Manchurian Books

She "liked"
pictures. I think from the outset I appreciated and did not for a moment
resent that hers was a commonplace mind, that she was the unconscious
custodian of something that had gripped my most intimate instinct, that
she embodied the hope of a possibility, was the careless proprietor of a
physical quality that had turned my head like strong wine. I felt I had
to stick to our acquaintance, flat as it was. Presently we should get
through these irrelevant exterior things, and come to the reality of
love beneath.
I saw her in dreams released, as it were, from herself, beautiful,
worshipful, glowing. And sometimes when we were together, we would come
on silences through sheer lack of matter, and then my eyes would feast
on her, and the silence seemed like the drawing back of a curtain--her
superficial self. Odd, I confess. Odd, particularly, the enormous hold
of certain things about her upon me, a certain slight rounded duskiness
of skin, a certain perfection of modelling in her lips, her brow, a
certain fine flow about the shoulders.


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