Current mood:

sad

His eyes closed and he gripped the divan's wooden frame.
I've just met Edith in the story, I say to him, And I'm really not liking her at all.
Why, he asks, Because of Valerie?
Yes!  They were so perfect, and then she came in and...
Don't hate her, hate him, Gerritt says to me.  Besides, he adds, he only married her because of her class.
That is not a good enough answer, I say, and my sulk has persisted ever since.
I finished The Pornographer of Vienna early this morning on my way back home, and it has left me with a weight in the center of my body, what I would imagine a rotted pit to feel like in a peach.  It is strange to mourn they who've been dead for nearly a hundred years.  I imagine Egon , and Valerie Neuzil, and I feel sick with his casting her off, and I look at Death and the Maiden and I wonder how and why, how, and why.  The same old story of romance and passion lost repeats itself in incarnations that still haunt me and suddenly I understand why we or I mourn century-long deaths; so today, I cry for loving.