Wait a Minute. You mean, there is MORE?!
Yes, there is more on Shelley's history. I know it sounds crazy, I mean, the dude's been dead for more than 180 years now but still... oh ok, fine, I own up to it: I'm doing this only because I enjoy libelling Keats' good name, and I want to cheer over the awesome Trelawny, so there. It's said.
Jeez.
Anyway, here's the next installment...
Disclaimer: Pictures not mine, Shelley and friends not mine either, not doing this for money but for the lulz and yadda yadda yadda.
Link to part I: shaggingshelley.livejournal.com/9694.html#cutid1
Link to part II: shaggingshelley.livejournal.com/9918.html#cutid1
Continuing most orderly from where I left off, after spending a most sexed up creative summer in Switzerland, the Shelley household returns to England only to find teh Emo awaiting them. The autumn of their return, Mary's illegitimate half-sister, Fanny Imlay, committed suicide and, not 2 months later, so did Harriet Westbrook, who drowned herself in the Serpentine (o-k. So Shelley probably should have taken her death-threats more seriously after all. But he didn't know she was to be his first batshit fangirl, so we might as well forgive him).
Now at this time Shelley was starting to go through that phase in marriage where you realize that, perchance, it wasn't really for Love that you bound yourself to that now-not-so- shpeshul-and-significant other, but simply rampant hormones. I strongly suspect that Mary felt the same. I mean, their romantic escapade consisted mostly of Shelley vanishing in the middle of the night to sites unknown, and trotting round the prairie with Byron and Claire Clairmont, which was rather naughty and inapropriate at the time. That can't bode too well for the rest of your married life, right?
To summarize this relentless input, Shelley was feeling depressed and suffered from fits, Claire was feeling despondant because Byron had gone off with his Polly doll, whilst Mary, stuck at home, sighed and sewed and realized she was surrounded by stoopid.
I fast forward here a bit. The year is 1817 and it seems that Shelley's domestic distresses with young Mary are only worsening: now she's feeling jealous of Shelley's devotion to Claire and so --quite understandably-- wants her out of the equation. Amidst a storm of crazy, Shelley rushes out of the house dramatically in a shower of tousled curls and open shirt-collars, and stumbles with this young man who is on the edge of ruin:
Enter Leigh Hunt, critic, essayist, poet, writer and free-lance rap singer probably too I mean, dude, you're a box set! Tell me, isn't he adorable in that sensational cape and funny hair-do? Anyway, this young person is to become Shelley's significant man-crush male-friend number 3. He is also the one who will comfort Shelley during this time of distress and hold him when he swoons in fits of dispair. Together with Hogg, the three wonder-boys would spend most of their time with "tea, Greek and pedestrianism". Ah, to be an English poet! Hunt will also introduce Shelley to the latter's greatest poet-hero, a Mr Keats-something who, much to my constant disaproval, will not ship the Percy like he should:
This ugly, ugly dude man, kids, is John Keats. Apparently, he is a good writer. He is a man to be respected and he is canon. Uuuhh; bow down, kids, you are in the presence of a classic. Also, he once most ungrasciously advised Shelley to "curb your magnanimity, and be more of an artist (...) The thought of such discipline must fall like cold chains upon you, who perhaps never sat with your wings furled for six months together."
Wanker.
You see, he believed that Shelley used his poetry to offer emotion without thought; that he rather surrender to hypnotic images than try to find any real reference; in short, that he was too fanciful and passionate. What irks me the wrong way is that he said all this as if it were a flaw.
I believe Keats was just jealous because Shelley was awesome, whereas the critics were tearing his work to shreds right in front of his eyes. Sadly, I think I might be starting to respect him just a tiny bit today (after hating him for 5 years, my Gods!) because, and this is going to be totally random, as I googled images for this post, when I typed "Keats", this picture of him sprang up:
@.@ Dude, it's Action-hero!Keats: He's a Poet and He Can Kick Your Ass!
Damn. Man, the Internet is made of crazy.
Moving on...
In 1818, Shelley travels to Venice in search of Byron --who was, at the time, wallowing in decadent mysticism and prostitues-- to negotiate the handling of Allegra, Byron and Claire's child. Once there, Byron, that handsome devil, tempts our dear Shelley to stay with him and enjoy the pleasures of the flesh the carnival. Julian and Maddalo will be a testament to their time together.
Was it just me or isn't that work cloaked in slash? I'm obsessed, yes, I know. *sighs*
Early in 1820, the Shelleys moved to Pisa. In 1821, Shelley began his relations with the Williams with whom he'd share many an afternoon and frolick in many a dreamy distant field.
I assume this would be the time round which Mary would develop a tick on her right eye. I most heartily envy her endurance.
In 1822 there would be a great storm. Shelley, in another of his wandering stints, no doubt, would be caught under it and rescued by this most dashing cad:
Enter Edward John Trelawny, a young adventurer recently come from the seas, whose funny-looking moustache would prove to be more real than his famously boasted career as a pirate. Trelawny was a handsome, romantic, dashing, quixotic, and controversial personality, who has been variously described by his biographers as being everything from a hero to a downright liar and a scoundrel.
He was awesome, people. Assume it and move on.
Later, in mid-April, to be more precise, there came news that Keats, that great sop, had died in Rome as a supposed victim to evil reviewers. Shelley, always so finely atuned to his emotions, felt the pain of the news tear his heart apart. This is a picture of him by a great and inspired annonymous artist, at the time:
He probably fainted afterwards, too. But when he came around he felt so indignant at the world at large that he wrote one of my favourite works by him, Adonais, an ode to Missandastood Artists.
And I must end here. Once again, I feel this picspam is getting out of my control! But I cannot help myself, I must tell it all as it happened!
(ha!)
Part IV will include Mary developing a second eye-tick and kicking some serious ass, Shelley running away with other men to some shaddy boat trip, character death and Byron's Single Manly Tear!
My gods, it sounds like a crappy fic, don't it? *sigh* I'm terrible at promoting this...
Jeez.
Anyway, here's the next installment...
Disclaimer: Pictures not mine, Shelley and friends not mine either, not doing this for money but for the lulz and yadda yadda yadda.
Link to part I: shaggingshelley.livejournal.com/9694.html#cutid1
Link to part II: shaggingshelley.livejournal.com/9918.html#cutid1
Continuing most orderly from where I left off, after spending a most sexed up creative summer in Switzerland, the Shelley household returns to England only to find teh Emo awaiting them. The autumn of their return, Mary's illegitimate half-sister, Fanny Imlay, committed suicide and, not 2 months later, so did Harriet Westbrook, who drowned herself in the Serpentine (o-k. So Shelley probably should have taken her death-threats more seriously after all. But he didn't know she was to be his first batshit fangirl, so we might as well forgive him).
Now at this time Shelley was starting to go through that phase in marriage where you realize that, perchance, it wasn't really for Love that you bound yourself to that now-not-so- shpeshul-and-significant other, but simply rampant hormones. I strongly suspect that Mary felt the same. I mean, their romantic escapade consisted mostly of Shelley vanishing in the middle of the night to sites unknown, and trotting round the prairie with Byron and Claire Clairmont, which was rather naughty and inapropriate at the time. That can't bode too well for the rest of your married life, right?
To summarize this relentless input, Shelley was feeling depressed and suffered from fits, Claire was feeling despondant because Byron had gone off with his Polly doll, whilst Mary, stuck at home, sighed and sewed and realized she was surrounded by stoopid.
I fast forward here a bit. The year is 1817 and it seems that Shelley's domestic distresses with young Mary are only worsening: now she's feeling jealous of Shelley's devotion to Claire and so --quite understandably-- wants her out of the equation. Amidst a storm of crazy, Shelley rushes out of the house dramatically in a shower of tousled curls and open shirt-collars, and stumbles with this young man who is on the edge of ruin:
Enter Leigh Hunt, critic, essayist, poet, writer and free-lance rap singer probably too I mean, dude, you're a box set! Tell me, isn't he adorable in that sensational cape and funny hair-do? Anyway, this young person is to become Shelley's significant man-crush male-friend number 3. He is also the one who will comfort Shelley during this time of distress and hold him when he swoons in fits of dispair. Together with Hogg, the three wonder-boys would spend most of their time with "tea, Greek and pedestrianism". Ah, to be an English poet! Hunt will also introduce Shelley to the latter's greatest poet-hero, a Mr Keats-something who, much to my constant disaproval, will not ship the Percy like he should:
This ugly, ugly dude man, kids, is John Keats. Apparently, he is a good writer. He is a man to be respected and he is canon. Uuuhh; bow down, kids, you are in the presence of a classic. Also, he once most ungrasciously advised Shelley to "curb your magnanimity, and be more of an artist (...) The thought of such discipline must fall like cold chains upon you, who perhaps never sat with your wings furled for six months together."
Wanker.
You see, he believed that Shelley used his poetry to offer emotion without thought; that he rather surrender to hypnotic images than try to find any real reference; in short, that he was too fanciful and passionate. What irks me the wrong way is that he said all this as if it were a flaw.
I believe Keats was just jealous because Shelley was awesome, whereas the critics were tearing his work to shreds right in front of his eyes. Sadly, I think I might be starting to respect him just a tiny bit today (after hating him for 5 years, my Gods!) because, and this is going to be totally random, as I googled images for this post, when I typed "Keats", this picture of him sprang up:
@.@ Dude, it's Action-hero!Keats: He's a Poet and He Can Kick Your Ass!
Damn. Man, the Internet is made of crazy.
Moving on...
In 1818, Shelley travels to Venice in search of Byron --who was, at the time, wallowing in decadent mysticism and prostitues-- to negotiate the handling of Allegra, Byron and Claire's child. Once there, Byron, that handsome devil, tempts our dear Shelley to stay with him and enjoy the pleasures of the flesh the carnival. Julian and Maddalo will be a testament to their time together.
Was it just me or isn't that work cloaked in slash? I'm obsessed, yes, I know. *sighs*
Early in 1820, the Shelleys moved to Pisa. In 1821, Shelley began his relations with the Williams with whom he'd share many an afternoon and frolick in many a dreamy distant field.
I assume this would be the time round which Mary would develop a tick on her right eye. I most heartily envy her endurance.
In 1822 there would be a great storm. Shelley, in another of his wandering stints, no doubt, would be caught under it and rescued by this most dashing cad:
Enter Edward John Trelawny, a young adventurer recently come from the seas, whose funny-looking moustache would prove to be more real than his famously boasted career as a pirate. Trelawny was a handsome, romantic, dashing, quixotic, and controversial personality, who has been variously described by his biographers as being everything from a hero to a downright liar and a scoundrel.
He was awesome, people. Assume it and move on.
Later, in mid-April, to be more precise, there came news that Keats, that great sop, had died in Rome as a supposed victim to evil reviewers. Shelley, always so finely atuned to his emotions, felt the pain of the news tear his heart apart. This is a picture of him by a great and inspired annonymous artist, at the time:
He probably fainted afterwards, too. But when he came around he felt so indignant at the world at large that he wrote one of my favourite works by him, Adonais, an ode to Missandastood Artists.
And I must end here. Once again, I feel this picspam is getting out of my control! But I cannot help myself, I must tell it all as it happened!
(ha!)
Part IV will include Mary developing a second eye-tick and kicking some serious ass, Shelley running away with other men to some shaddy boat trip, character death and Byron's Single Manly Tear!
My gods, it sounds like a crappy fic, don't it? *sigh* I'm terrible at promoting this...