Maria C > Recent Status Updates

Love and large-hearted giving, when added together, can leave deep marks. It is never easy to cover these marks, dear friends—never easy.

I would recognize you in total darkness, were you mute and I deaf.

I would recognize you in another lifetime entirely, in different bodies, different times.

And I would love you in all of this, until the very last star in the sky burnt out into oblivion.

💕

«A aurora entrou furtivamente pela abertura da tenda. A divisão iluminou-se. Presenciei o momento em que ele acordou e me reconheceu. Os nossos membros encaixaram uns nos outros, seguindo caminhos que tantas vezes percorrêramos, mas que nunca se gastavam.»

“I got special grapes from London for you, as you did not care for those the hotel supplied, invented things to please you, remained either with you or in the room next to yours, sat with you every evening to quiet or amuse you.”

(...)

“By the terrible alchemy of egotism you converted your remorse into rage. You accused me of selfishness in expecting you to be with me when I was ill.”

Behind joy and laughter there may be a temperament, coarse, hard and callous. But behind sorrow there is always sorrow. Pain, unlike pleasure, wears no mask.

“Alas, we are all caught in the same mill. We are vain and we are dishonest because it is necessary to triumph over other vain and dishonest persons.”

Letter to Bosie

Suffering is one very long moment. We cannot divide it by seasons. We can only record its moods, and chronicle their return. With us time itself does not progress. It revolves. It seems to circle round one centre of pain.

Mamzelle Aurélie had never thought of marrying. She had never been in love. At the age of twenty she had received a proposal, which she had promptly declined, and at the age of fifty she had not yet lived to regret it.

« Il n'y a pas de honte à être heureux. Mais aujourd'hui l'imbécile est roi, et j'appelle imbécile celui qui a peur de jouir. »

« Tout ici me laisse intact, je n'abandonne rien de moi-même, je ne revêts aucun masque : il me suffit d'apprendre patiemment la difficile science de vivre qui vaut bien tout leur savoir-vivre. »

6 September 1940 (What day is it, even?)

Dear Paul,

From the day you came into my kitchen with that basket of cabbages, you’ve been there. Always with me, like the wind. But that first time I found a letter from you in the post, my heart leapt as it never had before. You rushed right over me and I knew I was in love.

I wish you were here with me to feel the wind. It’s poetry in itself.

Love,
Maisie

Sue,

May 22, 1916

(...)
Do you remember what you said to me when we first met at King’s Cross? The very first words you spoke? You glided over to me and, as I was struggling to think of something intelligent to say, you said, “There you are.” I often think of that, Sue. Here I am. No matter where I am in the world, “Here I am.”

Davey

I’ve never read Mark Twain, but I agree that Poe is thrilling. I remember reading “The Tell-Tale Heart” as a girl one night, in bed with a candle stub I pilfered from church. I was certainly punished for stealing the candle, because after I finished the book and blew out the candle, I couldn’t sleep a wink. I was quite positive that I heard the beating of the heart downstairs.

A chance letter that began years of correspondence… depending on the workings of the post, they wrote to each other more often than the tides and the phases of the moon. Not even the war could halt what had begun between them.

121

I should have told you, should’ve taught you to steel your heart. Taught you that a letter isn’t always just a letter. Words on the page can drench the soul. If only you knew.

22

My breath
my light,
the one my heart flies toward

For Jim

On a toujours associé la campagne à l'amour et l'on a bien fait : rien n'encadre la femme que l'on aime comme le ciel bleu, les senteurs, les fleurs, les brises, la solitude resplendissante des champs ou des bois. Si fort que l'on aime une femme, quelque confiance que l'on ait en elle, quelque certitude sur l'avenir que vous donne son passé, on est toujours plus ou moins jaloux.

Il me sembla que cette ville endormie m'appartenait ; je cherchais dans mon souvenir les noms de ceux dont j'avais jusqu'alors envié le bonheur ; et je ne m'en rappelais pas un sans me trouver plus heureux que lui.

– Et vous m'aimez ?

– À en devenir fou.

– Malgré mon mauvais caractère ?

– Malgré tout.

– Vous me le jurez !

– Oui, lui dis‑je tout bas. 

— Et quand vous reverrai‑je ? dis‑je en la pressant dans mes bras.
— Quand ce camélia changera de couleur.
— Et quand changera‑t‑il de couleur ?
— Demain, de onze heures à minuit. Êtes‑vous content ?
— Vous me le demandez ?
— Pas un mot de tout cela ni à votre ami, ni à Prudence, ni à qui que ce soit.
— Je vous le promets.
— Maintenant, embrassez‑moi et rentrons dans la salle à manger.

« On attribua au libertinage, fréquent chez les vieillards riches, ce rapprochement du vieux duc et de la jeune femme. On supposa tout, excepté ce qui était. Cependant le sentiment de ce père pour Marguerite avait une cause si chaste, que tout autre rapport que des rapports de cœur avec elle lui eût semblé un inceste, et jamais il ne lui avait dit un mot que sa fille n'eût pu entendre. »

I went up to my room and started reading the new book Bill gave me. It’s called The Stranger. Bill said that it’s “very easy to read, but very hard to ‘read well.’” I have no idea what he means, but I like the book so far.

(...)

I wanted to laugh. Or maybe get mad. Or maybe shrug at how strange everyone was, especially me. But I was at a party with my friends, so it really didn’t matter that much.

November 7, 1991

Dear friend,

It was one of those days that I didn’t mind going to school because the
weather was so pretty. The sky was overcast with clouds, and the air felt like a warm bath. I don’t think I ever felt that clean before. When I got home, I had to mow the lawn for my allowance, and I didn’t mind one bit.
I just listened to the music, and breathed in the day, and remembered things.

31.3.72
Marimba
(Sexta-feira Santa)

«Amanhã, sábado de Aleluia, começa um novo mês. (É um dia bonito para começar um novo mês!). Tenho um calendário à cabeceira da cama, como se fosse uma santa, mas é inútil rezar-lhe: nunca vi dias tão irremediavelmente compridos.»

PT/EN

«Nesta terra tenho enterrado os melhores meses da minha vida, e, se calhar, também, a maior parte dos anos da minha velhice. Isto gasta por dentro como um cancro.» página 255

In this land I have buried the finest months of my life and, perhaps, most of the years of my old age as well. It gnaws at me from within, like a cancer.

Como todos nós: não suspiro eu pelo mar português? Somos uma raça de saudosos do próprio umbigo, de amantes em diminutivo, fechados na nossa murmurante solidão: cada um de nós um búzio onde vêm ressoar os murmúrios domésticos e as vozes dos mortos e dos vivos que amamos.

E se te perguntarem, canção, porque não morro
Podes-lhes responder que porque morro

Camões nos deixou inteiros, nestes versos de exílio.

«Que triste é desejar que o tempo passe»

[How sad it is to wish time away.]

«Gosto tudo de ti. Lembra-te de mim, sim? Milhões e milhões de ternos beijinhos.
António.

ATÉ AO FIM DO MUNDO. »

«Sim, é mais difícil fazer novos amigos à medida que se envelhece - mas também é mais gratificante quando isso acontece. Subitamente, tem-se uma presença estranha completamente nova na nossa vida, com um passado e um futuro por explorar - e, entretanto, quantas coisas há sobre as quais falar. É esta a alegria de "novos novos" amigos.»

página 101

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«Quando me levantei, a Jean disse-me:
- És um jogador, senhor Barnes.
[...]
Terei sido um jogador ao longo da vida? Umas vezes, sim, outras não. Mas ela não quis dizer que eu era um oportunista. Ela quis dizer: que eu era um apostador em relação à vida dos outros. Mas, no fundo, não é isso que todos os romancistas fazem? Pelos menos, nos seus livros.»

[Absolutamente. Mr. Barnes.]