-- I’ve never worn a ring before, they’ve always seemed so inappropriate—but I love to see this shining there so nice and white like our love—And it sorter says “soon” to me all the time—Just sings it all day long.
-- I’ve just found a Masonic chart and with the help of pencilled notes, I am about to fathom unfathomable secrets—If I could just stop reading “Scott” in every line I’d make more progress.I’ve tried so many times to think of a new way to say it—and it’s still I love you—love you—love you.
-- I can’t tell you in “ten words”—or ten volumes, or ten years. I can’t even tell you a new way—But, please, try not to get tired of the old one.
-- I’m afraid some of the nights may be lacking the moon—But, Sweetheart, we’ll be together a whole month—and moons don’t really matter anyway.
-- In Paris, before I realised that I was sick, there was a new significance to everything: stations and streets and façades of buildings—colours were infinite, part of the air, and not restricted by the lines that encompassed them and lines were free of the masses they held. There was music that beat behind my forehead and other music that fell into my stomach from a high parabola and there was some of Schumann that was still and tender and the sadness of Chopin Mazurkas. Some of them sound as if he thought that he couldn’t compose them.
-- The thing that counts is to apply the few resources available to turning life into a tenable orderly affair that resembles neither the black hole of Calcutta or Cardinal Ballou’s cage.
-- Was it fun in Paris? Who did you see there and was the Madeleine pink at five o’clock and did the fountains fall with hollow delicacy into the framing of space in the Place de la Concorde and did the blue creep out from behind the colonades of the Rue de Rivoli through the grill of the Tuileries and was the Louvre gray and metallic in the sun and did the trees hang brooding over the cafés and were there lights at night and the click of saucers and the auto horns that play Debussy.
-- Living is cold and technical without you, a death mask of itself. At noon I played bridge and watched Dr. Forel’s profile dissecting the sky.
-- Was it nice at Caux? It sounds as if half of its name has rolled down the mountain-side. Perhaps when I’m well I won’t be so afraid of floating off from high places and we can go together.
-- You do not walk like a person plowing a storm but like a person very surprised at their means of locomotion, hardly touching the earth, as if each step were experimental.
—The graphophone is broken. It’s curious how Stravinsky sounds in this atmosphere. You feel like apologising.
-- I woke up this morning and the sun was lying like a birthday parcel on my table so I opened it up and so many happy things went fluttering into the air—I don’t believe I’ve ever been so heavy with happiness. The moon slips into the mountains like a lost penny.
-- I love these velvet nights. I’ve never been able to decide whether the night was a bitter enemy or a “grand patron”—or whether I love you most in the eternal classic half-lights where it blends with day or in the full religious fanfare of midnight or perhaps in the lux of noon. Anyway, I love you most and you phoned me tonight—I walked on those telephone wires for two hours after, holding your love like a parasol to balance me.
If I could only steal her words, I would have send them all to you.
♥ Thank you for all the comments, darlings. Life gets so much lighter when you have friends who listen.
