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The Diary of a Dying Man
Previously unpublished, except for a few entries in a selection of 1954, this is a complete edition of William Soutar's last diary - the first time that any of his diaries has been published complete and in its original form.
This diary of outstanding literary quality reveals the innermost thoughts of a remarkable Scottish writer as he approached the end of his life. Stricken by spondylitis when still in his youth, Soutar was bedridden for the last thirteen years of his life, a period he devoted to sustained writing of poems. On learning of his imminent death from TB, he began a new diary which he called The Diary of a Dying Man - a volume he kept secret from family and friends and continued intermittently until only a few hours before his death, on 15th October 1943, after which it was discovered under his pillow.
This diary of outstanding literary quality reveals the innermost thoughts of a remarkable Scottish writer as he approached the end of his life. Stricken by spondylitis when still in his youth, Soutar was bedridden for the last thirteen years of his life, a period he devoted to sustained writing of poems. On learning of his imminent death from TB, he began a new diary which he called The Diary of a Dying Man - a volume he kept secret from family and friends and continued intermittently until only a few hours before his death, on 15th October 1943, after which it was discovered under his pillow.
41 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1991
About the author
William Soutar
28 booksWilliam Soutar was a Scottish poet, born 1898. He served in the navy in World War I, and afterwards studied at the University of Edinburgh, where he encountered the work of Hugh MacDiarmid. This led to a radical alteration in his work, and he became a leading poet of the Scottish Literary Renaissance and 'one of the greatest poets Scotland has produced'. In 1924, he was diagnosed with ankylosing spondylitis. From 1930 he was bedridden. He died of tuberculosis in 1943. His journal, Diary of a Dying Man, was published posthumously and is considered to 'put him into the rank of the great diarists'
One form of verse which he used was the cinquain (now known as American cinquain), these he labelled epigrams. He took up this form in the second half of the 1930s with such enthusiasm that he became an even more prolific practitioner than Adelaide Crapsey had been.
One form of verse which he used was the cinquain (now known as American cinquain), these he labelled epigrams. He took up this form in the second half of the 1930s with such enthusiasm that he became an even more prolific practitioner than Adelaide Crapsey had been.
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Displaying 1 - 3 of 3 reviews
May 7, 2020
All too real and all too heartfelt, this diary will send you into a wonderful trance filled with happy tears. Soutar's humor while facing death is awe inspiring, with genuine fears and concerns for the afterlife webbed throughout the diary. An easy read meant to be read again and again.
July 23, 2023
Beautiful and heartbreaking!
"What is life if it cannot be remembered?"
"Now that a major fact has confronted you the minor happenings of everyday will take on their true proportions: you will cease to react with violent outbursts of irritated speech or gesture when little frustrations annoy; the presence of the major factor will remind you how small and transient are these vexations."
"Sometimes I am shamed by the childish desire to roar in anger when a shift of position brings a torturous pressure on a spinal ridge."
"How easily a small inconvenience can cover the sun and make us forget the misery of a universe; and the tragic element in self-pity is this, that at last the power of maintaining proportion between the world and the self is lost and is not known to have been lost since what is now a world is within the deathly confines of a wholly involved self."
"How often a word of understanding has changed the aspect of trouble or anxiety; or an act of humankindness mollified a hardening bitterness."
"One begins to wonder if one has any chance of again tasting food-stuffs in their comparative purity."
"If the world is now a nothingness let us pass away from it."
"A jab from death`s elbow to remind one that he is still under the obligations of life."
"Everything in my life is being quieted; and the great orbit of life is moving in from the bounds of the universe like the gradually diminishing circle of light from a wasting flame."
"All the daily kindness; the little obligations; the signs of remembrance in the homely gifts; these do not pass, but still hearten the body and spirit to the verge of the grave."
"What is life if it cannot be remembered?"
"Now that a major fact has confronted you the minor happenings of everyday will take on their true proportions: you will cease to react with violent outbursts of irritated speech or gesture when little frustrations annoy; the presence of the major factor will remind you how small and transient are these vexations."
"Sometimes I am shamed by the childish desire to roar in anger when a shift of position brings a torturous pressure on a spinal ridge."
"How easily a small inconvenience can cover the sun and make us forget the misery of a universe; and the tragic element in self-pity is this, that at last the power of maintaining proportion between the world and the self is lost and is not known to have been lost since what is now a world is within the deathly confines of a wholly involved self."
"How often a word of understanding has changed the aspect of trouble or anxiety; or an act of humankindness mollified a hardening bitterness."
"One begins to wonder if one has any chance of again tasting food-stuffs in their comparative purity."
"If the world is now a nothingness let us pass away from it."
"A jab from death`s elbow to remind one that he is still under the obligations of life."
"Everything in my life is being quieted; and the great orbit of life is moving in from the bounds of the universe like the gradually diminishing circle of light from a wasting flame."
"All the daily kindness; the little obligations; the signs of remembrance in the homely gifts; these do not pass, but still hearten the body and spirit to the verge of the grave."
August 30, 2009
This little volume represents, very precisely, the diary William Soutar, the Perth poet, kept under his pillow during the last four months of his life.
It is presented as the poet himself presented his pages, with summary headings in the left-hand margin flagging the topics.
There are some facsimile pages too, recording the poet's own meticulously neat handwriting.
A week before he died:
"I find that quite unconsciously -- & seemingly incongruously -- I am personifying parts of myself, clothing etc: The end of my undervest for example is American -- probably a young millionaire who is rather careless about himself. Sometimes there are little pieces of loose skin on my under-lip inside a little way: these I consider horses on a plain. In certain positions the ridge of my spine near the waist is pressed directly by the compressed pillow & I have hurriedly to knuckle a hollow for the bones. I think of bones here as a set of rather shoddy young fellows who have a tendency to act vindictively."
This is not a fiction. It's real. So it doesn't end. It just stops.
But it is beautifully put together and very moving. It brings you closer, in some ways, although it only covers four months, than the whole of Scott's selection. Joy Hendry, the editor, records a hope in her introduction that the volume may be the forerunner of "a coherent strategy for publishing Soutar's diaries comprehensively" as well as a "volume of his selected letters". That was in 1991. Now, nearly twenty years later that hope remains unfulfilled. Why?
It is presented as the poet himself presented his pages, with summary headings in the left-hand margin flagging the topics.
There are some facsimile pages too, recording the poet's own meticulously neat handwriting.
A week before he died:
"I find that quite unconsciously -- & seemingly incongruously -- I am personifying parts of myself, clothing etc: The end of my undervest for example is American -- probably a young millionaire who is rather careless about himself. Sometimes there are little pieces of loose skin on my under-lip inside a little way: these I consider horses on a plain. In certain positions the ridge of my spine near the waist is pressed directly by the compressed pillow & I have hurriedly to knuckle a hollow for the bones. I think of bones here as a set of rather shoddy young fellows who have a tendency to act vindictively."
This is not a fiction. It's real. So it doesn't end. It just stops.
But it is beautifully put together and very moving. It brings you closer, in some ways, although it only covers four months, than the whole of Scott's selection. Joy Hendry, the editor, records a hope in her introduction that the volume may be the forerunner of "a coherent strategy for publishing Soutar's diaries comprehensively" as well as a "volume of his selected letters". That was in 1991. Now, nearly twenty years later that hope remains unfulfilled. Why?
Displaying 1 - 3 of 3 reviews