A song. A desperate woman calls her heart to love and his pain. A wonderful book, written in the 30's by a woman suffering from tuberculosis, leaving his man to go to heal. But his man one day write a letter, where he announces his marriage to another woman and asks her friendship. The friendship that there can be when love is still true, pure, pure, irrepressible. And the pain bursts, sweeps, so intelligent, gifted, like a river that can not be tamed. The author's words do you live, sharp. And in every line you can know the love story of all of us.
Written cleverly, intelligently, prevaricating, sometimes shocking. Does reflect, grieve, but leaves intact the feeling of dignity typical of women who want to be preempted by men who, in the end, only showed their profound weakness.
A little jewel, thinking to read the author (who actually died of tuberculosis) and his love, which is really well done.
"I do not love me anymore. How ridiculous carefully avoids telling me. It is not a promise. And yet I would do so well now that I'm alone and I'm going away, trusting me with your love rock . I need, I would find it when I get healed. The certainty that someone continues to love and wait is a momentary distraction and irrelevant to those who remain, but a great joy to the sick man for him is as if the life she left was aware of his absence, the patient can not figure out a different future, weak and in pain for sharp break with the past, that after the application is to perpetuate the first, improving "
" close our eyes because the illusion returns. It 's like a dream: do not move "
" can not be me to say I love you. And if the person they tell me I'm wrong, but I believe? "
" when you do not know pain, you have more strength to face him, because it ignores its scope: you only see the fight and hopefully arrive at a better time later. But when you know it, you want to raise their hands to ask for grace and exclaim, exhausted and incredulous: again? "
" any excuse to cry is a trifle, a silly phrase read in the newspaper, which in other conditions cause only a shrug of the shoulders, throws into an abyss of emotion "
" I would not be able to give you happiness. It 's an old song once, which resembles a dried flower. It's so early in the past to become an old thing? Happiness? It 's a word of commiseration "
" sure I want to lose your head, but I want to seize the moment when I lose it, and push further the knowledge of consciousness that abandons. Must be present for their own happiness "
takes just a glance, a word, a silence to worry ... but I say: you are free, because I will not force you to stay and I would, however, that remains"
"I get angry if I felt particularly good and you were not there "
" maybe I smile and give the impression that the anger in me to evoke the irony. But the truth is that I'm bored to death with all these women who speak of their husbands'
"the man for whom a woman is made not is perhaps the one that agrees to be? "
" true friendship is when I say what I think anytime a person able to share my happiness or my problems "
" But let me: no can be close to me. Let me suffer, let me heal, leave me alone. Do not think that offer friendship to replace the love can console me, maybe I'll be pleased when you do not suffer anymore. But now I'm sick, and when I'm bad, I walk away without looking back. Do not ask me to turn around and look, do not follow with my gaze from afar. Let "
" I now wish to be happy, and I'm sure you'd even able to find me a husband or a lover to console "
" dance is the rhythm of life more happy, dance when you thought you would not ever done is a victory a great achievement "
Leave me alone
Guanda Marcelle Sauvageot, 2005
€ 9.00
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