Mine eyes are as soot, and my tonge rotten with anguish! My heart faileth me, and my breath departeth from me. My mind is gone, it hath run into the blackest pits of despair. My fingers tremble, and I dare not stop the tears.
Oh to be snared and dropped unto utter darkness by so great a genius. So long have I waited, and mine hope was lit and strung out before me as far as the eye could see. Content was within my grasp, and the ground was soft unto my touch. But lo, and behold, fire lept up, and hath consumed the grass, and the flowers are turned to soot and ash. My despair and woe is upon me, and though I seek deliverance, none shall attend me. I am lost within the sorrows of my grief.
Howbeit that so good a soul, so careful a picture as painted, is thus so wretchedly torn from beneath my feet, and burned within my very home; how can he hath so devised a scheme, so terrible, as to rain destruction upon all I had dreamed? Nay, cast me aside, for I am good no longer. My life is done, and I am wasted away.
A golden wasteland is before me, and I am through it, and I am destraught. I am done, and finished, my work is complete, I am at my end, and sorrow is there to greet me. Wherefore have I come, seeking my refuge at the end, and have found none. I am lost, without hope, and given in. My comforts and my guides have betrayed me, and given me unto mine enemies.
When I didst begin, hope was yet in my grasp, and I laid out the scrolls and opened the tomes of such masterworks as did befit me. And then, I did read my hope, and see it come to life. Surely it would end well. And I continued, and behold, there upon such pages were gleaming of life and beauty, and I didst lay eyes upon genius and marvelled at its complexity. Surely as the next book opened did my eyes fall upon my love. My heart was set, and surely did a feast upon the good deeds and the greatness therein. Surely I had great hopes, and my heart stood upon every line. I grew nearer and nearer to the fulfillment of my hopes and dreams! Did cast aside all those who were nothing, and surely didst I make my way straight as an arrow.
But alas, woe, woe, woe! I am fallen, pierced and bled dry. The dogs have feasted upon me, and I am given to death. My tongue is wrung out, and I can speak no more, but in my breath shall I utter these last words, and they shall be written upon stones, and laid upon my coffin, and written in the burning sand which now licks away my skin, oh, the horror, for as I neared what should have been my glorious ending, as the tomes were nearly completed, my heart did fail me, and my eye burned in anguish, and then I didst remember the counting of the pages, seven hundred, two-score, and one:
"My sister Susan," answered Perter shortly and gravely, "is no longer a friend of Narnia."