1813 has been the most strenuous to get through so far, because by this point I don’t even feel like he’s trying, and perhaps he isn’t, these may very well be the ones he’s writing from the shitter or when he can’t sleep. I mean, there’s nothing I can say about these except that they’re characteristically Byron, that odd mixture of self-pity and sharp disdain and inundating adoration. I can’t quote anything. I need to force myself to write something. No, I don’t want to.