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608 pages, Paperback
First published October 1, 2012
Nothing is so foreign to the heart of a tormented lover than seeing the pain of absence disappear, as though her heart had been fuelled by this angst ever since she first laid eyes on Madeline from behind the willow hedge. Now she would have to work on getting the ban lifted on visiting the Lamontagne house. The two girls threw snowballs at each other and slid along Rue Fraserville's steep sidewalks, breaking into a song for the cold of heart as they revelled in winter's arrival right down to the very last snowflake.
You know you're in love the moment you walk up to someone trembling, I'd think to myself. And since I associated trembling with the freezing cold, having grown up in East Prussia, I associated love, that awful feeling, with the sumptuous winters of my native land. You're the only one in Berlin who could know what I mean by that, Kapriel. You need to feel all the coldness of that music. I think it's a song for the cold of heart. For people like us, Kapriel. “I wait for you, trembling”. Words to be sung in despair, one last cry from the heart, a petition of sorts. Do you follow me? It takes someone familiar with the body's tremors, the inexplicable bumps and jolts of the nervous system, to understand Schubert.
When an outside force takes control of your body, it's fascism. Or its toned-down version: Catholicism.
While ordinary love is cruel, Puccinian love is merciless.
