At Last Comes Love

Falling in love was as much about receiving as it was giving, was it? It seemed selfish. It was not, though. It was the opposite. Keeping oneself from being loved was to refuse the ultimate gift. He had thought himself done with romantic love. He had thought himself an incurable cynic. He was not, though. He was only someone whose heart and mind, and very soul, had been battered and bruised. It was still - and always - safe to give since there was a certain deal of control to be exerted over giving. Taking, or allowing oneself to receive, was an altogether more risky business. For receiving meant opening up the heart again. Perhaps to rejection. Or disillusionment. Or pain. Or even heart break. It was all terribly risky. And all terribly necessary. And of course, there was the whole issue of trust...

Could a love of that magnitude die? If it was true love, could it ever die? Was there such a thing as true love?

But there were certain moments in life that forever defined one as a person - in one's own estimation, anyway. And one's own self esteem, when all was said and done, was of far more importance than the fickle esteem of one's peers.

After you married, Crispin, she said, my heart was broken. I will not deny it. But I did not slip into a sort of suspended life that would be forever gray and meaningless if you did not somehow come back to me. I put back the pieces of my heart and kept on living. I am not the woman I was when I was in love with you and expecting to marry you. I am not the woman I was when I heard that you were married. I am the woman I have become in the five years since then, and she is a totally different person. I like her. I wish to continue living her life.

Life was very sad if there were not - and unbearably so if one's experience with romantic love turned one into an incurable cynic.

There were certain moments upon which the whole of the future course of one's life might turn. And almost inevitably they popped out at one without any warning at all, leaving one with no time to consider or engage in a reasoned debate with oneself. One had to make a split second decision, and much depended upon it. Perhaps everything.

We must, as we grow older and wiser, be able to allow all the pain to seep out of our bones and our souls so that we can start again.

Mentimos para convencer al mundo, y para convencernos a nosotros mismos, de que somos algo que no somos...

I think it is possible to start again, don't you? Life, I mean. It cannot possibly be intended that we simply acquire experience upon experience like a lot of excess baggage to carry about with us until we stagger into middle age and old age beneath the impossible weight of it all. We must, as we grow older and wiser, be able to allow all the... all the pain to seep out of our bones and souls so that we can start again.

When one does not believe oneself in any way good, there is very little for which to live - and one feels unworthy of even what little there is.

We lie in order to persuade the world and ourselves that we are something we are not - usually something far better and more flattering than what we really are.

Había ciertos momentos en los que la vida daba un giro que cambiaba por completo el curso establecido. Y era característico que dichos momentos sucedieran sin previo aviso, dejando al interesado sin tiempo para considerar sus opciones o razonar consigo mismo sobre las repercusiones. De modo que solo quedaba tomar una decisión apresurada de la que casi se podía decir que dependería el resto de la vida.

¿Acaso existía el amor verdadero? La vida sería muy triste si no existiera... En realidad, sería insoportable si los desengaños del amor romántico convirtieran a una persona en una cínica incurable.

La vida podía ser muy deprimente en ocasiones, pero siempre continuaba. No tenía sentido dejarse llevar por la depresión.

Pero había ciertos momentos a lo largo de la vida que definían a una persona para siempre... al menos ante sus propios ojos.

En ocasiones sucede algo tan catastrófico que durante un tiempo, a veces durante mucho tiempo, resulta imposible ver algo en la oscuridad, incluso parece imposible creer que haya algo más allá. Pero siempre lo hay. Incluso, tal vez, en el momento de la muerte. Sobre todo en ese momento.

Algunos días eran tan tranquilos que al cabo de una semana era imposible recordar lo que había sucedido en su transcurso. Otros estaban tan llenos de acontecimientos que era imposible creer que veinticuatro horas dieran para tanto.