At times I feel rather like the Lady of Shallot, content to look in her majic mirror and weave, and care for little else, cursed if she look toward Camelot. Until she sees "two young lovers lately wed" and claims she is "half sick of shadows". Then she sees Sir Launcelot in her mirror, falls helplessly in love and leaves her loom to look at him directly, at Camelot. Then her mirror cracks and she descends her tower to find a boat which she lies down in and as she dies, floats past Camelot, gasing upon it.

Scholars see the Lady of Shallot as a metaphor for a womans, erm, sexuality. I hardly would reduce the human psyche to such shallow physicality. For me, it is a metaphor for falling in love. I was much like the Lady. I was content in my own little safe world, to weave in my tower and look at the world in my mirror. I saw love as a curse. Then I grew 'half sick of shadows' and saw something, someone, I loved, and was cursed and gazed upon Camelot "till her blood was frozen slowly, and her eyes were darken'd wholly, turn'd to tower'd Camelot." Certainly I am not dead, but my mirror defenitely cracked. And when I fell in love, I cared no more for my loom. I was always very studious, but the first time I fell in love, I practically forgot what schoolwork was.

Lewis and MacDonald are great solace of the soul. I am reading Phantastes again. There were some things that I did not understand my first reading. But that was at least two years ago. I have been in love twice since then, and perhaps that will help me understand more.

I saw thee ne'er before;
I see thee never more;
But love, and help, and pain, beautiful one,
Have made thee mine till all my years are done.