Letters of Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Vol. 2 (of 2) — Reading Companion

From Travelogue to Introspection

The early letters in this volume, written during Coleridge's long absence in Malta (1804–1806), are characterized by a brisk, observational tone. In a letter to Mrs. Coleridge dated June 1804, he describes his surroundings with a journalist's eye, noting details of landscape and society. The pace is steady, driven by the need to convey information across distance. However, as the volume progresses, particularly after his return to England in 1806, the letters become more introspective and digressive. A letter to Daniel Stuart from August 1806 shows Coleridge reflecting on his own mental processes, describing a "specific catalepsy of memory" that causes him to forget names. This shift from external to internal focus slows the narrative pace, inviting the reader into Coleridge's labyrinthine thought processes.

The Voice of a Critic: Coleridge on Blake

One of the most distinctive passages in the volume is Coleridge's extended critique of William Blake's poems and illustrations, included in a letter to Charles Augustus Tulk. Here, Coleridge's voice becomes analytical and precise, employing a specialized vocabulary to describe Blake's visual art. He notes "the faulty despotism in symbols" and "the lumpness (the effect of vinegar on an egg)" in certain figures, while praising the "master learned in his art" evident in other plates. This section stands out for its change in pace: the prose becomes denser, more technical, and deliberately paced, as Coleridge weighs each element. His use of a personal grading system—I, Ɨ, ƗƗ, Θ, O—adds a methodical layer to the critique, revealing a systematic mind at work even in private correspondence.

Recurring Patterns: Memory and Self-Diagnosis

Throughout the volume, Coleridge repeatedly returns to the theme of his own memory failures, often with a blend of humor and frustration. In a letter to Tulk, he recounts a conversation with Mr. and Mrs. Gillman about a forgotten name, attributing his lapse to a "specific catalepsy of memory" and the "accidentality" of the encounter. This self-diagnosis recurs in other letters, creating a motif that ties together disparate correspondences. The pace of these passages varies: sometimes Coleridge narrates the incident briskly, as if to dismiss it, while at other times he lingers on the psychological explanation, slowing the prose to a reflective crawl. This oscillation between anecdote and analysis gives the volume a distinctive rhythm, mirroring Coleridge's own restless intellect.

Readers approaching this volume should attend to the interplay between Coleridge's public and private voices. The letters to editors like Daniel Stuart often adopt a more formal tone, while those to family and friends reveal a more vulnerable, self-questioning writer. The changes in pace—from the rapid travel narratives to the measured critiques of Blake—offer a window into Coleridge's evolving concerns. This edition, with its careful annotations by his grandson, provides a rich context for tracing these shifts, though the excerpts leave many letters only partially represented.

That grey afternoon, Coleridge’s letters wandered from travel to doubt, his own memory slipping like rain on glass. I closed the volume, and my gaze drifted to the shelf, where a thinner spine waited—a quiet meditation on pace and place. It felt less like a choice than the next step on a wet path. Walking — A Reader’s Guide seemed to answer something he’d left unsaid.