Julian Heward Bell, February 4, 1908 - July 18, 1937
Julian had been curious about the book Guy had been reading, the one by Cyril Connolly. The very concept of a book about failing to write a book was intriguing, to say the least.
He'd been searching through the pile of books Guy kept in the cave, trying to find the Connolly volume. He'd found it--but the book below it was even more intriguing. Julian Bell: Essays, Poems and Letters. It must have been published after he'd been pulled to the island, for he'd never even had an idea to publish a book such as that. Honestly, letters? What sort of letters had he seen fit to publish for everyone to view?
He pulled both books from the pile and carried them out into the fading light, settling comfortably against a palm tree not far from the caves and setting Enemies of Promise to the side as he opened his book, smiling to himself. It was rather exciting, opening a book you'd written, not knowing what it might contain. He barely spared a glance at the picture and title page, grinning as he saw that Maynard had written the foreward.
He began to read. "Julian Heward Bell was born in 1908, son of Clive and Vanessa Bell, grandson of Leslie Stephen, nephew of Virginia Woolf..." he read quietly to himself all the way to the bottom of the page. The last sentence on the page was incomplete, but Julian was unable to turn the page, a chill of horror filling him. "He was killed by a bomb" were the last words, his own death staring him in the face. Killed by a bomb in Spain. His chest was tight, breath held unknowingly as he numbly turned the page at last and saw the rest: "from an insurgent aeroplane whilst driving his ambulance on the Brunete front on July 18, 1937. He is buried in the cemetary of Fuencarral, about two miles north of Madrid."
The book slipped closed as Julian raised his eyes from it, drawing a gasping breath and then letting out a small, strangled cry of negation. He'd lived only three more years. It was impossible to comprehend.
[Find him near sunset by the caves. Probably not the best time to meet him, but open to all if you want to deal with a traumatised poet. ;)]
He'd been searching through the pile of books Guy kept in the cave, trying to find the Connolly volume. He'd found it--but the book below it was even more intriguing. Julian Bell: Essays, Poems and Letters. It must have been published after he'd been pulled to the island, for he'd never even had an idea to publish a book such as that. Honestly, letters? What sort of letters had he seen fit to publish for everyone to view?
He pulled both books from the pile and carried them out into the fading light, settling comfortably against a palm tree not far from the caves and setting Enemies of Promise to the side as he opened his book, smiling to himself. It was rather exciting, opening a book you'd written, not knowing what it might contain. He barely spared a glance at the picture and title page, grinning as he saw that Maynard had written the foreward.
He began to read. "Julian Heward Bell was born in 1908, son of Clive and Vanessa Bell, grandson of Leslie Stephen, nephew of Virginia Woolf..." he read quietly to himself all the way to the bottom of the page. The last sentence on the page was incomplete, but Julian was unable to turn the page, a chill of horror filling him. "He was killed by a bomb" were the last words, his own death staring him in the face. Killed by a bomb in Spain. His chest was tight, breath held unknowingly as he numbly turned the page at last and saw the rest: "from an insurgent aeroplane whilst driving his ambulance on the Brunete front on July 18, 1937. He is buried in the cemetary of Fuencarral, about two miles north of Madrid."
The book slipped closed as Julian raised his eyes from it, drawing a gasping breath and then letting out a small, strangled cry of negation. He'd lived only three more years. It was impossible to comprehend.
[Find him near sunset by the caves. Probably not the best time to meet him, but open to all if you want to deal with a traumatised poet. ;)]