p. 148.
The case of a man who. . . availing. . . Recollections, p. 148.
a lover. . . in any passionate sense. . . Recollections, p. 185.
how very indelicate it would look . . . Recollections, p. 197.
Whilst foolish people supposed him . . . Recollections, p. 292.
He admits of nothing below. . . Hazlitt, p. 125.
He condemns all French writers. . . Hazlitt, p. 127.
If a greater number of sources . . . Hazlitt, p. 128.
truth and life of these Lake Sketches. . . H. A. Page, I, p. 302.
pang of wrath. . . Recollections, p. 369.
This to me! – O ye gods – to me. . . Recollections, p. 320.
with a blind loyalty of homage. . . Recollections, p. 145.
to us who. . . were Wordsworth’s friends. . . Recollections, p. 185.
all of us loved her. . . Recollections, p. 146.
Farewell, impassioned Dorothy! . . . Recollections, p. 206.
My acquaintance with him. . . Jordan, p. 347.
extracting money ad libitum. . . Eaton, p. 386.
I wish to stay a month longer. . . Eaton, p. 385.
I spend months after months. . . my shoulders. . . Eaton, pp. 386–7.
a more absolute wreck of decent prosperity. . . Eaton, p. 391.
If I give him nothing . . . portability. . . Eaton, p. 392.
Beginning with the small sum . . . his executor. . . Eaton, p. 368n.
Caught and chained. . . H. A. Page, I, p. 30.
The last body who went into that room. . . Eaton, p. 394.
if once a man indulges himself in murder. . . ‘Second Paper’, p. 84.
Even dogs are not what they were, sir. . . ‘Second Paper’, p. 85.
great exterminating chef-d’oeuvre . . . ‘Second Paper’, p. 86.
utter overthrow of happiness. . . Recollections, p. 323.
by her own fireside. . . Recollections, p. 327.
studious and meditative young boy. . . Recollections, p. 272.
my sole companion. . . Recollections, p. 371.
Men of extraordinary genius. . . appear to listen. . . Recollections, pp. 375–6.
denounce them for what they were. . . Recollections, p. 378.
not even read Walter Scott. . . Recollections, p. 383.
Chapter 14: Postscript
Address under cover, if you please. . . Eaton, p. 404.
It is often shocking. . . Eaton, p. 405.
half torpid condition under opium. . . George Gilfillan, Sketches Literary and Theological, Being selections from an unpublished MS of the late Rev George Gilfillan, edited by Frank Henderson, Edinburgh: David Douglas, 1881, p. 33.
violent but hopeless attachment. . . Morrison, p. 323.
This is the End. . . Eaton, p. 405.
the most absolute harmony. . . H. A. Page, I, p. 331.
begging about the village for food. . . MacFarlane, Reminiscences of a Literary Life, p. 83.
the misery of her situation. . . Eaton, p. 408.
Then I partly understood him, now perfectly. . . Eaton, p. 416.
vast avenues of gloom. . . ‘Suspiria’, p. 92.
symbolic mirror. . . ‘Suspiria’, p. 164.
flying it pursues. . . Eaton, p. 419.
at the root of all this unimaginable hell. . . H. A. Page, I, p. 325.
restless legs syndrome. . . see M. Miranda, A. M. Williams, D. Garcia-Borreguero, ‘Thomas De Quincey and his restless legs symptoms as depicted in Confessions of an English Opium-Eater’, in Movement Disorders, 2010; 25 (13); 2006–9.
as in days of infancy. . . Eaton, p. 415.
as one risen from the dead. . . Eaton, p. 416.
Note the power of murderers as fine-art professors. . . ‘New Paper’, p. 162.
throws a power about a man. . . ‘New Paper’, p. 163.
living at this moment. . . own acts and bodies. . . ‘New Paper’, p. 163.
Lifting up his head from the waves. . . ‘New Paper’, p. 163.
deader than a door-nail . . . the shadowy and the dark. . . Masson, V, pp. 179–211.
Put not your trust. . . homage of the sycophantic. . . ‘On Wordsworth’s Poetry’, in Jordan (ed.), De Quincey as Critic, p. 400.
forms more complex and oblique . . . sad into the joyous. . . ‘On Wordsworth’s Poetry’, in Jordan (ed.), De Quincey as Critic, pp. 404–6.
He has entered upon his seventy-sixth year. . . ‘On Wordsworth’s Poetry’, in Jordan (ed.), De Quincey as Critic, p. 421.
deluge the room. . . Hogg, pp. 146–7.
Of all the tasks I ever had in my life. . . Morrison, p. 341.
more splendidly than others . . . ‘Suspiria’, p. 91.
J. M. Barrie’s Neverland. . . In a letter to J. M. Barrie on 2 April 1893, written shortly before his death, Robert Louis Stevenson described himself as looking ‘Exceedingly lean, dark, rather ruddy-black eyes, crow’s-footed, beginning to be grizzled, general appearance of a blasted boy or blighted youth or to borrow Carlyle on De Quincey, “a child that has been in hell”.’
intolerable grief . . . ‘Suspiria’, p. 95.
I was shut out for ever. . . ‘Suspiria’, p. 111.
Again I was in the chamber. . . ‘Suspiria’, p. 143.
An adult sympathises with himself . . . of his sympathy. . . ‘Suspiria’, p. 30.
My heart trembled through from end to end. . . Frederic G. Kenyon (ed.), The Letters of Elizabeth Barrett Browning, London: Macmillan, 1899, p. 161.
What else than a natural and mighty palimpsest . . . ‘Suspiria’, p. 150.
the traces of each successive handwriting . . . ‘Suspiria’, p. 149.
a dilated version of himself. . . ‘Suspiria’, pp. 160–1.
I had never seen your face. . . ‘Suspiria’, pp. 169–70.
epilepsy of planet-struck fury. . . Japp, I, p. 8.
Chinese-like reverence. . . Japp, I, p. 318.
I stared, almost agape . . . Hogg, p. 119.
garments blackened with writing-ink. . . David Masson, De Quincey, New York: Cambridge University Press, 2011, p. 104.
rapidly becoming tomorrow. . . Masson, De Quincey, p. 106.
reconcile him to leaving. . . Lindop, p. 378.
No Englishman cares a pin. . . Japp, II, p. 146.
the originator claimed any part of it. . . Lindop, p. 367.
Mr. Neocles Jaspis Mousabines. . . Jordan, p. 333.
the ‘Prelude’ stands as an opening to nothing. . . Hogg, p. 153.
terror and terrific beauty. . . ‘Mail-Coach’, p. 192.
the horrid inoculation. . . sanctuary of himself. . . ‘Mail-Coach’, pp. 209–11.
But the lady!. . . roar of his voice. . . ‘Mail-Coach’, p. 235.
desert spaces of the sea. . . persecution of fugues. . . ‘Mail-Coach’, pp. 233–6.
with a grave upward glance. . . Hogg, p. 177.
‘A
h!’ said the Professor. . . on the table. . . Japp, II, p. 32.
links in the chain of evidence. . . Japp, II, p. 21.
Crowbars, masks and dark lanterns. . . damned spot. . . John Paget, ‘The Philosophy of Murder’, Tait’s Edinburgh Magazine, 22, 1851, pp. 171–6.
scattered in prodigal profusion. . . George Gilfillan, Second Gallery of Literary Portraits, Edinburgh: James Hogg, 1852, p. 302.
absolutely, insuperably, and for ever impossible. . . Gilfillan, Second Gallery, p. 302.
It is astonishing. . . how much more Boston knows. . . Masson, VII, pp. 231–2.
chez moi? Or chez la presse?. . . Japp, II, p. 42.
working through most parts of the night. . . Japp, II, p. 54.
piled over each other’s heads. . . Gilfillan, Sketches Literary and Theological, p. 34.
saying the thing that is not. . . Masson, I, p. 6.
My unfortunate chattels. . . Hogg, p. 136.
who ministered to his vanity. . . Hogg, p. 151.
I often. . . feel an almost irresistible. . . Hogg, p. 139.
some account of Williams. . . an accomplice?. . . De Quincey, Selections Grave and Gay, from Writings Published and Unpublished by Thomas De Quincey, Edinburgh: James Hogg, 1854, p. vi.
to pursue the successive steps. . . Marr’s shop. . . ‘Postscript’, p. 107.
stout, fresh-faced young man. . . ‘Postscript’, p. 102.
Let us leave the murderer alone . . . in her absence. . . ‘Postscript’, p. 108.
in an area of London where ferocious tumults . . . ‘Postscript’, p. 110.
What was it?. . . different sides. . . ‘Postscript’, p. 111.
by way of locking up all . . . ‘Postscript’, p. 114.
I was myself at the time nearly three hundred miles . . . for ever on the Thames. . . ‘Postscript’, p. 99.
the house-door was suddenly shut . . . pull murderer. . . ‘Postscript’, pp. 120–6.
murderous malice of the man below. . . ‘Postscript’, p. 126.
pass through a prism. . . Masson, X, p. 226.
the hard fact. . . Woolf, ‘Impassioned Prose’, TLS, 16 Sep 1926.
we think that the circumstances of that mutiny. . . James and Critchley, The Maul and the Peartree, p. xxi.
one novelty, viz, an account . . . Japp, II, p. 87.
What would the Baker say?. . . Hogg, p. 184.
on Tuesday last I saw the death announced. . . Japp, II, p. 98.
My adversaries are in full chase. . . Gilfillan, Sketches Literary and Theological, p. 34.
Guilty Thing Page 45