sleep tight

Books are the mirrors of the soul. For now she need not think of anybody. She could be herself, by herself. And that was what now she often felt the need of - to think, well not even think. To be silent, to be alone. All the being and the doing, expansive, glittering, vocal, evaporated, and one shrunk, with a sense of solemnity, to being oneself, a wedge-shoped core of darkness, something invisible to others, and this self having shed its attachments was free for strangest adventures.

To love. To be loved. To never forget your own insignificance. To never get used to the unspeakable violence and the vulgar disparity of life around you. To seek joy in the saddest places. To pursue beauty to its lair. To never simplify what is complicated or complicate what is simple. To respect strength, never power. Above all, to watch. To try and understand. To never look away. And never, never to forget. The secret of the great stories is that they have no secrets. The great stories are the ones you have heard and want to heart again. The ones you can enter anywhere and inhabit comfortably. They don't deceive you with thrills and trick ending. They don't surprise you with the unforeseen. They are as familiar as the house you live in. Or the smell of your lover's skin. You know how they end, yet you listen as though you don't. In the way that although you know that one day you will die, you live as though you won't. In the great stories you know who lives, who dies, and finds love, who doesn't. And yet you want to know again. Change is one thing. acceptance is another. When you hurt people, they begin to love you less. that's what careless words do. They make people love you a little less.

It's probably not just by chance that I'm alone. It would be very hard for a man to live with me, unless he's terribly strong. And if he's stronger than I, I'm the one who can't live with him. I'm neither smart nor stupid, but I don't think I'm a run-of-the-mill person. I've been in business without being businesswoman, I've loved without being a woman made only for love. The two man I've loved, I think, will remember me, on earth or in heaven, because men always remember a woman who caused them concern and uneasiness. I've done my best, in regard to people and to life, without precepts, but with a taste for justice.

Nothing on this planet can compare with woman's love - it is kind and compassionate, patient and nurturing, generous and sweet and unconditional. Pure. If you are her man, she will walk on water and through a mountain for you, too, no matter how you've acted out, no matter what crazy thing you've done, no matter the time or demand. If you are her man, she will talk to you until there just aren't any more words left to say, encourage you when you're at rock bottom and think there just isn't any way out, hold you in her arms when you're sick, and laugh with you when you're up. And if you're her man and that woman loves you - I mean really loves you - she will shine you up when you're dusty, encourage you when you're down, defend you even when she's not so sure you were right, and hang on your every word, even when you're not saying anything worth listening to. And no matter what you do, no matter how many times her friends say you're no good, no matter how many times you slam the door  on the relationship, she will give you her very best and then some, and keep right on trying to win over your heart, even when you act like everything she's done to convince you she's the one just isn't good enough. That's woman's love - it stands the test of time, logic, and all circumstance.