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My rules are simple and clear. We must dispense with insincere politeness- that vapid veneer of untruth that smothers London drawing rooms. Our well-mannered social deceit must not die a private death but a court-ordered hanging in the public square. The archaic animal that is left will be a dangerous and hot-blooded thing. Unruly and impossible to predict. But alive.
The rest of us are still living on the borrowed fuel of potential and so far have not left deep footprints. But together we carry a brackish air of importance. As if we are doing something worthy in the world. Maybe how we live our lives is the grand experiment? Mixing company, throwing out customs, using first names, waiting to marry, ignoring the rules, and choosing what to care about. Is that why we matter? Or perhaps Miss Warre-Cornish is right and we do not matter in the least.
Stay on the right side of They.
Roger was not flattered, because he did not recognize what was happening. Things that do not matter to him are invisible.
He was happy. All his life. ALL his life. There is an all now: beginning and end. But then I suppose no one gets out alive.
Lately, in the last years especially, he has been so happy. Surely that is a good life? That is enough? Dear God, I hope so.
I am not waiting. I am not waiting for anyone any more. It was me I was waiting for.
She could not beat to be irrelevant. Virginia lives to be essential.
Sometimes she arches away from me and wears a light halo of genius about her.
Affection is so much easier to give when it is not owed.
Duncan's hands are long and soft, with a small, neat callus on his thumb from holding a brush - the painter's hallmark. I felt it when he shook my hand.
How I should have raised all her terrible destruction to the surface like a shipwrecked boat dredged up from the sea floor. But that would have given the fracture a shape, a dimension--a definite perimeter to the ruin. This way has a subtle cruelty. This way will torment. She will spend years trying to map the rift she caused and sound the damage. She will push on the bruise and grow frantic trying to repair the creeping remoteness. It is the unkindest thing I have ever done. And I will not relent. I will not do otherwise.
It is a terrible thing to grieve for someone who is not dead, not in love with someone else, but just no longer there.
I reached out my hand to her. She had been there at the table, this sad, kind, talented woman. She had heard everything, but had been unable to speak to us.