I tell of this love affair here because
of its irrelevance, because it is so remarkable that it should mean
nothing, and be nothing except itself. It glows in my memory like some
bright casual flower starting up amidst the debris of a catastrophe.
For nearly a fortnight we two met and made love together. Once more this
mighty passion, that our aimless civilisation has fettered and maimed
and sterilised and debased, gripped me and filled me with passionate
delights and solemn joys--that were all, you know, futile and
purposeless. Once more I had the persuasion "This matters. Nothing
else matters so much as this." We were both infinitely grave in such
happiness as we had. I do not remember any laughter at all between us.
Twelve days it lasted from that encounter in my chalet until our
parting.
Except at the end, they were days of supreme summer, and there was a
waxing moon. We met recklessly day by day. We were so intent upon each
other at first so intent upon expressing ourselves to each other, and
getting at each other, that we troubled very little about the appearance
of our relationship.
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