(no subject)
“She looked up at him and said very calmly:
“I am afraid, Gail.”
“Of what, dearest?”
“Of what I’m doing to you.”
“Why?”
“I don’t love you, Gail.”
“I can’t care even about that.”
She dropped her head an he looked own at the hair that was like a pale helmet of polished metal.
“Dominique.”
She raised her face to him obediently.
“I love you, Dominique. I love you so much that nothing can matter to me - not even you. Can you understand that? Only my love - not your answer. Not even your indifference. I’ve never taken much from the world. I haven’t wanted much. I’ve never really wanted anything. Not in the total, univided way, not with the kind of desire that becomes an ultimatum, ‘yes’ or ‘no’, and one can’t accept the ‘no’ without ceasing to exist. That’s what you are to me. But when one reaches that stage, it’s not the object that matters, it’s the desire. Not you, but I. The ability to esire like that. Nothing less is worth feeling or honoring. And I’ve never felt like that before. Dominique, I’ve never known how to say ‘mine’ about anything. Not in the sense I say it about you. Mine. Did you call it a sense of life as exhalation? You said that. You understand. I can’t be afraid. I love you, Dominique - I love you - you’re letting me say it now - I love you.”
She reached over and took the cablegram off her mirror. She crumple it, her fingers twisting slowly in a grinding motion against her palm. He stood listening to the crackle of paper. She leaned forward, opened her hand over the wastebasket, and let the paper drop. Her hand remained still for a moment, the fingers extended, slanting down, as they had opened.”
--- 'The Fountainhead' by Ayn Rand