SILLY MERRICAT

I love her.

TO LOVE MAKES ONE SOLITARY

"She'd like to tell Clarissa something, something important, but can't get it phrased. "I love you" is easy enough (...) Sally finds that she wants to go home and say something more, something that extends not only beyond the sweet and the comforting, but beyond passion itself. What she wants to say has to do with all the people who've died; it has to do with her own feelings of enormous good fortune and imminent, devastating loss. If anything happens to Clarissa she, Sally, will go on living but she will not, exactly, survive. She will not be all right. What she wants to say has to do not only with joy but with the penetrating, constant fear that is joy's other half. She can bear the thought of her own death but cannot bear the thought of Clarissa's. This love of theirs, with its reassuring domesticity and its easy silences, its permanence, has yoked Sally directly to the machinery of mortality itself. Now there is a loss beyond imagining."

- The hours, Michael Cunningham

Spent last week and half of this one in Kraków, so I left Anthropology of an American girl at home, and have since decided not to read it right now. Anyway, in Kraków I read Nocturnes by Kazuo Ishiguro and Detective story by Imre Kertész. Reading The hours by Michael Cunningham now.