passage from julian barnes's arthur and george
I wanted to insert this here prior to the last entry. it is one of the more stirring love-letter type passages i've come across in awhile:
He looks down into her hazel-green eyes. "Are you flirting with me, young lady?"
She looks straight back at him. "I am talking to you about skiing." But those, it feels, are only her nominal words.
"Because if you are, be careful I do not fall in love with you."
He barely knows what he has said. He half means it entirely and half cannot imagine what has got into him.
"Oh, you are already. In love with me. And I with you. There is no doubt about it. No doubt at all."
And so it is said. And no more words are needed, or uttered, for awhile. All that matters is how he is to see her again, and where, and when, and it must be arranged before someone interrupts them. But he has never been a lothario or seducer, and never known how to say those things which are necessary to arrive at the stage beyond the one where he currently stands -- not really knowing either what that further stage might be, since where he is at the moment appears, in its own way, to be final. All he can feel rising up in his head are difficulties, prohibitions, reasons why they will never meet again, except perhaps decades later, in passing, when they are old and grey and will be able to joke about that ever-remembered moment on someone's sunny lawn. It is impossible for them to meet in a public place, because of her reputation and ... all the things that make up his life. He stands there, a man approaching forty, a man secure in his life and famous in the world, and he has become a schoolboy again. He feels as if he has learned the most beautiful speech in Shakespeare and now that he needs to recite it his mouth is dry and his memory empty. He also feels as if he has ripped the seat of his tweed knickerbockers and must instantly find a wall against which to set his back.
He looks down into her hazel-green eyes. "Are you flirting with me, young lady?"
She looks straight back at him. "I am talking to you about skiing." But those, it feels, are only her nominal words.
"Because if you are, be careful I do not fall in love with you."
He barely knows what he has said. He half means it entirely and half cannot imagine what has got into him.
"Oh, you are already. In love with me. And I with you. There is no doubt about it. No doubt at all."
And so it is said. And no more words are needed, or uttered, for awhile. All that matters is how he is to see her again, and where, and when, and it must be arranged before someone interrupts them. But he has never been a lothario or seducer, and never known how to say those things which are necessary to arrive at the stage beyond the one where he currently stands -- not really knowing either what that further stage might be, since where he is at the moment appears, in its own way, to be final. All he can feel rising up in his head are difficulties, prohibitions, reasons why they will never meet again, except perhaps decades later, in passing, when they are old and grey and will be able to joke about that ever-remembered moment on someone's sunny lawn. It is impossible for them to meet in a public place, because of her reputation and ... all the things that make up his life. He stands there, a man approaching forty, a man secure in his life and famous in the world, and he has become a schoolboy again. He feels as if he has learned the most beautiful speech in Shakespeare and now that he needs to recite it his mouth is dry and his memory empty. He also feels as if he has ripped the seat of his tweed knickerbockers and must instantly find a wall against which to set his back.