While reading The Lost King of France by Deborah Cadbury, about the final days of Louis XVII. It’s a pretty horrifying story, since he was only eight when his parents were decapi-ma-tated and all, and also because he was kept prisoner for years and abused by his “tutors,” who thought it was really cute to expose a kid to syphilitic prostitutes and the such. Awesome. Anyway, in the midst of clucking angrily over his treatment, I noticed the following passage:
“Surrounded by the phantoms of his previous existence, in a room that held such frightening memories for him, he was confined to a space of about thirteen by eleven feet.”
My apartment has similar dimensions, I’d like to point out. Although I have running water. And since I recently had my yearly checkup and all, I can pretty much promise you that I am 100% syphilis-free.