Today, we will consider Romantic poet John Clare’s “I am,” written in 1844, when the poet had already spent considerable time in an insane asylum. What ostensibly appears a typical declaration of identity is actually a much more complex self-study into the nature of self: in his illness, Clare struggled to remember just who he was, and would even confuse his identity with the likes of Byron and Shakespeare.
I am! yet what I am who cares, or knows?
My friends forsake me like a memory lost.
I am the self-consumer of my woes,
They rise and vanish, an oblivious host,
Shadows of life, whose very soul is lost.
And yet I am—I live—though I am toss'd
Into the nothingness of scorn and noise,
Into the living sea of waking dream,
Where there is neither sense of life, nor joys,
But the huge shipwreck of my own esteem
And all that's dear. Even those I loved the best
Are strange—nay, they are stranger than the rest.
I long for scenes where man has never trod,
For scenes where woman never smiled or wept;
There to abide with my Creator, God,
And sleep as I in childhood sweetly slept
Full of high thoughts, unborn. So let me lie,
The grass below; above the vaulted sky.
