I wrote back a love letter--my first love letter--and she made no reply
for eight days. Then came a scrawl: "I can't write letters. Wait till we
can talk. Are you better?"
I think the reader would be amused if he could see the papers on my desk
as I write all this, the mangled and disfigured pages, the experimental
arrangements of notes, the sheets of suggestions balanced in
constellations, the blottesque intellectual battlegrounds over which
I have been fighting. I find this account of my relations to Beatrice
quite the most difficult part of my story to write. I happen to be a
very objective-minded person, I forget my moods, and this was so much an
affair of moods. And even such moods and emotions as I recall are very
difficult to convey. To me it is about as difficult as describing a
taste or a scent.
Then the objective story is made up of little things that are difficult
to set in a proper order. And love in an hysterical passion, now high,
now low, now exalted, and now intensely physical. No one has ever yet
dared to tell a love story completely, its alternations, its comings and
goings, its debased moments, its hate.
Pages:
508
509
510
511
512
513
514
515
516
517
518
519
520
521
522
523
524
525
526
527
528
529
530
531
532