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Monday, January 31, 2005

How could she give voice to an elusive malaise?

She didn't have the words, the opportunity, the courage.

She was not happy, had never been so. Where did it come from, this feeling of deprivation, this instantaneous decay of things in which she put her trust? But, if there were somewhere a strong and beautiful creature, a valiant nature full of passion and delicacy in equal measure, the heart of a poet in the figure of an angel, a lyre with strings of steel, sounding to the skies elegaic epithalamia, why should she not, fortuitously, find such a one? What an impossibility! Nothing, anyway, was worth that great a quest; it was all lies! Every smile concealed the yawn of boredom, every joy a malediction, every satisfaction brought its nausea, and even the most perfect kisses leave upon the lips a fantastical craving for the supreme pleasure.

posted by voyeur @ 1/31/2005 11:02:00 PM