“… all mankind is of one author and is one volume; when one man dies, one chapter is not torn out of the book, but translated into a better language; and every chapter must be so translated.”
— John Donne
Call us what you will, we are made such by love;
Call her one, me another fly,
We’re tapers too, and at our own cost die,
And we in us find the eagle and the dove.
The phoenix riddle hath more wit
By us: we two being one, are it.
So, to one neutral thing both sexes fit.
We die and rise the same, and prove
Mysterious by this love.
–John Donne, from “The Canonization”
[After/while reading Paradise Lost]
What does it matter if your dreams were true?
You know that it will happen someday.
There is no future between you two as a couple.
(You write this, hoping you’re wrong.) [I don’t actually remember who this is referring to.]
I want grace. I want to be free of the vicious cycle of my psyche, of the way the world works.
I am tired of cause and effect and nothing ever really ending, just piling up. I am tired of the chains that I have made and know not how to break.
I’m tired of being lonely.
The fall from grace is the fall into the way of the world, into consequences. If you eat this fruit, you shall die.
And so we die.
But every once in a while we soar above the clouds and see the sun; all the rules of gravity and time and decay are suspended; and we fly by sheer grace, undeserved, irrational in our universe of laws.
By your utter grace.
[After finding things out that I didn’t want to know.]
This is growing up. It is feeling sick with loneliness and knowing that there once were good things that now are no more.
“We are not the same persons this year as last; nor are those we love. It is a happy chance if we, changing, continue to love a changed person.” — William Somerset Maugham
From Fluke, by Christopher Moore
“… comfort fell like sandwiches on the newly bombed.”
“She was just a deerstalker, a calabash, and a cocaine habit short of being Sherlock Holmes here.”