?

Log in

No account? Create an account
Previous Entry Share Next Entry
Faulkner
xyu
"I know that too." She grasped his hair again, hurt-
ing him again though now he knew she knew she was
hurting him. "Listen: it's got to be all honeymoon,
always. Forever and ever, until one of us dies. It cant be
anything else. Either heaven, or hell:
no comfortable
safe peaceful purgatory between for you and me to wait
in until good behavior or forbearance or shame or reo
pentance overtakes us."
"So it's not me you believe in, put trust in; it's Love."
She looked at him. "Not just me; any man."
"Yes. It's love. They say love dies between two peo-
ple. That's wrong. It doesn't die. It just leaves you, goes
away, if you are not good enough, worthy enough. It
doesn't die; you're the one that dies. It's like the ocean:
if you're no good, if you begin to make a bad smell in
it, it just spews you up somewhere to die. You die any-
way, but I had rather drown in the ocean than be urped
up onto a strip of dead beach and be dried away by the
sun into a little foul smear with no name to it,
just This
Was for an epitaph. Get up. I told the man we would
move in today."

They left the hotel with their bags within the hour, by
cab;
they mounted three flights of stairs. She even had
the key; she opened the door for him to enter; he knew
she was looking not at the room but at him. "Well?"
she said. "Do you like it?"

It was a big oblong room with a skylight in the north
wall, possibly the handiwork of a dead or bankrupt
photographer or maybe a former sculptor or painter
tenant, with two cubbyholes for kitchen and bath.

 She rented that skylight, he told himself quietly, thinking
how as a rule women rent bathrooms primarily. It's
only incidental that there is a place to sleep and cook
food.

 She chose a place not to hold us but to hold love;
she did not just run from one man to another; she did
not merely mean to swap one piece of clay she made a
bust with for another- He moved now, and then he
thought, Maybe I'm not embracing her but clinging to
her because there is something in me that wont admit it
cant swim or cant believe it can.

"It's all right," he said. "It's fine. Nothing can beat us now."

It's because I really dont try hard enough, dont really
 realise the need for trying because I have accepted completely
her ideas about love;

I look upon love with the
Same boundless faith that it will clothe and feed me as
the Mississippi or Louisiana countryman, converted last
week at a camp-meeting revival, looks upon religion
knowing that that was not the reason,