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Diaries of a Dying Man
Introduced by Alexander Scott. William Soutar was one of the greatest Scots poets of his generation. Tragically he was confined to his bed with a crippling illness for the last fourteen years of his life. During these years, Soutar kept a day-by-day record of his experiences and observations-personal, literary, and philosophical. Each page is written with striking bravery and determination, providing a unique glimpse into the life of this good-humoured man, dedicated to his art. This is a book written in the face of death but inspired by an unsentimental love of life.
184 pages, Paperback
First published April 28, 1988
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About the author
William Soutar
25 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 - 5 of 5 reviews
August 30, 2009
I'm on my third time through this book.
The first time I thought I had read it but I hadn't. I read another book, which was correctly titled The Diary of a Dying Man (http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/23...), the diary entries Soutar himself collected under that title during the last four months of his life, formatted as he formatted them himself, with heading notes in the left hand margin, and sometimes pictures. He died a little more quickly than he expected to.
This book, which is much longer, comprises selected diary entries from 1930-1943, the years the poet spent in bed in one downstairs room with a window looking out into the garden. He wasn't dying all that time, though he was very much aware that his mortal span would be limited by his illness:
"Very often a thought, like a moth, skims around the flame of complete consciousness for some time before it 'illuminated by acceptance'. We are not wholly unaware of it but we do not focus on it until it has been on the margin of full consciousness for some time. Yesterday such a thought came into the flame of acceptance -- namely that I cannot hope to live so long as the normally healthy man. A few have lain on their death-bed for 20 years -- even granting myself so long, that means I must not look far beyond 50. It is scarcely creditable to believe that two-thirds of one's life could be gone so swiftly."
That was on Friday 16 September, 1932. He lasted till Friday 15 October, 1943, cut short not by the paralysing spondylitis that confined him to bed, but by tuberculosis. That infection, presumably, was brought to his room by one of his many visitors.
He was a remarkable man, and this volume to some extent mirrors that. But it is only a little bit of him. While confined to his room for those years, he produced a phenomenal body of work. He wrote poems in Scots and English for both adults and children. He wrote riddles. He wrote epigrams. He recorded every single one of his dreams. He wrote journals, commonplace books, diaries, letters, notes, whigmaleeries, vocable verses . . . He read a whole encyclopaedia from end to end. He did the same with the English and Scots dictionaries, taking notes as he read and creating verbal exercises to fix words in his head (the 'vocable verses').
He wrote so much, in fact, that only selections have ever been published. This book is one of them. Alexander Scott introduces it with a good biographical overview, and it's a Canongate Classic, as well it should be. Here and there, there are poems (he wrote some of them in the diary pages; others elsewhere) which give you a flavour of his calling. He was a true poet.
On 7 January, 1937, he said "life demands more than a song". He gave it more than a song, but still it's his singing lyrics that are the most remarkable aspect of his achievement. But a man's lyrics don't allow you to know him as an individual in the way his diaries do. I would like to read all his diaries, all his notebooks, and even his dreams. I even could do that. They are in the National Library of Scotland which is not a million miles from here. I wonder how long it would take to read his 13 years' worth of output: there are many handwritten volumes . . .
If he had been confined to his room now, he would have had the internet. He would have had GoodReads. He would have had the telephone. He would have had Skype. It would all have been very different. But not necessarily better. He had a room of books. He couldn't move his head with any ease, so he had mirrors set up round the bed to allow him to locate where any volume he wanted might be. Visitors (there were a lot) sat on slightly raised chairs at the end of the bed, so he could see them easily without having to turn his neck. The visitors came in the evenings mainly. The scribbling days were his own. The National Library has his fountain pen.
He was a lovely person. He just was. He learned to be solitary and he was not bitter. You can't read him without learning something about what it is to be human. You can't read him without feeling somewhat humbled. He would HATE me saying that!
His parents, who looked after him till he died, were extremely religious people. A lot of praying went on in that house. Soutar lost that faith as he went on, but not in favour of despair. He was affirmative: dying was, to him, completing a cycle.
I'll end with one of the poems from the diary, 28 April 1937, his birthday (this is what 'Genethliac' means).
Soutar associated the unicorn, as a symbol, with the elusive spirit of poetry. [He wrote at his best in Scots, and this is Scots, so some of the words may get in the way. But bear in mind that if Soutar could learn the whole of the Scots Dictionary, anybody can manage the few words in this poem. Here are the aliens: mither = mother; tak = take; hae = have; saul = soul; micht = might; lairish = the dead, buried (for whom, if he'd been a joiner like his father, he could have made coffins); hurdies = buttocks; birdies - birds, girls; blaws = blows; brank = restraint, bridle; brechin = lagging behind; pit = put; sang = song; sechin = sighing.]
GENETHLIAC CHANT
This is the day whan I was born:
Take pity on my mither:
I hae the saul o' a unicorn:
Take pity on my faither.
I micht hae learn'd a handy trade:
Take pity on the lairish:
But I'm a penniless poet instead:
Take pity on the parish.
I micht hae bade a briny boy:
Take pity on my hurdies:
I micht hae been somebody's joy:
Tak pity on the birdies.
The wind blaws north and the wind blaws south
Wi' naither brank nor brechin:
The Lord has pit a sang in my mouth
That micht hae been a sechin.
The first time I thought I had read it but I hadn't. I read another book, which was correctly titled The Diary of a Dying Man (http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/23...), the diary entries Soutar himself collected under that title during the last four months of his life, formatted as he formatted them himself, with heading notes in the left hand margin, and sometimes pictures. He died a little more quickly than he expected to.
This book, which is much longer, comprises selected diary entries from 1930-1943, the years the poet spent in bed in one downstairs room with a window looking out into the garden. He wasn't dying all that time, though he was very much aware that his mortal span would be limited by his illness:
"Very often a thought, like a moth, skims around the flame of complete consciousness for some time before it 'illuminated by acceptance'. We are not wholly unaware of it but we do not focus on it until it has been on the margin of full consciousness for some time. Yesterday such a thought came into the flame of acceptance -- namely that I cannot hope to live so long as the normally healthy man. A few have lain on their death-bed for 20 years -- even granting myself so long, that means I must not look far beyond 50. It is scarcely creditable to believe that two-thirds of one's life could be gone so swiftly."
That was on Friday 16 September, 1932. He lasted till Friday 15 October, 1943, cut short not by the paralysing spondylitis that confined him to bed, but by tuberculosis. That infection, presumably, was brought to his room by one of his many visitors.
He was a remarkable man, and this volume to some extent mirrors that. But it is only a little bit of him. While confined to his room for those years, he produced a phenomenal body of work. He wrote poems in Scots and English for both adults and children. He wrote riddles. He wrote epigrams. He recorded every single one of his dreams. He wrote journals, commonplace books, diaries, letters, notes, whigmaleeries, vocable verses . . . He read a whole encyclopaedia from end to end. He did the same with the English and Scots dictionaries, taking notes as he read and creating verbal exercises to fix words in his head (the 'vocable verses').
He wrote so much, in fact, that only selections have ever been published. This book is one of them. Alexander Scott introduces it with a good biographical overview, and it's a Canongate Classic, as well it should be. Here and there, there are poems (he wrote some of them in the diary pages; others elsewhere) which give you a flavour of his calling. He was a true poet.
On 7 January, 1937, he said "life demands more than a song". He gave it more than a song, but still it's his singing lyrics that are the most remarkable aspect of his achievement. But a man's lyrics don't allow you to know him as an individual in the way his diaries do. I would like to read all his diaries, all his notebooks, and even his dreams. I even could do that. They are in the National Library of Scotland which is not a million miles from here. I wonder how long it would take to read his 13 years' worth of output: there are many handwritten volumes . . .
If he had been confined to his room now, he would have had the internet. He would have had GoodReads. He would have had the telephone. He would have had Skype. It would all have been very different. But not necessarily better. He had a room of books. He couldn't move his head with any ease, so he had mirrors set up round the bed to allow him to locate where any volume he wanted might be. Visitors (there were a lot) sat on slightly raised chairs at the end of the bed, so he could see them easily without having to turn his neck. The visitors came in the evenings mainly. The scribbling days were his own. The National Library has his fountain pen.
He was a lovely person. He just was. He learned to be solitary and he was not bitter. You can't read him without learning something about what it is to be human. You can't read him without feeling somewhat humbled. He would HATE me saying that!
His parents, who looked after him till he died, were extremely religious people. A lot of praying went on in that house. Soutar lost that faith as he went on, but not in favour of despair. He was affirmative: dying was, to him, completing a cycle.
I'll end with one of the poems from the diary, 28 April 1937, his birthday (this is what 'Genethliac' means).
Soutar associated the unicorn, as a symbol, with the elusive spirit of poetry. [He wrote at his best in Scots, and this is Scots, so some of the words may get in the way. But bear in mind that if Soutar could learn the whole of the Scots Dictionary, anybody can manage the few words in this poem. Here are the aliens: mither = mother; tak = take; hae = have; saul = soul; micht = might; lairish = the dead, buried (for whom, if he'd been a joiner like his father, he could have made coffins); hurdies = buttocks; birdies - birds, girls; blaws = blows; brank = restraint, bridle; brechin = lagging behind; pit = put; sang = song; sechin = sighing.]
GENETHLIAC CHANT
This is the day whan I was born:
Take pity on my mither:
I hae the saul o' a unicorn:
Take pity on my faither.
I micht hae learn'd a handy trade:
Take pity on the lairish:
But I'm a penniless poet instead:
Take pity on the parish.
I micht hae bade a briny boy:
Take pity on my hurdies:
I micht hae been somebody's joy:
Tak pity on the birdies.
The wind blaws north and the wind blaws south
Wi' naither brank nor brechin:
The Lord has pit a sang in my mouth
That micht hae been a sechin.
October 31, 2017
The Scottish verse parts are quite hard, not everything is really interesting but there are quite some ‘days’ that leave you thinking. Altogether a very impressive diary.
June 14, 2015
When I picked up this memoir in a secondhand bookshop, Soutar's name was unknown to me, but I was instantly attracted by his thoughts on Keats' concept of negative capability. And Soutar shares the romantic poet's zeal for experience, the passionate desire for openness, and the capacity for vivid, loving observation of specifics: a blackbird's summer song, the taste of winter vegetables, a friend's mannerism, the fact that the maid decides to clean the windows while bare-legged. That Soutar is such an engaging writer, and so engaged with the world around him, is the more remarkable for the fact that he was confined to his bed by illness; and this too forms the matter of much reflection for him. He is revealed in the pages of his journals (here transcribed) as a voracious reader, an idealist, with an endearing capacity for self-mockery and self-deprecation. He repeatedly expresses surprise that so many people go to the trouble of visiting him... but on the evidence of these writings, he makes a very pleasant companion.
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July 3, 2010Soutar, a Scottish poet, picked up rheumatoid arthritis in 1918 which eventually got into his spine making him immobile and bedridden before he was 30. He died of pneumonia in 1943. For much of his final thirteen years he kept a diary which alternated between high-minded philosophy and the lows of his deteriorating life. Moving, instructive and oddly uplifting. He kept the diary up until the day before his death. This book makes an interesting comparison with bedridden American diarist Arthur Inman.
December 26, 2012
I hadn't heard of William Soutar until I read about the inspiration for James Macmillan's "After the Tryst", a beautiful piece for violin and piano. The poem is so evocative of the experience of young love and Macmillan translates this into music perfectly. As for this book, it is very poignant and any Christian reading it will feel the urge to sit with him and talk......
Displaying 1 - 5 of 5 reviews