English Literature: My First Love

july 4th, 2010


MANASH BHATTACHARJEE


The Nobel Prize-winning writer Jose Saramago, who passed away recently, uniquely blended the surreal with the pragmatic. An appreciation of his work...





PHOTO:AFP

Blurring boundaries:Jose Saramago.


The death of José Saramago (1922-2010) doesn't escape its sombre irony. It is a final punctuation mark inthe life of a writer who wrote in unpunctuated, seamless sentences. The man who designated the writer as an apprentice and his characters as masters, was ultimately forced to quit his training at the ripe age of eighty seven. Nevertheless, in tune with his working-class roots, Saramago kept his tryst with productivity as diligently as his respiratory illness worked against him.

In his meditative, 1998 Nobel Prize speech, Saramago began by paying tribute to his illiterate grandfather, Jerónimo Meirinho, calling him the wisest man he ever knew. Why was the grandfather so wise? Because he could tell stories endlessly, recounting, what Saramago called, “an untiring rumour of memories”.

This early exposure to oral story telling helped Saramago incorporate its skills in his writing. He urged the reader to “hear” his novels by reading them aloud, rather than silently. His prose demanded the recognition of the oral as much as the written techniques of language. Saramago himself used the term “written orality” to signify the language he deployed. It opens up an interesting horizon in our understanding of writing's aural character, apart from the visual. It also grants a twofold meaning to the narrator: as a voice and as a signature.

This must have immediate repercussions on Roland Barthes' contentions regarding the death of the author.

Unifying effects



Unlike what Barthes pointed out, in Saramago's writing, the “hand” is not “cut off from any voice”. Saramago makes hand and voice work together, where the voice feeds the hand, the way hearing precedes (hence, dictates) writing. The author (in) Saramago thus exists between two disparate credentials, that of the writer and of the oral narrator. The dissemination of language occurs through this process of reciprocal translation between voice and hand, body and mind, memory and invention.

The other contention of Barthes, about the difference between reader and writer, gets blurred as Saramago's writing itself emerges as a kind of reading. Saramago is known for committing mischief with religious and historical texts. A task he owes to both, a reading and a counter-reading of canonical texts to produce new, critical versions by a reader. The author (in) Saramago is a reader beyond recognition.

In novels like Balthazar and Blimunda and The History of the Seize of Lisbon, Saramago reads between the lines of history and legend, and produces a counter narrative. In The History, the main protagonist, Raimundo Silva, is a proof-reader who tampers with a small but vital fact of Portuguese history and creates a scandal. In Balthazar the event of the Inquisition in 18th century Portugal, is read through powerfully marginal characters, who secretly challenge the mad dictates of power.

Saramago also spoke of inviting the reader (speculatively, including himself) to “accept a pact”, where he would transform an “absurd idea” into a “logical” stream of thought. He called this, “the possibility of the impossible”.

This is particularly evident in novels like Blindness, Seeing and Death with Interruptions, where improbable events take place in a believable language. The events serve as an allegorical device by Saramago to bring to focus his deepest concerns of the human world. The language is believable because Saramago's plots exaggerate on the oldest anxieties of human beings. Having heard stories with an almost folk-like quality, Saramago re-works old questions in the light of contemporary concerns, where the bizarre clashes against the everyday. It is a deliberate subversion of reality, where uncanny events emerge from the heart of the mundane. There is a constant tendency in Saramago to fuse the surreal with the pragmatic. Born to landless peasants, and brought up in a working class neighbourhood, the writer was vigilant about the contradictions of life.

Saramago spent his formative years under Salazar's fascist dictatorship. This had a deep impact on his working class sensibilities. Saramago became a card carrying member of the Communist Party of Portugal since 1969, when the party was illegal. His relationship with the movement was however, always critical.

In the 1980s, Saramago sided with the reformist rebellion within the party. Fidel Castro was a friend who invited him many times to Cuba. Yet in 2003, Saramago disowned him by saying, Castro “has lost my confidence, damaged my hopes, cheated my dreams”. In 2004, during his visit to Columbia, Saramago designated the two guerrilla groups in that country as “armed gangs”.

There have been polemical attacks by communist intellectuals against Saramago on these issues. What is however missing in these attacks is the old question, post-Stalinist, communist politics needs to ask itself: How does the movement and the party understand the relationship between writers and politics?

For Saramago, like Garcia Marquez, being a writer and being part of politics sometimes uncomfortably came to mean divided loyalties. Despite the de-individualised form of such a writer's identity, involved in the larger dream of historical transformation, clashes can occur with the vagaries of political expediency and its justificatory, ideological logic. Saramago called himself a “hormonal communist” and yet added, he wouldn't “make excuses for what communist regimes have done”.

This is a post-Sartrean distinction between ideology and criticism where a writer refuses to suffer the paranoia of an indoor-collective to prove his commitment. Caught between a coercive symptom and ethics, the honest writer will choose to voice himself. To the disgrace of political regimes, such writers have been violently punished by disciplining bosses in the shadow of ideological excuses. Saramago was lucky.

Rigours of politics

Both literary temperament and politics work within certain constraints. The rationalist logic of politics cannot hope to forcibly restrain the more intense logic of literary imagination. Imagination is political, but on its own grounds. This quarrel needs to be studied not only by re-reading the Frankfurt School and other intellectuals, but by also re-reading the (auto)biographies of poets and writers under communist regimes.

What Saramago owed to communist ideas is best exemplified in his novels.

A modern fabulist, he set the mythical vis-à-vis the historical, and the moral vis-à-vis the political. The materiality of Saramago's imagination never failed to assert its concern of how class divisions work in historical contexts.

In Balthazar and Blimunda, Saramago used the baroque style to perfection, capturing the violent contrasts between the excesses of the royalty and the Church on the one hand and the simplicity of common people on the other. His description of elaborate grandeur which surrounds royal and religious formalities gets constantly tampered by his sense of bitter irony and irreverence. The story pays homage to the courage of poor, neglected but talented heroes and heretics who don't give up the audacity to dream and love in the midst of an impending auto-da-fé.

In other novels, like The History of the Seize of Lisbon and All the Names, Saramago also showed his keenness towards certain minor figures of society like the proof reader and the clerk. These figures, alluding to Saramago's own journey through these crafts and positions, gain extraordinary prominence due to their progressive insights of history.

Saramago in his last published book of essays, The Notebook, severely criticised the new global, economic order. He called George Bush, “the high priest of all liars”, and severely took the United States to task. He enraged the Jews by comparing Israel's barbarities with the Holocaust. Saramago's interest in the Middle East and his siding with the Palestinians is an important shift for a European writer. Apart from its political honesty, this move can also be compared to the way Saramago demarcated the importance of his various identities: “First of all I'm Portuguese, then Iberian, and then, if I feel like it, I'm European,”. To prefer linguistic and geographical autonomy over larger frames of cultural self-reference shows Saramago's proclivity towards understanding political contexts outside the rhetoric of grand narratives. His attitude towards communist politics can also be read through this register. In a world besieged by religious nationalism, neo-liberal fascism and murdering of the poor, Saramago's voice is a warning from the future. It is very different from the way Hollywood imagines the future in the form of colonising, technological fantasies. Saramago tried to persistently tell us, the future is disappearing before our eyes.

(The author is a poet and a political theorist, living in New Delhi)

source: literary review the hindu

july 4th, 2010




PROFESSOR GAURI VISWANATHAN


Relativism is the death of liberalism, says acclaimed novelist Salman Rushdie. It is possible to argue for the universality of certain rights, like the right to language, to dream, to imagine, he says, in an interview with Professor Gauri Viswanathan of Columbia University. We carry below excerpts, edited from a longer conversation...




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To defend the freedom of language as a universal human right is justifiable not by appeal to this or that cultural tradition but simply to the biology of the beast.
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Photo: AFP

The need for sacred spaces of debate: Salman Rushdie.

Introduced by Lee Bollinger, President of Columbia University, and Orhan Pamuk, Nobel Laureate.

Gauri Viswanathan: In The Ground Beneath Her Feet you depict contrasting characters, such as the ultra rationalist Sir Darius and his miracles-chasing wife, Lady Spenta. For Sir Darius, every intellectual effort begins with the death of the gods, whereas his wife searches for enchantment. And in The Enchantress of Florence, your most recent novel, you have Akbar as a modern man who questions the existence of God and presides over spirited debates of the Tent of the New Worship between competing philosophical schools. And yet the same rationalist skeptic has created his imaginary Queen Jodha, and he lives in a world that is steeped in magic and miracles. How do you reconcile these two images, which co-habit the same world in your novels?

Salman Rushdie: I don't reconcile them. I just allow them to go on arguing inside me as well as outside. It's true, I think, that if you are involved in the making of imaginative writing, what you're doing is against pure rationalism. I would argue, not unconventionally, that religion comes after reason and that actually religious texts were invented — and gods indeed were invented — to answer the two great questions of life: “Where did we come from?” and “How shall we live?” It seems to me that every religion is based on an attempt to answer those questions: the question of origins and the question of ethics.

Religion has nothing to say on the question of origins. And on the question of ethics, whenever religion has got into the driving seat on that question, what happens is inquisition and oppression. So it seems to me not just uninteresting, but not valuable to turn to religion. I don't want the answers to come from some priest. I would prefer them to come from the process of argument and debate. And the first thing you accept in that situation is that there are no answers, only the debate. The debate itself is the thing from which flows the ethical life.

But when I'm writing books, something weird happens. And the result is that these books clearly do contain a large amount of what you would call supernaturalism. And I find that as a writer, I need that in order to explain the world I'm writing about. As a person, I don't need it, but as a writer I do need it. So that tension is just there, I can't reconcile it. It's just so.

GV: In an earlier conversation we had, you had said that when you wrote The Satanic Verses you were attempting to depict the convulsions that take place at the birth of any new religion, which you described as a history often marked by discord and disagreement. You said, “There are scenes in The Satanic Verses, in which the early religion is persecuted and early members of the religion are verbally and physically abused by the mob in the city not called Mecca, and some of that abuse is there in the novel, and some of these sentences were taken out as my abusive view of Islam.” And then, you ask, “If you're going to make a portrayal of the attacks on a newborn faith, how can you do it without showing the attackers doing the attacking? If then those attacks are made into your view, it's a distortion.”

You spoke then about the difficulties of representing religious debates, especially when those arguments are effaced from the historical record. In reviving that suppressed religious history of dissent, disagreement, and disputation, do you think that writers almost inevitably end up participating in those debates? Or do you think a reasonable distance can be maintained?

SR: I think it ought to be possible to say simply, “This is something like what might have happened at the birth of this religion.” It ought to be possible to say that neutrally, without seeming to be on one side or another. Clearly what happened in the case of The Satanic Verses is that there was an assumption that I was on one side rather than another, and that therefore my meaning should be found in the hostility, rather than in the defence. I think, on the whole, it ought to be possible in any open society to discuss openly how things happen. I think it's a great shame in the world of Islam that so much interesting contemporary scholarship about the origins of Islam is not acceptable. And the reason it's not acceptable is because of the insistence on the divine origin of the text. If, however, you are willing to historicise the text, and to look at the text as an event inside history rather than above history, then immediately what we know about the history of the period opens up and illuminates the text.

I've often spoken about Ibn Rush'd — I'm not really called “Rushdie”,” my father made up the name. And the reason he invented it is because he was an admirer of the philosopher Ibn Rush'd, known to the West as Averroes. And so at a certain point I had to go and find out about Ibn Rush'd. He was one of the people who, in the 12th century, tried to fight the literalist interpretation of the Koran, and did so with great brilliance and scholarship, but, as we can now see from the history of the world, lost the battle. But I've always found one of his arguments very beautiful, and so I offer it: He said that if you look at the Judeo-Christian definition of God, it differs from the Muslim definition in one important particular, which is that the Jews and Christians say that man was created by God in his own image. And what that sentence clearly suggests is that there is some relationship between the nature of man and the nature of God — “created in his own image.” Islam says the opposite. Islam says that God has no human qualities. He has divine qualities. And so Ibn Rush'd argued that language also is a human quality, and that therefore it was unreasonable to suggest that God spoke Arabic, because God presumably spoke “God”. And as a result, when the archangel — even if you believe the story literally — appears on the mountain and delivers the message, the Prophet, understanding it in Arabic, is already making an act of interpretation: he's already taking something that arrives in non-linguistic form and understanding it linguistically. He takes something that arrives as a divine message and transforms it into human comprehension. And so it was argued, if the original act of receiving the text is already an act of interpretation, then further interpretation is clearly legitimate. And that was Ibn Rush'd's attempt — probably the most brilliant attempt, in my mind — to destroy literalism from inside the text. It didn't work, unfortunately, but I wouldn't mind having another go.

GV: Let's look at one of the characters in your last novel, The Enchantress of Florence, Akbar. Do you see the historical presence of competing beliefs as a model for experiments with intellectual and religious pluralism, such as that offered by Akbar in the Tent of New Worship?

SR: Well, he's attractive because he had open-mindedness on the subject of religion. But it's more a belief that all religions were ways of worshipping the same God — described and named differently, but essentially the same. He tried to invent a religion that expresses that idea, the so-called Dîn-i Ilâhî, and it didn't catch on. People in the end preferred their differences to the idea of unity. One of the poignancies about the project of Akbar, is the Ibâdat Khâna, the house of worship, the place of debate…

GV: But it's not even a house, it's a tent. That's what's so interesting in the conceit you use.

SR: Well, that's what interested me. What's clear, if you read the history of Akbar, is that the Ibâdat Khâna, the debating chamber where all the philosophers met every day in debate, was clearly a very important place in the court. And yet in what remains of Fatehpur Sikri, the capital city, nobody has any idea of where this building might have been. And so from that, I decided maybe it was never a permanent building in the first place.

The Mughals were incredible tent-makers. And in fact, you can say that the architecture of the Mughal period is a rendering in stone of some of the principles of the tent-makers. So I thought, “Maybe it's a tent.” And then I thought, that's very appropriate, because ideas are not permanent. Ideas are things in flux, they move and shift, and you can pick them up here and put them down over there.

GV: Is Akbar an ideal for you in any way?

SR: No. I worry about the idealisation of Akbar, because I think a lot of that is backwards projection. We want to have a liberal, tolerant, almost democratic man in the 16 {+t} {+h} century. But Akbar was a despot. He was a man jealous of his power, and exercised it. So I think what interested me was to write about that conflict in him: between the self that was disputatious and open-minded and the other self that didn't want anyone to argue with him. Of course he tried so hard to break down the barriers between the peoples of India — the barriers created by their different belief systems. And I think it's a heroic action. I do think Akbar's project is admirable, but there are limits to it.

There's a story which shows the possible limits of such a project. The story is that the court musician Tansen created a raga, which was the Raga of Fire, and he sang it so beautifully that his skin began to burn. At the end of the music there were burns on his body. So Akbar said to him, “Go home, rest, get well,” so he went back to Gwalior to rest and recover, and in Gwalior he met two girls called Tana and Riri who were famous for the beauty of their singing. And they sang to him the megh malhar, the Song of the Rain. And the rain fell, and it was magic rain, and washed away his burns. So the Emperor, hearing this story, astonished, invited these girls to the court so that he could celebrate them. The problem was that these were Hindu girls from a Hindu family, and they did not wish to go to the court of a Muslim king. And yet the girls felt that, if they were to refuse to go, the king would be angry and there would be reprisals against their family. They didn't know how to say yes, nor did they know how to say no, and so they committed suicide.

And it just struck me, if you were the kind of king who thought that the borders could be broken down, what a shock it must be to discover that there are people who would sooner die than buy into that project. And it seemed to me that that was the limit — that's why I'm saying it's not idealistic. And we have to recognise that and see why that is and what comes out of that.

GV: There is one strand of thought, especially in India, where Akbar is held as a proto-secular syncretic figure. Amartya Sen's book The Argumentative Indian makes the strong claim that the diffusion of argumentative traditions in Indian life cut across social classes and shaped the Indian social world and culture. He even goes so far as to link argumentation to the development of democracy. Would you go in that direction?

SR: Far be it for me to argue with Amartya Sen…but why not? Sen uses Ashoka and Akbar as early examples of the development of a kind of Indian intellectual tradition which he espouses and values, and which he offers as an intrinsically Indian tradition, not something imported from the outside. And the idea that this kind of open, disputatious, secularist principle can be discovered inside the Indian tradition, rather than outside it, is of course important. But the problem with selecting a couple of exemplars and saying “This is what the Indian tradition comes from” immediately makes one want to say that there are opposite examples. Why is Akbar the model and not Aurangzeb? Why is it that the 50 years of tolerance, of the reign of Akbar, should be the model, rather than the 50 years of oppression and violence under Aurangzeb, only three kings down the line? Ashoka and Akbar are both enormously impressive figures. And yes, it's perfectly right to try to derive from them an Indian tradition that one would want to have. But the reason I resist doing only that is that there is also a counter-tradition: there is a tradition of Muslim oppression of Hindus and of Hindu oppression of Muslims, and of the unwillingness of those two sides to compromise and get along, and that's unfortunately part of the tradition too. And that's not only about India, that's true anywhere you look. You always have to recognise that there is a counterexample. It's very difficult to write novels and only be on one side of the fence.

GV: You depict Akbar's vision of new intellectual and religious pluralism, but certainly it's dispiriting to reach the end of the novel and see that vision disintegrate. It's an extremely bleak sense of the very possibility that Akbar had worked so hard to achieve in his life.

SR: It is bleak, but look at the world we live in. I don't want to be singing some happy song while people are slitting each others' throats and throwing bombs at each other all over the place. We live in a harsh world. We don't live in a world of tolerance and happiness and music and dance. We live in a world of death and bombs and suspicion and hatred and distrust.

GV: Do you think there is some kind of perfect order or world that resists being represented in your imagination?

SR: No. I have no utopian tendencies.




Of debates and conversations:Gauri Viswanathan with Salman Rushdie.

GV: But you do have a sense of alternative political futures?

SR: Oh yes. I'm saying I believe in the argument. Also, if you are by nature satirical in your imagination, it's easy to see what you don't like. I'm good at seeing what I don't like. It's much, much harder to work out what you do like. And often you can be wrong about the things you think you do like.

GV: Shalimar the Clown offers a terrifying glimpse into the world of religious extremism, which plays on minds and hearts tortured by longing and betrayal to serve its own violent purposes. And yet, in your hauntingly lyrical portrait of Kashmir, the counterpoint to religious extremism is not necessarily secularism but religion restored to a more expansive and inclusive practice.

SR: Yes, exactly. I think many people my age who have any knowledge not just of India, but of other parts of the Muslim world, can remember another idea of Islam which had, more or less, nothing to do with what walks around the world calling itself Islam nowadays, in which it was okay to argue about things and talk freely and live at peace with other people. And it wasn't perfect, because none of us are perfect, but it was possible. And I remember my parents' generation — I remember growing up in that world of people who were in many cases devout Muslims. My grandfather went on the Hajj to Mecca, he said his prayers five times a day every day of his life, and his grandchildren, being grandchildren, would make horrible fun of him and ask him why he spent so much time with his bottom higher than his head. And instead of getting cross with us, he would laugh at us and encourage us to come and have a talk about it.

I remember the Sufi Islam of Kashmir, and the way in which that Islam was affected by its contiguity with Hinduism, and the way in which the Hinduism of Kashmir was affected by its proximity to that Islam. Something interesting and rich developed in Kashmir, a composite culture that was neither completely Hindu nor completely Muslim. And for a while it worked. And now it has been destroyed, and I think the loss of it is a thing to grieve over, not only in Kashmir but in many places of the Muslim world.

Yes, in that novel, I tried to write about that other (to my mind) more beautiful approach to the world. And yes, you're right that the answer to religion is not “No religion”, but another way of thinking about the religion, another way of being in the religion. In The Enchantress of Florence, one of the characters is asked by Akbar, just before he has his head chopped off, what his idea of paradise is, since he's on his way there. And he says, “In Paradise, the words ‘religion' and ‘ argument' mean the same thing, and there is no suppression in religion.”

GV: If I can just stay on Shalimar the Clowna little longer — the social ostracism and violent death of your central female protagonist, Boonyi Kaul, are among the most memorable parts of the novel, in fact, among the most memorable passages I've read anywhere in your work. You wrote in a New York Timesop-ed piece, in December 2005, “Multiculturalism has all too often become mere cultural relativism, under cover of which much that is reactionary and oppressive of women, for example, can be justified.” And you referred to a couple of notorious cases of women — Imrana in India, Mukhtar Mai in Pakistan — women who were very brutally victimised by their religious communities. But the object of your critique in this article is not just the religious authorities and judicial systems that defer to them in India and Pakistan, but also the international community that refuses to get involved, saying “Oh it's their culture, and it has to be respected even if it offends us.”

The question of relativism is a very interesting one in your work: it seems to work for you when it comes to resisting a single origin from which all things and beings derive. But you draw the line when it comes to saying that cultural difference cancels out a single standard of justice.

SR: I don't know how unfashionable this is, but I think there are universals. I think there are things that are universally true and I think there are such things as universal rights. They are not culturally specific, in my view. The argument made by relativists is that it is culturally specific to argue that there are universals. I think there are other ways of approaching it.

One way of approaching it is to say that there are things which are essential to our nature as human beings, wherever in the world we come from. To go back to what I was saying about Ibn Rush'd, one of those essential characteristics that we all share is the characteristic of language. We are a language animal which always, from the beginning, has used language in order to understand itself, and in order to define and shape the kind of creature that it is. So then, if you begin to restrict, limit, forbid, circumscribe how language can be used, you are committing an offense which is not culturally specific: you are committing an existential offense. We have to be allowed to use language to understand ourselves. Therefore, to defend the freedom of language as a universal human right is justifiable not by appeal to this or that cultural tradition but simply to the biology of the beast.

So it seems to me that it is possible in this way to argue for the universality of certain rights. We are a dreaming animal. We live very richly through things that we imagine. Were it not for the capacity of imagination, there would be very little progress in human rights, in human existence. All through human history, imagination precedes reality, and things move constantly from the border — through the border — between imagination and reality. What starts as a dream becomes reality. So again, to start restricting our ability to dream and envision, and to tell us that there are things we can dream about, and other things that are bad dreams, which we must not have — it's a crime against humanity.

I think relativism is the dangerous death of liberalism. If you will justify anything that anybody does because it comes from their tradition, it means you abdicate your moral sense and you cease to be a moral being. Going back to the article you mentioned which talks about the question of women, if you were to take religion away as the justification, nobody would tolerate that for a minute. The kinds of limitations that women have been placed under and the crimes against women in the name of religion are so profound, and yet somehow people don't get as agitated about them as when the same things are done by somebody who wasn't using God as the reason. That seems like nonsense to me.

source: literary review the hindu

dear planeteers!
i can't describe to what extent my happiness is because of my subscription in that precious channel; i'm really very fond of English literature, especially, drama. so, i'm trying to get M.A degree in drama field, but unfortunately, i find some obstacles in getting very important books which i'm in a bad need of. these books are: Wendy Wasserstein: dramatizing women, their choices and their boundaries. by Gail Ciociola. and Wendy Wasserstein: a casebook. by Claudia Barnett in order to help me a lot in writing my thesis topic. i trust your help inshaallah! thank you all.

june 13, 2010


INDU BALACHANDRAN


If spelling was always your bête noire, meet the stars of the Spelling Bee contest held recently at Washington D.C to get a glimpse of their prowess…




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Perhaps you'd better start watching Spelling Bee too if you'd like to keep up with mere school kids...


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Can you spell ‘omphaloskepsis'? Or ‘hydrargyrum'? If you happened to be an Indian-American school kid being raised in the US, you probably would.

Last year I watched 12 year old Kavya Shivashankar confidently spell out, letter by letter: “L-A-O-D-I-C-E-A-N” and after a moment's deafening silence, heard an eruption of applause. Kavya had won the USA Spelling Bee 2009 championship before a world-wide live TV audience, which included myself. (And I learnt a new word that day; though I am still waiting for the right opportunity, perhaps at a party, to stun people by casually saying ‘Oh, I feel rather laodicean about politics' – which I hope you know means ‘luke-warm or indifferent') .

Siblings revel


And now there's a sibling too. Apparently the Shivashankar household in Kansas has bred one more word-genius, and she can spell ‘axalotl' as easily as you can spell fish (now don't say you didn't know axalotl is a kind of fish.) Well Vanya does, and she is—just hold your breath—only eight! And the youngest in this year's contest.

And while I admit I am bit of a chatterbox, only a Spelling Bee winner could possibly have described my compulsive talkativeness as logorrhoea, and what's more spell it correctly too. As young Nupur Lala did at the finals some years ago—making me permanently hooked to this annual blood-less sport which is even covered by ESPN.

Well, I have something to tell all those proud parents and kids who can go from ‘herniorrhaphy' to ‘deipnosophist' to ‘iliopsoas' without any feeling of ‘amarevole' ( I think that last word means a tinge of sadness. Perhaps you'd better start watching Spelling Bee too if you'd like to keep up with mere school kids, and me…). I would like to say that there's one speller that can fox even a Spelling Bee champ, and that is Spell-Check on our computers.

Because the Spell-Check—which nastily underlines every mispelt word with a red curly-wurly line (hey, it just underlined the word mispelt itself! Sorry, should that have been misspelled?)—can correct words like no 11-year old school kid can.

Mr Spell-Check is a vigilant fellow and among the things he really hates are Indian names. He is quick to underline a potential mistake, and then gives us helpful suggestions so that even our names can be corrected to good, pure American English.

Look what happened when I tried to email a person named Raghu Manikam, who, my pal told me, would help me find a really good driver for my brand new Hyundai car.

Dear Mr Raghu Manikam, I typed. Immediately the curly wurly lines appeared. So out of curiosity I clicked Spell-Check. Well Raghu got corrected to Rogue and Manikam led to Maniac. You can bet I abandoned that letter at once as I didn't want any kind of rogue maniac driving me around.

Alarmed at what Spell-Check was trying to do to our glorious Indian names, I tried a few more… Next to me was a film magazine with the cheesiest picture of Mallika Sherawat. So I randomly typed out Mallika—and guess what Spell-Check had to say? You're not going to believe this: ‘Man-like'. Ha! Anything but, you may argue…

Just then my pal Shobha called. “Shobha” I typed on my comp, even as I began speaking with her. Swiftly came the corrected spelling on the screen before me: “Hey Shobs!” I interrupted her. “Do you know you are actually a ‘Cobra'?” I don't think Shobha was amused at all. More surprises, or should I say more character assassinations happened, as I typed all my dear pals names. Priya was ‘Prey' and Shyam unfortunately was ‘Shame'. Radhika was declared ‘Radical' and Pratibha was a ‘Pariah''.

More blasphemy followed as my good-natured pal Sadhana turned up as ‘Satan', and my trusted friend Chetan came out as ‘Cheat'. And my gregarious, nutty cousin Sudha was inexplicably corrected to Buddha.

Turn to the bard


At last some favourable matches came along, as my sea-crazy sister Shuba was ‘Scuba' and my clever pal Nitya was ‘Nifty'. And Suguna, considering her laid-back lifestyle, came out appropriately as ‘Sauna'.

Meanwhile think what the Americans could have done to set right Shakespeare and all his weird spellings. If only Spell-Check had been invented in 1600! He couldn't have got away with “ Thou villaine Capulet. Hold me not, let me go

Thou shalt not stir a foote to seeke a Foe” ( Tragedie of Romeo and Juliet)

But even the good old Bard was honest to admit that spellings and punctuation were not his forte.

I know, because I just tried out an anagram of his name.

William Shakespeare re-arranged becomes “I am a weakish speller'.

Aha!

Indu Balachandran is a travel and humour columnist for leading magazines.

E-mail: indubee8@yahoo.co.in

source: the hindu

june 6th, 2010


JAI ARJUN SINGH


Rahul Mehta's Quarantine is much more than ‘gay fiction'. It is about the fragility of human relationships…




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Quarantine, Rahul Mehta, Random House, 2010, Rs. 359.


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In a marketing-driven time, it's inevitable that books come with convenient tags attached. They have to be neatly categorised because most readers looking at back-jackets in a cluttered bookstore need a clear sense of what a book “is about”. It also helps to stress that so-and-so book is a first of its kind, or that it deals with an uncommon subject.

Given these compulsions, it isn't surprising that Rahul Mehta's fine short-story collection Quarantine was being promoted, months before its release, primarily as a book about homosexual relationships. This isn't inaccurate — Mehta, a US-based lecturer, is gay himself and his fiction is peopled by gay men — but it would be a mistake to put these stories into a box marked “Gay Fiction”. It's true that they open a window to worlds that are often closed to heterosexual readers, but it's also true that in a more general sense they are about lonely people and fractured relationships. They touch on perceptions of gender roles and responsibilities and show the many little ways in which even “conventional” family lives can become bleak and uncaring — as in the story “The Better Person”, where the falling apart of a marriage is contrasted with the similar trajectory of a gay relationship.

Sensitive portrayals


Particularly notable are Mehta's finely etched portrayals of elderly people. In the title story, an old man's quarantine — the result of an unexpected attack of tuberculosis — becomes a metaphor for his isolation, but even before his illness we are told he lived for years in the basement of his son's house in America — a space so cut off from the rest of the house that his grandchildren come to call it “Little India”. We are well-prepared, then, for the moving passage where the unhappy old man briefly comes alive during a visit to a Hare Krishna commune, and then pleads like a child to be allowed to stay behind.

In “Citizen”, a widow named Ranjan spends exactly three months in a year with each of her four US-based children, so that she comes to associate each season with a particular house. But she's really living in her own interior world — she can't concentrate on a DVD she has to watch to prepare for a citizenship exam because her mind is travelling oceans and decades, and Mehta shows us her perspective on things that others around her take for granted. (“Too many vocal flourishes,” she thinks to herself when she hears Whitney Houston sing, “as though the notes were flowers and she were a butterfly unable to settle.” To her, Lata Mangeshkar is a real singer, and a real woman.) And in “A Better Life”, a woman named Lala lives in the US for decades without ever really learning English; the wordless communication she establishes with the story's protagonist — a young gay man named Sanj — is one of the highlights of this collection.

In many of these stories, the lives of a gay narrator and his boyfriend intersect the lives of these other characters. But the most direct and candid account of a romantic relationship occurs in “Ten Thousand Years”, which is about the estrangement between two lovers from the point where the narrator's boyfriend confesses — over a long-distance phone call — to having cheated on him. Their subsequent interactions — marked by hurt, betrayal, recriminations and even a sarcastically told story about Ravana doing a millennia-spanning penance to Lord Shiva — are an eye-opener for anyone who might patronisingly have thought that gay relationships were mainly about the physical act; that emotional tumult didn't figure in them.

Out of sync


The overall effect of Quarantine is slightly diluted by two stories that are different in tone: the rhythmical “The Cure”, in which a young man starts burning currency notes after a reminder of the gross unfairness of the world, and “What We Mean”, about a narrator obsessed with wordplay. These are more wry and playful than the others, and while they hold up well in their own right, one doesn't really get the sense that they should have been in this particular collection. However, that won't matter if you read them as standalone stories.

“Being gay forced me early on to question one of the most fundamental aspects of who I am,” Mehta said in an interview to this paper last month. “Naturally that led me to ask bigger questions about everything around me.” It's a cliché, perhaps a stereotype, to think of gay people as particularly “sensitive”. But another way of looking at it could be that people who have been marginalised in some way by society tend to have a high level of empathy for those who have been marginalised in other ways. The whole of Quarantine is there to suggest this. Personal dislocation is a theme that runs through this aptly named book, and Mehta's chief strength lies in how he puts us in the minds of people who frequently ask themselves questions like “Why am I here?” and “How did I end up in this place?”

source: literary review the hindu

june 6th, 2010


KANKANA BASU


Death and food entwine constantly in this collection of nine stories ranging from the macabre to the hilarious.




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Eating Women Telling Tales, Bulbul Sharma, Penguin/Zubaan, Rs. 295.


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Author Bulbul Sharma is no stranger to readers, her exquisite illustrations, mountain stories and kiddie fiction having enthralled many an avid reader in the past. In Eating Women Telling Tales, she shifts focus to the business of eating and preparing traditional food while simultaneously spinning enchanting yarns around the cooking fires. Death and food entwine constantly in this collection of nine stories which range from the macabre to the hilarious, with many a poignant pause in between. Unabashedly women-centric in her stance, Sharma's women are lean, mean, lusty, busty, pure, evil, feisty and fun. The men, in contrast, are weak, senile, impotent, chauvinistic and dim-witted (save a few) and the author is sure to win brownie points with ardent feminists all over the world.

A group of women sit down companionably to cook a funeral feast and an Arabian nights-like tableau is set for the stories to unfurl. As each women narrates an incident from her personal reservoir of experiences, we learn about the rickshaw ride across grassy meadows (to meet a god-man) that ends in disaster for the mother-in-law daughter-in-law duo, about the goat that got away and the promiscuous frustrated wife who thinks nothing of leaping over the terrace wall to spend the night with a virile neighbour. Afterlife looms large in these stories and the author creates a place of mists, ether and eternal twilight where the dead, though insubstantial, have their egos and tempers intact and are not above a spot of petty celestial squabbling with fellow spirits (as in the case of the dead wives Choti and Munni).

Lovable


The women here are far from perfect but the reader's sympathies remain unwavering, so much so that when the timid Nanni reaches the threshold of tolerance and decides to kill her husband with food, food and more food, one can only cheer her on. The quietest and the most touching story in this collection is the one in which the elderly judge, Banurai Jog, takes a walk in his garden. Among the flowers and herbs growing in the wooded silence and from the words of the malihe conjures up the personality of his neglected shadowy (and now dead) wife.

The funniest story is undoubtedly the one in which relatives from all over the globe gather for the shraadh ceremony of their mother. The family lunch, with a long line of curries varying in colour and potency (to suit the digestive requirements of the NRI guests), leads to hidden grievances simmering over with some hilarious consequences.

A recurring thread in this tapestry of tales is the loneliness of parents left back home and their desperate attempts to connect with a generation settled abroad. Jamini's attempts to woo her U.S.-returned, calorie-and-hygiene conscious son with choice foods are heart-breaking. The delicately described yearly visits by the diaspora when they look at childhood homes with different eyes — noticing dust, grime and naked bulbs — ring disturbingly true. Sharma weaves a bleak picture of an ever-widening rift (physical and emotional) between the two generations which, irrevocably, is doomed to reach a point of no-return.

Subtle commentary


Though the writing is simple, direct and devoid of complicated techniques, there is a subtle social commentary running all through. Deftly, without appearing to do so, Sharma sketches the social hierarchy existing in village life and unveils the fact that though rustic life may appear male-dominated and chauvinistic, from under the surface it is women who call the shots. The author is unafraid to explore the deepest cracks and crevices of human relationships (specially women-to-women ones) and does so with the tenacity and the determination of a white ant. Her innate love of nature bursts through in places as she describes gardens, meadows, orchards and seasons with vivid imagery.

Food, tackled in various (and unexpected) ways, runs like the common ingredient salt through every story. Each chapter begins with a charming line-and-dot illustration which we presume have been rendered by the author, who is known to be a talented artist. This slim collection of stories is quite like a methodical cook's masala tray, each ingredient and spice in its proper slot. The book is best devoured in bite-sized pieces, to catch and savour the finer flavours. Each story retains its unique flavour while contributing to the main dish and the main dish, need we say, is a veritable feast for the senses?

source: literary view the hindu

june 6th, 2010


SHEILA KUMAR


Nothing overly sentimental about this girl's life.




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The book is about growing up and part of that territory includes self-doubt, conflicted emotions about the slots we occupy in life.


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Kite Strings; Andaleeb Wajid, Cedar Books, Rs. 175


This is the young writer Andaleeb Wajid's first novel and after you read it, your predominant feeling is that Kite Strings deserves a better editor. Mistakes mark the book, ranging from small typos to glaring grammatical errors but here's the thing: they don't mar the book. Which leads this reviewer to fall back on that old cliché, of Wajid's story being a small gem of a tale, somewhat begrimed but still shining through.

Wajid's work is a slice of life, a Muslim slice-of-life in particular. Set in Bangalore, with much of the emotional drivers placed in an old house in Vellore, Kite Strings is the story of young Mehnaz who is both the catalyst of and observer to all that befalls her immediate family. Mehnaz's world is peopled by a mere handful of individuals but each and every one of them leaves some kind of impact on her. She goes to school, then college, fighting with her somewhat conservative mother to not wear a burkha at both the educational institutions. She wins that fight but there's no rush of triumph here; she is pragmatic enough to know some of the bigger battles waiting round the corner could well be lost.

Family ties

On a terrace in Vellore, to which place Mehnaz and family return often and on, a small romance unfolds, full of potential but then, stops at the very verge of becoming a full-blown one. Mehnaz loves her father unconditionally, has a somewhat complicated relationship with her mother even though that, too, is underpinned with affection; she is negligent then sorry about her relationships with others, be it her brother Mateen, the young household help Aasia or her cousin Rehana. Ammi's approval is the undercurrent that informs the narrative throughout, in a very credible manner.

If Mehnaz is impatient of the unseen but very much felt kite strings that tether the girl to a stolid foundation, it is just that and not much more…the impatience every young girl on the threshold of life and love feels. It doesn't turn to rebellion for Mehnaz only because she is firmly grounded in her feelings for her family, her concern for their well-being and actually, her unusually (for such a young girl) clear-headed thinking. There is no existentialist angst, in itself refreshing in a story about a girl coming to terms with all that life holds in waiting for her.

A little lost

Either through editorial indifference or because the author wanted it so, several terms exclusive to Mehnaz's world, the different azans, the typical festival foodstuffs, are all italicised but left unexplained. Which actually, isn't too bad a device. Again, the story never really moves too far from Mehnaz's milieu, which again, is good.

This is no account of someone breaking free from the hijab-burkha-purdah shackles. It would be easy for the reader to read more into the story of Mehnaz but clearly, Wajid does not intend this to be a ‘ freedom-at-21' tale. Through Kite Strings, the reader gets a glimpse into the lives of a small clutch of Lababin Muslims from Tamil Nadu. To repudiate that this is a Muslim story would be to repudiate the very essence of Kite Strings. However, it is more than just a story about a set of Muslims. Substantially more.


Photo: By Special Arrangement

Courageous steps: Andaleeb Wajid.

Wakjid's style is fancy-free, direct. At some point, Ammi asks Mehnaz: “When will you learn which things in life are important, Mehnaz?” Well, we think Mehnaz, whom we have come to like, is doing just fine.


I am Andaleeb, a writer

I 'm grateful, as a first-time author, for any attention my book garners. Having said that, I am flabbergasted when I meet with questions like: why didn't you write this book in Urdu? How come you wear a burkha? There seems to be a big disconnect between my work and my personal appearance.

Agreed, Mehnaz, the heroine in my Kite Strings is a Muslim girl, someone who has nascent rebellious feelings against the veil and all it implies. But Mehnaz isn't me. I wear the hijab all the time when I am in public. I am comfortable with my headdress. It doesn't escape me however that often, others become a bit uncomfortable when they see me in hijab.

Why? I'm just another working woman, mother of two small children, juggling home, kids and writing, it's just that I wear the hijab. Is that really such a big deal?

Actually, Mehnaaz is not a rebel...the book is about growing up and part of that territory includes self -doubt, conflicted emotions about the slots we occupy in life.

I finished Kite Strings in 2005 and then the hunt for a publisher began. Thirteen rejections and some major editing later, I was ready to shelve the book for a while. Only for a while, mind you; somewhere inside I believed it to be a good book and was resolved to even do the rounds of publishers all over again, after a brief hiatus.

Then I found Cedar Publishers and they published the book. Most people who have read it have liked it. I'm glad but I do want to tell readers that I am not Mehnaz, my protagonist. I did my schooling in a convent, I come from a fairly liberal background, I have the most supportive of parents, husband and in-laws. I never had and still don't have to do much explaining or justifying for my background, the way I dress or behave. Yes, I too had doubts about the burkha when I was younger. I used to wear Western wear to college, but very rarely. I don't miss it and I don't wear it at home either. I don't think there is anything wrong with it, just that it's out of my comfort zone now. I hope that people like me will bring about a change in the common perception that the hijab or burkha oppresses you.

I do have a problem when my book gets slotted into the ‘chick lit' or ‘young adult fiction' category. It is the story of a young woman standing on the threshold of life and love and in my opinion, it cuts through categories.

As for the undeniable fact that some people tend to judge me by my clothing: well, I dress this way because I want to. In my teens, I did go through a period where I found the burkha restricting. Some years ago, I enrolled for a class in Islamic studies and part of my evolution, spiritual and physical, was the total and complete acceptance of the hijab. Now, this is who I am, this is what I wear. It is part of me.

Today, I am in a happy place. I am very comfortable with who I am, comfortable in my skin, with my religious identity. I get comments on my website from Muslims, saying they are proud of me. That makes me a tad uncomfortable because I really did not set out to be any kind of role model. I'm just me, Andaleeb, a writer.

source: literary review the hindu

sunday may 30, 2010

Snigdha Jain takes a look at a love story doomed from the beginning

Flickering Hope
Author:Sharat Sabharwal
Publisher: Rupa
Price: Rs 295

Set against the backdrop of the magnificent Parisian skyline, this novel is nothing short of a romantic’s most heartfelt wish to read about tragic love. Not tragic in the Aristotlean sense but tragic in the sense that the reader is able to empathise, if not sympathise, with the characters. Having chosen the Indian Foreign Service as a vocation, Sharat Sabharwal draws richly and expertly from his travel experiences. From the onset we are immediately drawn into the novel and, as the pages are turned, the web of secrecy and expectations of the reader increases manifold. A feeling of mystery pervades the first half of the book where bit by bit the pieces of the puzzle fall together. Progressing further we are drawn into a rich past. Exquisite descriptions furnished with intricate details transport the reader to Paris. The central character is Lalit, torn between two worlds — his familial duty calls him to India but his heart is enamoured with Emillie, a beautiful and enigmatic Parisian. We see the journey of these two people’s love through Lalit’s eyes only, Emillie being presented to us through his perspective. The imagery of the city is so captivating that one cannot help but feel that one is walking down the Champs élysées or drinking a soothing coffee along any of the numerous roadside cafés in Paris, visiting popular tourist spots or simply experiencing the magic of Christmas.

Interspaced among the narrative are vignettes which provide insight into the character’s persona. The characters are etched in the reader’s memory and the emotional anguish and turmoil the characters suffer seem like one’s own. The brutal simplicity with which life’s romantic experiences are lived is what strikes home. The appeal of the novel lies in its ability to transcend borders. The cultural ties between India and France are subtly explored through the struggle of the two protagonists to be with each other against all odds.

As clichéd as that may sound, there is more to this book than meets the eye. Apart from exploring the emotional tow that comes with cross-cultural love, we are also introduced to a bigger question: What is life? How is life fair if one is always subject to tragedies? Is there a higher power? If so, then why does misfortune knock at our doors and refuses to leave? The age old debated matter of ‘Is there a God?’ is a sub-theme which is brilliantly infused into the story. In fact, this matter forces the reader to ponder upon the frailty of human life and how we perceive it. While Sharat Sabharwal is a master at evoking empathy from the reader, there is something to be noted here. The culmination of the entire series of events set in motion from the beginning leave the reader shocked when the pinnacle of the novel is reached. Nothing is said or done before that prepares the reader for such a turn of events. To say the ending is abrupt is perhaps not giving due respect to the author, but one can’t help but feel disoriented. Perhaps this is the effect that the author wished to induce. The ending is a tragic culmination of the love of two people who have been through arduous obstacles to come together in the face of a seemingly invincible adversary. Towards the end of the novel the tension builds up, senses are heightened and heartbeats quicken as the urge to know what happens next sweeps over the reader. To know how this page turner ends, pick up the book and give it a read; chances are you won’t be disappointed.

source: dailypioneer

View from the other side


ABDULLAH KHAN


A remarkable novel that presents the Palestinian perspective.








Mornings in Jenin; Susan Abulhawa; Bloomsbury; £ 11.99

The creation of Israel, for Jews, was the fulfilment of 3000 years of yearnings for a Jewish homeland. For Palestinians, it was El Nakba, the catastrophe, which rendered them homeless and forced them, to live in perpetual misery. The Jewish version of the Israel-Palestine story has found a place in English fiction umpteen times; the most popular being Exodusby Leon Uris, a book that generated a huge wave of sympathy in the U.S. for Israel. But there was no novel of mass appeal originally written in English, from the Palestinian perspective until Susan Abulhawa decided to write one.

The catastrophe


Mornings in Jenin opens in 1941 and centres on a Palestinian family, the Abulhejas, a happy farming family in a picturesque and serene village named Ein Hod near Haifa.

But their happiness comes to an abrupt end with the birth of Israel seven years later, as they are forcibly evicted from the land of their forefathers and made to live in a refugee camp in Jenin.

In Jenin, Amal Abulheja, the chief protagonist, is born. With her, we embark on a journey through the tumultuous history of post-1948 Palestine.

In between, we also witness the personal losses Amal suffers: her father goes away never to return, her mother becomes insane, her husband is killed in a bombing, her sister-in-law and niece are slaughtered during a massacre and much more.

When the journey ends after 325 pages, we are left wondering: How can someone be so brutal to his fellow human beings? How can the victims of a Holocaust metamorphose into the instigators of a catastrophe? How do some people not lose their humanity even in times of extreme adversity?

Of course, the book is a work of fiction but the events, from the forceful dispossession of Palestinians in 1948 to the killings at the Sabra and Shatila refugee camps in 1982, are facts and many real people inhabit this story of heartbreak, exile, and human tragedy.

What struck me most is the honesty of the author's voice. Despite being born to Palestinian refugees of the Six Day War of 1967, she has tried hard not to let her personal feelings fill the text. All individual Jewish characters are portrayed in sympathetic light. Nowhere in the story has she lost the touch of humanity.

Another bright aspect of Susan's writing is her ornamental use of language in the tradition of contemporary Arabic writing. For instance, here is a taste of the opening paragraph from the chapter, ‘‘The Harvest'':

In a distant time, before history marched over the hills and shattered present and future, before wind grabbed the land at one corner and shook it of its name and character, before Amal was born, a small village east of Haifa lived quietly on figs and olives, open frontiers and sunshine.

In the nutshell, a remarkable novel, which will help us understand the Israel-Palestine conflict better.

source: literary review the hindu

Introduction
Literary forms
Old English, Middle English and Chaucer
Tudor lyric poetry
Renaissance drama
Metaphysical poetry
Epic poetry
Restoration comedy
Prose fiction and the novel
Romanticism
Victorian poetry
The Victorian novel
Modern literature
Writers outside mainstream movements
Literature and culture
Recent and future trends
Evaluating literature
Add to this page--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Introduction

This study guide is intended for GCE Advanced and Advanced Supplementary (A2 and AS) level students in the UK, who are taking exams or modules in English
literature. It should be most useful right at the start of the course, or later as a resource for exercises in revision, and to help you reflect on value
judgements in literary criticism. It may also be suitable for university students and the general reader who is interested in the history of literature.
This guide reflects a view of literature which is sometimes described as canonical, and sometimes as a Dead White European Male view. That is, I have not
especially sought to express my own value judgements but to reflect those which are commonly found in printed guides by judges whose views command more
respect than mine.

I hope that students who visit this page will take issue with the summary comments here, or discuss them with their peers. But young readers will not thank
teachers for leaving them in the dark about established critical opinion or the canon of English literature. (If you doubt that there is a canon, look
at the degree course structure for English literature in a selection of our most prestigious universities.) Students who recognize that they have little
or no sense of English literary culture have often asked me to suggest texts for them to study - this guide may help them in this process. This is NOT
a tutorial, in the sense of a close reading of any text. And it is not very interesting to read from start to finish. I hope, rather, that it will be used
as a point of reference or way in to literature for beginners. You will soon see if it is not for you.

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And while I have made a selection from the many authors who deserve study, I have throughout presented them in a chronogical sequence. At the end I consider
briefly questions of genre and literary value. I have not attempted to record the achivements of writers in other languages, though these include some
of the greatest and most influential writers of all time, such as Dante Alighieri, Leo Tolstoy, Franz Kafka and Bertolt Brecht. Happily, examiners of Advanced
level literature have allowed students, in recent years, to study these foreign authors, in translation, in independent extended literary studies.

Please use the hyperlinks in the table above to navigate this page. If you have any comments or suggestions to make about this page, please
e-mail me
by clicking on this link.

The typographic conventions of this page are red for emphasis and the names of authors when first mentioned, and when they appear outside of the section
which relates to their historic period. Brown type is used in place of italic for titles of works. The screen fonts display in such a way that neither
true italic nor bold are very pleasant to read. If you find the text size too small, you can increase it, using the text size item in the view menu of
your browser.

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Literary forms

Literary forms such as the novel or lyric poem, or genres, such as the horror-story, have a history. In one sense, they appear because they have not been
thought of before, but they also appear, or become popular for other cultural reasons, such as the absence or emergence of literacy. In studying the history
of literature (or any kind of art), you are challenged to consider

list of 3 items
• what constitutes a given form,
• how it has developed, and
• whether it has a future.
list end

The novels of the late Catherine Cookson may have much in common with those of Charlotte Brontë, but is it worth mimicking in the late 20th century, what
was ground-breaking in the 1840s? While Brontë examines what is contemporary for her, Miss Cookson invents an imagined past which may be of interest to
the cultural historian in studying the present sources of her nostalgia, but not to the student of the period in which her novels are set. Daniel Defoe's
Robinson Crusoe is a long work of prose fiction, but critics do not necessarily describe it as a novel. Why might this be? Knowing works in their historical
context does not give easy answers, but may shed more or less light on our darkness in considering such questions.

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Old English, Middle English and Chaucer
Old English

English, as we know it, descends from the language spoken by the north Germanic tribes who settled in England from the 5th century A.D. onwards. They had
no writing (except runes, used as charms) until they learned the Latin alphabet from Roman missionaries. The earliest written works in Old English (as
their language is now known to scholars) were probably composed orally at first, and may have been passed on from speaker to speaker before being written.
We know the names of some of the later writers (Cædmon, Ælfric and King Alfred) but most writing is anonymous. Old English literature is mostly chronicle
and poetry - lyric, descriptive but chiefly narrative or epic. By the time literacy becomes widespread, Old English is effectively a foreign and dead language.
And its forms do not significantly affect subsequent developments in English literature. (With the scholarly exception of the 19th century poet, Gerard
Manley Hopkins, who finds in Old English verse the model for his metrical system of "sprung rhythm".)

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Middle English and Chaucer

From 1066 onwards, the language is known to scholars as Middle English. Ideas and themes from French and Celtic literature appear in English writing at
about this time, but the first great name in English literature is that of Geoffrey Chaucer (?1343-1400). Chaucer introduces the iambic pentameter line,
the rhyming couplet and other rhymes used in Italian poetry (a language in which rhyming is arguably much easier than in English, thanks to the frequency
of terminal vowels). Some of Chaucer's work is prose and some is lyric poetry, but his greatest work is mostly narrative poetry, which we find in Troilus
and Criseyde and The Canterbury Tales. Other notable mediaeval works are the anonymous Pearl and Gawain and the Green Knight (probably by the same author)
and William Langlands' Piers Plowman.

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Tudor lyric poetry

Modern lyric poetry in English begins in the early 16th century with the work of Sir Thomas Wyatt (1503-1542) and Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey (1517-1547).
Wyatt, who is greatly influenced by the Italian, Francesco Petrarca (Petrarch) introduces the sonnet and a range of short lyrics to English, while Surrey
(as he is known) develops unrhymed pentameters (or blank verse) thus inventing the verse form which will be of great use to contemporary dramatists. A
flowering of lyric poetry in the reign of Elizabeth comes with such writers as Sir Philip Sidney (1554-1586), Edmund Spenser (1552-1599), Sir Walter Ralegh
(1552-1618), Christopher Marlowe (1564-1593) and William Shakespeare (1564-1616). The major works of the time are Spenser's Faerie Queene, Sidney's Astrophil
and Stella and Shakespeare's sonnets.

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Renaissance drama

The first great English dramatist is Marlowe. Before the 16th century English drama meant the amateur performances of Bible stories by craft guilds on public
holidays. Marlowe's plays (Tamburlaine; Dr. Faustus; Edward II and The Jew of Malta) use the five act structure and the medium of blank verse, which Shakespeare
finds so productive. Shakespeare develops and virtually exhausts this form, his Jacobean successors producing work which is rarely performed today, though
some pieces have literary merit, notably The Duchess of Malfi and The White Devil by John Webster (1580-1625) and The Revenger's Tragedy by Cyril Tourneur
(1575-1626). The excessive and gratuitous violence of Jacobean plays leads to the clamour for closing down the theatres, which is enacted by parliament
after the Civil war.

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Metaphysical poetry

The greatest of Elizabethan lyric poets is John Donne (1572-1631), whose short love poems are characterized by wit and irony, as he seeks to wrest meaning
from experience. The preoccupation with the big questions of love, death and religious faith marks out Donne and his successors who are often called metaphysical
poets. (This name, coined by Dr. Samuel Johnson in an essay of 1779, was revived and popularized by T.S. Eliot, in an essay of 1921. It can be unhelpful
to modern students who are unfamiliar with this adjective, and who are led to think that these poets belonged to some kind of school or group - which is
not the case.) After his wife's death, Donne underwent a serious religious conversion, and wrote much fine devotional verse. The best known of the other
metaphysicals are George Herbert (1593-1633), Andrew Marvell (1621-1678) and Henry Vaughan (1621-1695).

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Epic poetry

Long narrative poems on heroic subjects mark the best work of classical Greek (Homer's Iliad and Odyssey) and Roman (Virgil's Æneid) poetry. John Milton
(1608-1674) who was Cromwell's secretary, set out to write a great biblical epic, unsure whether to write in Latin or English, but settling for the latter
in Paradise Lost. John Dryden (1631-1700) also wrote epic poetry, on classical and biblical subjects. Though Dryden's work is little read today it leads
to a comic parody of the epic form, or mock-heroic. The best poetry of the mid 18th century is the comic writing of Alexander Pope (1688-1744). Pope is
the best-regarded comic writer and satirist of English poetry. Among his many masterpieces, one of the more accessible is The Rape of the Lock (seekers
of sensation should note that "rape" here has its archaic sense of "removal by force"; the "lock" is a curl of the heroine's hair). Serious poetry of the
period is well represented by the neo-classical Thomas Gray (1716-1771) whose Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard virtually perfects the elegant style
favoured at the time.

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Restoration comedy

On the death of Oliver Cromwell (in 1658) plays were no longer prohibited. A new kind of comic drama, dealing with issues of sexual politics among the wealthy
and the bourgeois, arose. This is Restoration Comedy, and the style developed well beyond the restoration period into the mid 18th century almost. The
total number of plays performed is vast, and many lack real merit, but the best drama uses the restoration conventions for a serious examination of contemporary
morality. A play which exemplifies this well is The Country Wife by William Wycherley (1640-1716).

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Prose fiction and the novel

Jonathan Swift (1667-1745), wrote satires in verse and prose. He is best-known for the extended prose work Gulliver's Travels, in which a fantastic account
of a series of travels is the vehicle for satirizing familiar English institutions, such as religion, politics and law. Another writer who uses prose fiction,
this time much more naturalistic, to explore other questions of politics or economics is Daniel Defoe (1661-1731), author of Robinson Crusoe and Moll Flanders.

The first English novel is generally accepted to be Pamela (1740), by Samuel Richardson (1689-1761): this novel takes the form of a series of letters; Pamela,
a virtuous housemaid resists the advances of her rich employer, who eventually marries her. Richardson's work was almost at once satirized by Henry Fielding
(1707-1754) in Joseph Andrews (Joseph is depicted as the brother of Richardson's Pamela Andrews) and Tom Jones.

After Fielding, the novel is dominated by the two great figures of Sir Walter Scott (1771-1832) and Jane Austen (1775-1817), who typify, respectively, the
new regional, historical romanticism and the established, urbane classical views.

Novels depicting extreme behaviour, madness or cruelty, often in historically remote or exotic settings are called Gothic. They are ridiculed by Austen
in Northanger Abbey but include one undisputed masterpiece, Frankenstein, by Mary Shelley (1797-1851).

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Romanticism
The rise of Romanticism

A movement in philosophy but especially in literature, romanticism is the revolt of the senses or passions against the intellect and of the individual against
the consensus. Its first stirrings may be seen in the work of William Blake (1757-1827), and in continental writers such as the Swiss philosopher Jean-Jacques
Rousseau and the German playwrights Johann Christoph Friedrich Schiller and Johann Wolfgang von Goethe.

The publication, in 1798, by the poets William Wordsworth (1770-1850) and Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772-1834) of a volume entitled Lyrical Ballads is a
significant event in English literary history, though the poems were poorly received and few books sold. The elegant latinisms of Gray are dropped in favour
of a kind of English closer to that spoken by real people (supposedly). Actually, the attempts to render the speech of ordinary people are not wholly convincing.
Robert Burns (1759 1796) writes lyric verse in the dialect of lowland Scots (a variety of English). After Shakespeare, Burns is perhaps the most often
quoted of writers in English: we sing his Auld Lang Syne every New Year's Eve.

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Later Romanticism

The work of the later romantics John Keats (1795-1821) and his friend Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822; husband of Mary Shelley) is marked by an attempt
to make language beautiful, and by an interest in remote history and exotic places. George Gordon, Lord Byron (1788-1824) uses romantic themes, sometimes
comically, to explain contemporary events. Romanticism begins as a revolt against established views, but eventually becomes the established outlook. Wordsworth
becomes a kind of national monument, while the Victorians make what was at first revolutionary seem familiar, domestic and sentimental.

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Victorian poetry

The major poets of the Victorian era are Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809-1892) and Robert Browning (1812-1889). Both are prolific and varied, and their work
defies easy classification. Tennyson makes extensive use of classical myth and Arthurian legend, and has been praised for the beautiful and musical qualities
of his writing.

Browning's chief interest is in people; he uses blank verse in writing dramatic monologues in which the speaker achieves a kind of self-portraiture: his
subjects are both historical individuals (Fra Lippo Lippi, Andrea del Sarto) and representative types or caricatures (Mr. Sludge the Medium).

Other Victorian poets of note include Browning's wife, Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806-1861) and Christina Rossetti (1830-1894). Gerard Manley Hopkins
(1844-1889) is notable for his use of what he calls "sprung rhythm"; as in Old English verse syllables are not counted, but there is a pattern of stresses.
Hopkins' work was not well-known until very long after his death.

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The Victorian novel
The rise of the popular novel

In the 19th century, adult literacy increases markedly: attempts to provide education by the state, and self-help schemes are partly the cause and partly
the result of the popularity of the novel. Publication in instalments means that works are affordable for people of modest means. The change in the reading
public is reflected in a change in the subjects of novels: the high bourgeois world of Austen gives way to an interest in characters of humble origins.
The great novelists write works which in some ways transcend their own period, but which in detail very much explore the preoccupations of their time.

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Dickens and the Brontës

Certainly the greatest English novelist of the 19th century, and possibly of all time, is Charles Dickens (1812-1870). The complexity of his best work,
the variety of tone, the use of irony and caricature create surface problems for the modern reader, who may not readily persist in reading. But Great Expectations,
Bleak House, Our Mutual Friend and Little Dorrit are works with which every student should be acquainted.

Charlotte Brontë (1816-1855) and her sisters Emily (1818-1848) and Anne (1820-1849) are understandably linked together, but their work differs greatly.
Charlotte is notable for several good novels, among which her masterpiece is Jane Eyre, in which we see the heroine, after much adversity, achieve happiness
on her own terms. Emily Brontë's Wüthering Heights is a strange work, which enjoys almost cult status. Its concerns are more romantic, less contemporary
than those of Jane Eyre - but its themes of obsessive love and self-destructive passion have proved popular with the 20th century reader.

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The beginnings of American literature

The early 19th century sees the emergence of American literature, with the stories of Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1849), the novels of Nathaniel Hawthorne (1804-64),
Herman Melville (1819-91), and Mark Twain (Samuel Langhorne Clemens; 1835-1910), and the poetry of Walt Whitman (1819-92) and Emily Dickinson (1830-86).
Notable works include Hawthorne's The Scarlet Letter, Melville's Moby Dick, Twain's Huckleberry Finn and Whitman's Leaves of Grass.

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Later Victorian novelists

After the middle of the century, the novel, as a form, becomes firmly-established: sensational or melodramatic "popular" writing is represented by Mrs.
Henry Wood's East Lynne (1861), but the best novelists achieved serious critical acclaim while reaching a wide public, notable authors being Anthony Trollope
(1815-82), Wilkie Collins (1824-89), William Makepeace Thackeray (1811-63), George Eliot (Mary Ann Evans; 1819-80) and Thomas Hardy (1840-1928). Among
the best novels are Collins's The Moonstone, Thackeray's Vanity Fair, Eliot's The Mill on the Floss, Adam Bede and Middlemarch, and Hardy's The Mayor of
Casterbridge, The Return of the Native, Tess of the d'Urbervilles and Jude the Obscure.

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Modern literature
Early 20th century poets

W.B. (William Butler) Yeats (1865-1939) is one of two figures who dominate modern poetry, the other being T.S. (Thomas Stearns) Eliot (1888-1965). Yeats
was Irish; Eliot was born in the USA but settled in England, and took UK citizenship in 1927. Yeats uses conventional lyric forms, but explores the connection
between modern themes and classical and romantic ideas. Eliot uses elements of conventional forms, within an unconventionally structured whole in his greatest
works. Where Yeats is prolific as a poet, Eliot's reputation largely rests on two long and complex works: The Waste Land (1922) and Four Quartets (1943).

The work of these two has overshadowed the work of the best late Victorian, Edwardian and Georgian poets, some of whom came to prominence during the First
World War. Among these are Thomas Hardy, Rudyard Kipling (1865-1936), A.E. Housman (1859-1936), Edward Thomas (1878-1917), Rupert Brooke (1887-1915), Siegfried
Sassoon (1886-1967), Wilfred Owen (1893-1918) and Isaac Rosenberg (1890-1918). The most celebrated modern American poet, is Robert Frost (1874-1963), who
befriended Edward Thomas before the war of 1914-1918.

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Early modern writers

The late Victorian and early modern periods are spanned by two novelists of foreign birth: the American Henry James (1843-1916) and the Pole Joseph Conrad
(Josef Korzeniowski; 1857-1924). James relates character to issues of culture and ethics, but his style can be opaque; Conrad's narratives may resemble
adventure stories in incident and setting, but his real concern is with issues of character and morality. The best of their work would include James's
The Portrait of a Lady and Conrad's Heart of Darkness, Nostromo and The Secret Agent.

Other notable writers of the early part of the century include George Bernard Shaw (1856-1950), H.G. Wells (1866-1946), and E.M. Forster (1879-1970). Shaw
was an essay-writer, language scholar and critic, but is best-remembered as a playwright. Of his many plays, the best-known is Pygmalion (even better known
today in its form as the musical My Fair Lady). Wells is celebrated as a popularizer of science, but his best novels explore serious social and cultural
themes, The History of Mr. Polly being perhaps his masterpiece. Forster's novels include Howard's End, A Room with a View and A Passage to India.

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Joyce and Woolf

Where these writers show continuity with the Victorian tradition of the novel, more radically modern writing is found in the novels of James Joyce (1882-1941),
of Virginia Woolf (1882-1941), and of D.H. Lawrence (1885-1930). Where Joyce and Woolf challenge traditional narrative methods of viewpoint and structure,
Lawrence is concerned to explore human relationships more profoundly than his predecessors, attempting to marry the insights of the new psychology with
his own acute observation. Working-class characters are presented as serious and dignified; their manners and speech are not objects of ridicule.

Other notable novelists include George Orwell (1903-50), Evelyn Waugh (1903-1966), Graham Greene (1904-1991) and the 1983 Nobel prize-winner, William Golding
(1911-1993).

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Poetry in the later 20th century

Between the two wars, a revival of romanticism in poetry is associated with the work of W.H. (Wystan Hugh) Auden (1907-73), Louis MacNeice (1907-63) and
Cecil Day-Lewis (1904-72). Auden seems to be a major figure on the poetic landscape, but is almost too contemporary to see in perspective. The Welsh poet,
Dylan Thomas (1914-53) is notable for strange effects of language, alternating from extreme simplicity to massive overstatement.

Of poets who have achieved celebrity in the second half of the century, evaluation is even more difficult, but writers of note include the American Robert
Lowell (1917-77), Philip Larkin (1922-1985), R.S. Thomas (1913-2000), Thom Gunn (1929-2004), Ted Hughes (1930-1998) and the 1995 Nobel laureate Seamus
Heaney (b. 1939).

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Notable writers outside mainstream movements

Any list of "important" names is bound to be uneven and selective. Identifying broad movements leads to the exclusion of those who do not easily fit into
schematic outlines of history. Writers not referred to above, but highly regarded by some readers might include Laurence Sterne (1713-68), author of Tristram
Shandy, R.L. Stevenson (1850-94) writer of Kidnapped and The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, Oscar Wilde (1854-1900), author of The Importance
of Being Earnest, and novelists such as Arnold Bennett (1867-1931), John Galsworthy (1867-1933) and the Americans F. Scott Fitzgerald (1896-1940), Ernest
Hemingway (1898-1961), John Steinbeck (1902-68) and J.D. Salinger (b. 1919). Two works notable not just for their literary merit but for their articulation
of the spirit of the age are Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby and Salinger's The Catcher in the Rye. The American dramatist Arthur Miller (b. 1915) has received
similar acclaim for his play Death of a Salesman (1949). Miller is more popular in the UK than his native country, and is familiar to many teachers and
students because his work is so often set for study in examinations.

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Literature and culture

Literature has a history, and this connects with cultural history more widely. Prose narratives were written in the 16th century, but the novel as we know
it could not arise, in the absence of a literate public. The popular and very contemporary medium for narrative in the 16th century is the theatre. The
earliest novels reflect a bourgeois view of the world because this is the world of the authors and their readers (working people are depicted, but patronizingly,
not from inside knowledge). The growth of literacy in the Victorian era leads to enormous diversification in the subjects and settings of the novel.

Recent and future trends

In recent times the novel has developed different genres such as the thriller, the whodunnit, the pot-boiler, the western and works of science-fiction,
horror and the sex-and-shopping novel. Some of these may be brief fashions (the western seems to be dying) while others such as the detective story or
science-fiction have survived for well over a century. As the dominant form of narrative in contemporary western popular culture, the novel may have given
way to the feature film and television drama. But it has proved surprisingly resilient. As society alters, so the novel may reflect or define this change;
many works may be written, but few of them will fulfil this defining rôle; those which seem to do so now, may not speak to later generations in the same
way.

Evaluating literature

The "test of time" may be a cliché, but is a genuine measure of how a work of imagination can transcend cultural boundaries; we should, perhaps, now speak
of the "test of time and place", as the best works cross boundaries of both kinds. We may not "like" or "enjoy" works such as Wüthering Heights, Heart
of Darkness or The Waste Land, but they are the perfect expression of particular ways of looking at the world; the author has articulated a view which
connects with the reader's search for meaning. It is, of course, perfectly possible for a work of imagination to make sense of the world or of experience
(or love, or God, or death) while also entertaining or delighting the reader or audience with the detail and eloquence of the work, as in A Midsummer Night's
Dream, The Rime of the Ancient Mariner or Great Expectations.

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Add to this page

Have I missed anything out? Of course I have, in the search for brevity. But have I missed out writers or their works which are as important as those I
have included, or even more important? If you would like to add a comment or section to this page, you may submit suggestions to me. I don't guarantee
that I'll add them - this is NOT a forum for personal favourites (not even mine). But when I see that you are right to recall my attention to an overlooked
author or work, I will be happy to edit this guide, and acknowledge your additions. If you are a teacher or student, you could see this as a task for a
seminar or discussion. It will help with critical commentary tasks (sometimes called critical explorations).
a

Poetic Form and Narrative Definitions - The Poetry Corner

Poetic Form and
Narrative Definitions

definition list of 1 items
ALLEGORY
Refers to an extended narrative (can be a poem or prose narrative) in which the characters and actions, and sometimes the setting as well, are contrived
to make coherent sense on the "literal" level and at the same time to signify a second, correlated order of characters, concepts and events.  In other
words, an allegory carries a second meaning along with its surface story.   There are two main types of allegories:
1. Historical and political allegory - in which the characters and actions that are signified literally represent, or "allegorize" historical personages
and events.
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2. The allegory of ideas, in which the literal characters represent abstract concepts and the plot exemplifies a doctrine or thesis.
  For example, Edmund Spenser's
The Faerie Queene
is said to be a political, religious and moral allegory.
definition list of 1 items
BALLAD (also known as POPULAR BALLAD or FOLK BALLAD)
A narrative poem which is, or originally was, meant to be sung.  Ballads are the narrative species of folk songs, which originate, and are communicated
orally, among illiterate and only partly literate people.  Typically, a ballad is dramatic, condensed and impersonal: the narrator begins with the climactic
episode, tells the story tersely by means of action and dialogue, and tells it without self-reference or the expression of personal attitudes or feelings.

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definition list of 1 items
BALLADE
Refers to three stanzas of eight lines each and a half stanza of four lines (SEE ENVOY). The meter is usually iambic or anapestic tetrameter, and the rhyme
scheme is regularly as such:
 
table with 2 columns and 4 rows
Stanza 1 
a b a b b c b c  
Stanza 2  
a b a b b c b c  
Stanza 3  
a b a b b c b c  
Envoy:  
bcbc 
table end

  There is also a
REFRAIN
in the ballade.
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definition list of 1 items
BLUES
A form of folk or popular poetry.  Graphic imagery and themes drawn from a wide range of group and personal experiences distinguish blues lyrics.  The blues
can also exist as instrumental and vocal music, as a psychological state, as a lifestyle and as a philosophical stance.
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definition list of 1 items
BURLESQUE
A work designed to ridicule attitudes, styles, or subject matter by either handling an elevated subject in a trivial manner or a low subject with mock dignity. 
The burlesque may be written for the sheer fun of it; usually, however, it is a form of satire.   See also:
PARODY
and
SATIRE
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definition list of 1 items
CANTO
A major section of a long poem.   For example, Edmund Spenser's
The Faerie Queene
is divided into cantos.
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definition list of 1 items
CHORUS
Among the ancient Greeks the chorus was a group of people, wearing masks, who sang or chanted verse while performing dancelike maneuvers at religious festivals. 
Choruses also served as commentators on the characters and events who expressed traditional moral, religious and social attitudes.  During the Elizabethan
Age the term "chorus" was applied to a single person who spoke the prologue and epilogue to a play and sometimes introduced each at as well.   For example,
Shakespeare's Henry V employs a chorus.
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definition list of 1 items
CONCRETE POETRY (Also known as PATTERN POETRY)
Refers to the placement of words on the page so that a picture is formed containing the image of the poem itself.  Through this, concrete poetry is able
to provide a multiple experience.
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definition list of 1 items
CONFESSIONAL POETRY
Refers to a type of narrative and lyric verse which deals with the facts and intimate mental and physical experiences of the poet's own life.  In confessional
poetry, the speaker often describes his confused chaotic state, which becomes a metaphor for the state of the world around him.  
Sylvia Plath
and
Anne Sexton
have written confessional poems.
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definition list of 1 items
DIRGE
A lyrical poem or song of lament for the death of a particular person.  A dirge is similar to an
ELEGY
by it is less formal and is supposed to be sung.
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definition list of 1 items
DRAMATIC MONOLOGUE
A poem in which a story is related by a single person (not the poet) speaking to one or more persons; we know of the listener's presence and what they say
and do only from clues in the discourse of the speaker.  In a dramatic monologue, the speaker utters the entire poem in a specific situation at a critical
moment.   See Also:
MONOLOGUE,
INTERIOR MONOLOGUE
, and
SOLILOQUY
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definition list of 1 items
ELEGY
A formal, meditative poem or lament for the dead.
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definition list of 1 items
EMBLEM POETRY
See
CONCRETE POETRY
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definition list of 1 items
ENGLISH SONNET
See
SHAKESPEAREAN SONNET
list end
definition list of 1 items
ENVOY
Refers to a concluding stanza that is shorter than the preceding ones.
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definition list of 1 items
EPIC
A long narrative poem on a serious subject or action involving heroic characters.  An epic is told in a formal and elevated style.
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definition list of 1 items
EPIGRAM
Refers to a short pithy poem or saying of two or four lines containing a neatly expressed thought that often ends with a surprising or witty turn of thoughts. 
Epigrams are often, but not always comic or satirical.   Example:       God bless the King - I mean the Faith's defender!                          God
bless (no harm in blessing) the Pretender!                          But who pretender is or who is King -                          God bless us all! that's
quite another thing.                      - John Byrom
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definition list of 1 items
EPIPHANY
A term that refers to "a sudden spiritual manifestation."  It is often used to describe the sudden flare into revelation one may feel while perceiving an
ordinary object or scene.
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definition list of 1 items
EPITHET
A descriptive phrase, a noun, or an adjective used to define a distinctive quality of a person or thing.   Example:  John Keats' "silver snarling trumpets"
in "
The Eve of St. Agnes
" is an epithet.
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definition list of 1 items
FREE VERSE
Refers to poetry that does not follow a prescribed form but is characterized by the irregularity in the length of lines and the lack of a regular metrical
pattern and rhyme.  Free verse may use other repetitive patterns instead (like words, phrases, and structures).   Note: Free verse should not be confused
with BLANK VERSE
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definition list of 1 items
HAIKU (or HOKKU)
A poem of seventeen syllables arranged in three lines.  The first and third lines contain five syllables; the second line seven (5 7 5).  The haiku is the
shortest form in Japanese poetry.  If frequently expresses delicate emotion or presents an image (frequently one of a natural object or scene).   Example: 
A bare pecan tree                      slips a pencil shadow down                      a moonlit snow slope.                                          
- Etheridge Knight
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definition list of 1 items
HEROIC COUPLET
Lines of iambic pentameter which rhyme in pairs: aa bb cc dd etc.  The heroic couplet has been the most popular and durable of the couplet forms.
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definition list of 1 items
HEROIC POEM
See
EPIC
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definition list of 1 items
INTERIOR MONOLOGUE
A monologue in which the speaker seems to be thinking thoughts rather than speaking to someone.  Interior monologue is a stream of consciousness which undertakes
to present to the reader, the course of consciousness precisely as it occurs in a character's mind.
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definition list of 1 items
ITALIAN SONNET
See
PETRACHAN SONNET
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definition list of 1 items
LIGHT VERSE
A term applied t a great variety of poems that use an ordinary speaking voice and a relaxed manner to treat their subjects gaily, or playfully, or with
a good - natured satire.  Its subjects may be serious or petty; the defining quality is the tone of voice used and the attitude of the lyric or narrative
speaker towards the subject.
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definition list of 1 items
LYRIC
Any fairly short poem in which a speaker expresses intense personal emotion, a state of mind or a process of perception, thought and feeling rather than
describing a narrative or dramatic situation.  Originally, the term "lyric" designated poems meant to be sung but today, the term is sometimes used to
refer to any short poem.   Note: Although the lyric is uttered in the first person, the "I" in the poem need not be the author.
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definition list of 1 items
MOCK EPIC (or MOCK HEROIC)
A poem that imitates the elaborate form and ceremonious style of the epic genre, but applies it to a commonplace or trivial subject matter.  Alexander Pope's
"
The Rape of the Lock
" is an example of a mock epic poem.   Note: The term "MOCK HEROIC" is often applied to other dignified poetic forms which are purposely mismatched to a
lowly subject.  Thomas Gray's "Ode on the Death of a Favorite Cat" is an example.
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definition list of 1 items
MONOLOGUE
A lengthy speech made by a single person.   See Also:
INTERIOR MONOLOGUE,
SOLILOQUY
, and
DRAMATIC MONOLOGUE
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definition list of 1 items
MOTIF
A theme, character, device, reference or verbal pattern which recurs in works of literature. See Also:
THEME
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definition list of 1 items
NARRATIVE
A story, whether in prose or verse, involving events, characters, and what the characters say and do.
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definition list of 1 items
OCCASIONAL POEMS
A poem written in commemoration of a specific occasion such as a birthday, marriage, a death, a military engagement or victory, the dedication of a public
building or the opening performance of a play.   Example: W.B. Yeats' "
Easter, 1916
" and Maya Angelou's "
Inaugural Poem
" are occasional poems.
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definition list of 1 items
ODE
A long lyric poem that is serious in subject and treatment, elevated in style, and elaborate in its stanzaic structure.
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definition list of 1 items
ORAL FORMULAIC POETRY
Poetry that is composed and transmitted by singers or reciters - includes both narrative forms (epic and ballad) and lyric forms.  There is no fixed version
of an oral composition because each performer tends to render it differently, and sometimes introduces differences between one performance and the next.

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definition list of 1 items
PALINODE
Refers to a poem or poetic passage in which the writer recants a statement made in a previous poem.
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definition list of 1 items
PANEGYRIC
A panegyric is poetry that praises something. See Opposite:
SATIRE
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definition list of 1 items
PARODY
A type of high burlesque which imitates or exaggerates the serious manner and characteristic features of a particular literary work, or the distinctive
style of a particular author.  Parody is a device of satire.
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definition list of 1 items
PASTORAL
Poetry that describes the simple life of country folk, usually shepherds who live a timeless, painless life in a world that is full of beauty, music and
love.  Other terms used synonymously with pastoral are: ECLOGUE, BUCOLIC, or IDYLL.
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definition list of 1 items
PATTERN POETRY
See
CONCRETE POETRY
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definition list of 1 items
PETRACHAN SONNET (or ITALIAN SONNET)
Fourteen lines of iambic pentameter rhyming in the octave (eight lines): a b b a a b b a, followed by the sestet (six lines) rhyming: c d c d c d  (or some
variation thereof).  The octave generally contains the "problem" or theme which the sonnet will develop.  Sometimes, an expression of indignation, desire
or doubt may occur in the opening lines which will be resolved in the sestet.
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definition list of 1 items
POEM (or POETRY)
Refers to a composition in which rhythmical, and usually metaphorical, language is used to create and aesthetic experience.  Elements such as meter, rhyme
etc are usually but not necessarily present.
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definition list of 1 items
POETIC DRAMA
Drama in which the dialogue is written in the form of poetry.
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definition list of 1 items
REFRAIN
A line, or part of a line, or group of lines, which is repeated in the course of a poem, sometimes with slight changes, usually at the end of each stanza. 
If the repetition is not verbatim, the phenomenon is sometimes called incremental repetition.  The refrain occurs in many ballads and poems.   Example:
The word "Nevermore" in Edgar Allan Poe's "
The Raven
" functions as a refrain.
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definition list of 1 items
RENGA
Refers to Japanese linked poetry.  A typical renga sequence comprised 100 stanzas composed by about three poets at a single sitting of about three hours. 
Each stanza of a renga is like a link in a chain.
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definition list of 2 items
RHYME ROYAL (or RIME ROYAL)
A seven line, iambic pentameter stanza with the rhyme scheme: a b a b b c c
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definition list of 1 items
SATIRE
The literary art of diminishing or derogating a subject by making it ridiculous and evoking toward to attitudes of amusement, contempt, scorn or indignation.
  Example: Jonathan Swift's Gulliver's Travel, especially Book IV, is a satire on the human race.
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definition list of 1 items
SESTINA
A poem which consists of six six-line stanzas and a final three line stanza (called an
ENVOY
), all unrhymed; the final word in each line of the first stanza becomes the final word in other stanzas (but in a different specified pattern); the final
stanza uses these words again in a specified way, one in each half line.   Example: In the diagram, each letter represents the terminal word of a verse
and each line represents a stanza:
table with 2 columns and 7 rows
Stanza 1: 
a  b  c  d  e  f  
Stanza 2:  
f  a  e  b  d  c  
Stanza 3:  
c  f  d  a  b  e  
Stanza 4:  
e  c  b  f  a  d  
Stanza 5:  
d  e  a  c  f  b  
Stanza 6: 
b  d  f  e  c  a  
Envoy:   
e  c  a 
table end

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definition list of 1 items
SHAKESPEAREAN SONNET (or ENGLISH SONNET)
A sonnet (fourteen lines of iambic pentameter) divided into three quatrains and a concluding couplet with the following rhyme scheme: abab cdcd efef gg.
  See "
Sonnet 138."
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definition list of 1 items
SOLILOQUY
Refers to an extended speech in which a character, alone on stage, expresses his thoughts.  A soliloquy may reveal the private emotions, motives and state
of mind of the speaker.   For instance, Hamlet's "To be or not to be" speech is a soliloquy.
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definition list of 1 items
SONNET
A lyric poem consisting of a single stanza of fourteen iambic pentameter lines linked by an intricate rhyme scheme.   See also:
PETRACHAN SONNET
and
SHAKESPEAREAN SONNET
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definition list of 1 items
SPENSARIAN SONNET
A variation of the Shakespearean sonnet in which Spenser links each quatrain to the next with a continuing rhyme: a b a b b c b c c d c d e e
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definition list of 1 items
SPENSARIAN STANZA
The Spensarian stanza was revised by Edmund Spenser for The Faerie Queene.  It consists of nine lines, in which the first eight are iambic pentameter; the
last line is an iambic hexameter (an ALEXANDRINE) rhyming a b a b b c b c c
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definition list of 1 items
TERZA RIMA
Composed of tercets that are interlinked.  Each tercet is joined to the one following by a common rhyme: aba, bcd, cdc, ded, etc.
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definition list of 1 items
THEME
Theme is sometimes used to indicate the subject of a work, frequently employed to designate its central idea or thesis.  A theme may be stated directly
or indirectly.
list end
definition list of 1 items
VILLANELLE
A poem that consists of five tercets and a quatrain, all on two rhymes. The opening line is repeated at the ends of tercets two and four; the final line
of the first tercet concludes the third and fifth stanza. The two refrain lines are repeated at the end of the quatrain.
list end

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Hello! I am trying to get hold of an ebook, American cultural studies by Neil Campbell. I requested this book on here already, but do you know of any websites where I can buy ebooks in accessible formats, in case it is difficult to find a free download? A few months ago, I ordered the book from a library here in Sweden that produces e-text books, but the book hasn't arrived yet and I will have the exam in a few weeks. Any ideas/suggestions are greatly appreciated! Thanks in advance! / Julia

The Waste Land

Summary

"The Waste Land" is one of the most important and influential of all Modernist texts and was published in the magazine "Criterion" in 1922, the same year
as James Joyce's similarly seminal
Ulysses.
Eliot's poem was obscure and difficult even by his standards. Consisting of five sections of unequal length, "The Waste Land" ties together Eliot's near-sociopathic
message with quotations from everything from Webster to Dante and a plethora of sound words and Sanskrit. It is an oblique and fascinating poem, given
a kind of immediate classic status by Eliot's explanatory notes that padded out the first edition. The importance of Eliot's friend, Ezra Pound, as effective
editor in shaping the poem should not be underestimated. Pound removed some of Eliot's excesses and trimmed the poem to the form we are now used to (see
The Waste Land: A Facsimile and Transcript of the Original Drafts, edited by Valerie Eliot). Eliot's theme, if there can be said to be one, is the decay
of Western civilisation and his subjects the passive people of London ("Unreal city"). The poem lacks continuity but contains such a heady mixture of different
languages and techniques upon its rhythmical, unrhyming verse that it still seems gripping, terrifying and new today. It could very easily be argued that
it is to blame for many of the worst excesses of poets since, but along with the later Four Quartets it ensured that Eliot's genius for mixing the vulgar
and the beautiful ("breeding / Lilacs out of the dead land" indeed) has not been forgotten.

Table of contents

The Burial of the Dead
A Game of Chess
The Fire Sermon
Death by Water
What The Thunder Said
Notes

The Burial of the Dead

“Nam Sibyllam quidem Cumis ego ipse oculis meis vidi in ampulla pendere, et cum illi pueri dicerent: Sibylla ti theleis; respondebat illa: apothanein thelo.”
Block quote start

April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers.
Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee
With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade,
And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten,
And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.
Bin gar keine Russin, stamm’ aus Litauen, echt deutsch.
And when we were children, staying at the archduke’s,
My cousin’s, he took me out on a sled,
And I was frightened. He said, Marie,
Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.
In the mountains, there you feel free.
I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.
Block quote end
Block quote start

What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
1
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water. Only
There is shadow under this red rock,
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
Block quote end
Block quote start

Frisch weht der Wind
Der Heimat zu
Mein Irisch Kind,
Wo weilest du?
2
Block quote end
Block quote start

“You gave me hyacinths first a year ago;
“They called me the hyacinth girl.”
—Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden,
Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not
Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither
Living nor dead, and I knew nothing,
Looking into the heart of light, the silence.
Od’ und leer das Meer.
3
Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyante,
Had a bad cold, nevertheless
Is known to be the wisest woman in Europe,
With a wicked pack of cards.
4
Here, said she,
Is your card, the drowned Phoenician Sailor,
(Those are pearls that were his eyes. Look!)
Here is Belladonna, the Lady of the Rocks,
The lady of situations.
Here is the man with three staves, and here the Wheel,
And here is the one-eyed merchant, and this card,
Which is blank, is something he carries on his back,
Which I am forbidden to see. I do not find
The Hanged Man. Fear death by water.
I see crowds of people, walking round in a ring.
Thank you. If you see dear Mrs. Equitone,
Tell her I bring the horoscope myself:
One must be so careful these days.
Block quote end
Block quote start

Unreal City,
5
Under the brown fog of a winter dawn,
A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many,
I had not thought death had undone so many.
6
Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled,
7
And each man fixed his eyes before his feet.
Flowed up the hill and down King William Street,
To where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hours
With a dead sound on the final stroke of nine.
8
There I saw one I knew, and stopped him, crying
“Stetson!
“You who were with me in the ships at Mylae!
“That corpse you planted last year in your garden,
“Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?
“Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed?
“Oh keep the Dog far hence, that’s friend to men,
9
“Or with his nails he’ll dig it up again!
“You! hypocrite lecteur!—mon semblable, — mon frère!”
10
Block quote end


A Game of Chess
Block quote start

The Chair she sat in, like a burnished throne,
1
Glowed on the marble, where the glass
Held up by standards wrought with fruited vines
From which a golden Cupidon peeped out
(Another hid his eyes behind his wing)
Doubled the flames of sevenbranched candelabra
Reflecting light upon the table as
The glitter of her jewels rose to meet it,
From satin cases poured in rich profusion;
In vials of ivory and coloured glass
Unstoppered, lurked her strange synthetic perfumes,
Unguent, powdered, or liquid — troubled, confused
And drowned the sense in odours; stirred by the air
That freshened from the window, these ascended
In fattening the prolonged candle-flames,
Flung their smoke into the laquearia,
2
Stirring the pattern on the coffered ceiling.
Huge sea-wood fed with copper
Burned green and orange, framed by the coloured stone,
In which sad light a carved dolphin swam.
Above the antique mantel was displayed
As though a window gave upon the sylvan scene
3
The change of Philomel, by the barbarous king
4
So rudely forced; yet there the nightingale
5
Filled all the desert with inviolable voice
And still she cried, and still the world pursues,
“Jug Jug” to dirty ears.
And other withered stumps of time
Were told upon the walls; staring forms
Leaned out, leaning, hushing the room enclosed.
Footsteps shuffled on the stair.
Under the firelight, under the brush, her hair
Spread out in fiery points
Glowed into words, then would be savagely still.
Block quote end
Block quote start

“My nerves are bad to-night. Yes, bad. Stay with me.
“Speak to me. Why do you never speak. Speak.
“What are you thinking of? What thinking? What?
“I never know what you are thinking. Think.”
Block quote end
Block quote start

I think we are in rats’ alley
6
Where the dead men lost their bones.
Block quote end
Block quote start

“What is that noise?”
The wind under the door.
“What is that noise now? What is the wind doing?”
7
Nothing again nothing.
“Do
“You know nothing? Do you see nothing? Do you remember
“Nothing?”
I remember
Those are pearls that were his eyes.
“Are you alive, or not? Is there nothing in your head?”
8
But
O O O O that Shakespeherian Rag—
It’s so elegant
So intelligent
Block quote end
Block quote start

“What shall I do now? What shall I do?”
I shall rush out as I am, and walk the street
“With my hair down, so. What shall we do to-morrow?
“What shall we ever do?”
The hot water at ten.
And if it rains, a closed car at four.
And we shall play a game of chess,
Pressing lidless eyes and waiting for a knock upon the door.
Block quote end
Block quote start

When Lil’s husband got demobbed, I said—
I didn’t mince my words, I said to her myself,
Hurry Up Please Its Time
Now Albert’s coming back, make yourself a bit smart.
He’ll want to know what you done with that money he gave you
To get yourself some teeth. He did, I was there.
You have them all out, Lil, and get a nice set,
He said, I swear, I can’t bear to look at you.
And no more can’t I, I said, and think of poor Albert,
He’s been in the army four years, he wants a good time,
And if you don’t give it him, there’s others will, I said.
Oh is there, she said. Something o’ that, I said.
Then I’ll know who to thank, she said, and give me a straight look.
Hurry Up Please Its Time
If you don’t like it you can get on with it, I said.
Others can pick and choose if you can’t.
But if Albert makes off, it won’t be for lack of telling.
You ought to be ashamed, I said, to look so antique.
(And her only thirty-one.)
I can’t help it, she said, pulling a long face,
It’s them pills I took, to bring it off, she said.
(She’s had five already, and nearly died of young George.)
The chemist said it would be alright, but I’ve never been the same.
You are a proper fool, I said.
Well, if Albert won’t leave you alone, there it is, I said,
What you get married for if you don’t want children?
Hurry Up Please Its Time
Well, that Sunday Albert was home, they had a hot gammon,
And they asked me in to dinner, to get the beauty of it hot—
Hurry Up Please Its Time
Hurry Up Please Its Time
Goonight Bill. Goonight Lou. Goonight May. Goonight.
Ta ta. Goonight. Goonight.
Good night, ladies, good night, sweet ladies, good night, good night.
Block quote end


The Fire Sermon
Block quote start

The river’s tent is broken: the last fingers of leaf
Clutch and sink into the wet bank. The wind
Crosses the brown land, unheard. The nymphs are departed.
Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song.
1
The river bears no empty bottles, sandwich papers,
Silk handkerchiefs, cardboard boxes, cigarette ends
Or other testimony of summer nights. The nymphs are departed.
And their friends, the loitering heirs of city directors;
Departed, have left no addresses.
By the waters of Leman I sat down and wept …
Sweet Thames, run softly till I end my song,
Sweet Thames, run softly, for I speak not loud or long.
But at my back in a cold blast I hear
The rattle of the bones, and chuckle spread from ear to ear.
Block quote end
Block quote start

A rat crept softly through the vegetation
Dragging its slimy belly on the bank
While I was fishing in the dull canal
On a winter evening round behind the gashouse
Musing upon the king my brother’s wreck
And on the king my father’s death before him.
2
White bodies naked on the low damp ground
And bones cast in a little low dry garret,
Rattled by the rat’s foot only, year to year.
But at my back from time to time I hear
3
The sound of horns and motors, which shall bring
4
Sweeney to Mrs. Porter in the spring.
O the moon shone bright on Mrs. Porter
5
And on her daughter
They wash their feet in soda water
Et O ces voix d’enfants, chantant dans la coupole!
6
Block quote end
Block quote start

Twit twit twit
Jug jug jug jug jug jug
So rudely forc’d.
Tereu
Block quote end
Block quote start

Unreal City
Under the brown fog of a winter noon
Mr. Eugenides, the Smyrna merchant
7
Unshaven, with a pocket full of currants
C.i.f. London: documents at sight,
Asked me in demotic French
To luncheon at the Cannon Street Hotel
Followed by a weekend at the Metropole.
At the violet hour, when the eyes and back
Turn upward from the desk, when the human engine waits
Like a taxi throbbing waiting,
I Tiresias
8
9 ,
though blind, throbbing between two lives,
Old man with wrinkled female breasts, can see
At the violet hour, the evening hour that strives
Homeward, and brings the sailor home from sea,
10
The typist home at teatime, clears her breakfast, lights
Her stove, and lays out food in tins.
Out of the window perilously spread
Her drying combinations touched by the sun’s last rays,
On the divan are piled (at night her bed)
Stockings, slippers, camisoles, and stays.
I Tiresias, old man with wrinkled dugs
Perceived the scene, and foretold the rest—
I too awaited the expected guest.
He, the young man carbuncular, arrives,
A small house agent’s clerk, with one bold stare,
One of the low on whom assurance sits
As a silk hat on a Bradford millionaire.
The time is now propitious, as he guesses,
The meal is ended, she is bored and tired,
Endeavours to engage her in caresses
Which still are unreproved, if undesired.
Flushed and decided, he assaults at once;
Exploring hands encounter no defence;
His vanity requires no response,
And makes a welcome of indifference.
(And I Tiresias have foresuffered all
Enacted on this same divan or bed;
I who have sat by Thebes below the wall
And walked among the lowest of the dead.)
Bestows one final patronising kiss,
And gropes his way, finding the stairs unlit …
Block quote end
Block quote start

She turns and looks a moment in the glass,
Hardly aware of her departed lover;
Her brain allows one half-formed thought to pass:
“Well now that’s done: and I’m glad it’s over.”
When lovely woman stoops to folly and
11
Paces about her room again, alone,
She smoothes her hair with automatic hand,
And puts a record on the gramophone.
Block quote end
Block quote start

“This music crept by me upon the waters”
12
And along the Strand, up Queen Victoria Street.
O City city, I can sometimes hear
Beside a public bar in Lower Thames Street,
The pleasant whining of a mandoline
And a clatter and a chatter from within
Where fishmen lounge at noon: where the walls
Of Magnus Martyr
13
hold
Inexplicable splendour of Ionian white and gold.
The river sweats
14
Oil and tar
The barges drift
With the turning tide
Red sails
Wide
To leeward, swing on the heavy spar.
The barges wash
Drifting logs
Down Greenwich reach
Past the Isle of Dogs.
15
Weialala leia
Wallala leialala
Elizabeth and Leicester
Beating oars
The stern was formed
A gilded shell
Red and gold
The brisk swell
Rippled both shores
Southwest wind
Carried down stream
The peal of bells
White towers
Weialala leia
Wallala leialala
“Trams and dusty trees.
Highbury
Block quote end


Death by Water
Block quote start

Phlebas the Phoenician, a fortnight dead,
Forgot the cry of gulls, and the deep sea swell
And the profit and loss.
A current under sea
Picked his bones in whispers. As he rose and fell
He passed the stages of his age and youth
Entering the whirlpool.
Gentile or Jew
O you who turn the wheel and look to windward,
Consider Phlebas, who was once handsome and tall as you.
Block quote end


What The Thunder Said
Block quote start

After the torchlight red on sweaty faces
1
After the frosty silence in the gardens
After the agony in stony places
The shouting and the crying
Prison and palace and reverberation
Of thunder of spring over distant mountains
He who was living is now dead
We who were living are now dying
With a little patience
Block quote end
Block quote start

Here is no water but only rock
Rock and no water and the sandy road
The road winding above among the mountains
Which are mountains of rock without water
If there were water we should stop and drink
Amongst the rock one cannot stop or think
Sweat is dry and feet are in the sand
If there were only water amongst the rock
Dead mountain mouth of carious teeth that cannot spit
Here one can neither stand nor lie nor sit
There is not even silence in the mountains
But dry sterile thunder without rain
There is not even solitude in the mountains
But red sullen faces sneer and snarl
From doors of mudcracked houses
If there were water
And no rock
If there were rock
And also water
And water
A spring
A pool among the rock
If there were the sound of water only
Not the cicada
And dry grass singing
But sound of water over a rock
Where the hermit-thrush sings in the pine trees
2
Drip drop drip drop drop drop drop
But there is no water
Block quote end
Block quote start

Who is the third who walks always beside you?
3
When I count, there are only you and I together
But when I look ahead up the white road
There is always another one walking beside you
Gliding wrapt in a brown mantle, hooded
I do not know whether a man or a woman
—But who is that on the other side of you?
4
What is that sound high in the air
Murmur of maternal lamentation
Who are those hooded hordes swarming
Over endless plains, stumbling in cracked earth
Ringed by the flat horizon only
What is the city over the mountains
Cracks and reforms and bursts in the violet air
Falling towers
Jerusalem Athens Alexandria
Vienna London
Unreal
Block quote end
Block quote start

A woman drew her long black hair out tight
And fiddled whisper music on those strings
And bats with baby faces in the violet light
Whistled, and beat their wings
And crawled head downward down a blackened wall
And upside down in air were towers
Tolling reminiscent bells, that kept the hours
And voices singing out of empty cisterns and exhausted wells.
Block quote end
Block quote start

In this decayed hole among the mountains
In the faint moonlight, the grass is singing
Over the tumbled graves, about the chapel
There is the empty chapel, only the wind’s home.
It has no windows, and the door swings,
Dry bones can harm no one.
Only a cock stood on the rooftree
Co co rico co co rico
In a flash of lightning. Then a damp gust
Bringing rain
Block quote end
Block quote start

Ganga was sunken, and the limp leaves
Waited for rain, while the black clouds
Gathered far distant, over Himavant.
The jungle crouched, humped in silence.
Then spoke the thunder
Da
Datta
5:
what have we given?
My friend, blood shaking my heart
The awful daring of a moment’s surrender
Which an age of prudence can never retract
By this, and this only, we have existed
Which is not to be found in our obituaries
Or in memories draped by the beneficent spider
Or under seals broken by the lean solicitor
In our empty rooms
Da
Dayadhvam: I have heard the key
7
Turn in the door once and turn once only
We think of the key, each in his prison
Thinking of the key, each confirms a prison
Only at nightfall, aetherial rumours
Revive for a moment a broken Coriolanus
Da
Damyata: The boat responded
Gaily, to the hand expert with sail and oar
The sea was calm, your heart would have responded
Gaily, when invited, beating obedient
To controlling hands
I sat upon the shore
Fishing
8,
with the arid plain behind me
Shall I at least set my lands in order?
Block quote end
Block quote start

London Bridge is falling down falling down falling down
Poi s’ascose nel foco che gli affina
9
Quando fiam ceu chelidon
10
— O swallow swallow
Le Prince d’Aquitaine a la tour abolie
11
Block quote end
Block quote start

These fragments I have shored against my ruins
Why then Ile fit you. Hieronymo’s mad againe.
12
Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata.
Shantih shantih shantih
13
Block quote end


Notes

Not only the title, but the plan and a good deal of the incidental symbolism of the poem were suggested by Miss Jessie L. Weston’s book on the Grail legend:
From Ritual to Romance (Macmillan).
1
Indeed, so deeply am I indebted, Miss Weston’s book will elucidate the difficulties of the poem much better than my notes can do; and I recommend it (apart
from the great interest of the book itself) to any who think such elucidation of the poem worth the trouble. To another work of anthropology I am indebted
in general, one which has influenced our generation profoundly; I mean The Golden Bough; I have used especially the two volumes Adonis, Attis, Osiris.
Anyone who is acquainted with these works will immediately recognise in the poem certain references to vegetation ceremonies.

Introduction of Literature

By Nabila Tanvir

Literature is the artistic expression of profound thoughts, which is replete with spontaneous and intense passions, imaginative ideas and reflective viewpoints of the literary men. It is exposed in such an untechnical form as to make it more comprehensible, giving aesthetic pleasure and relief to the mind of the common man. According to Lord Morely, “Literature consists of all the books where moral truth and human passion are touched with a certain largeness, sanity and attraction of form” . In other words, literature heightens our awareness of human life. It enhances our vision of life and we begin to look at nature with new eyes. It interprets with ornamental language the experiences and spiritual intuitions of man. Literature appeals us greatly due to its essential features including thought, feeling, imagination and beauty of style and form etc.

As Lowes Dickinson states implications of literature in this way: “To feel, and in order to express, or at least to understand the expressions of all that is lovely in Nature, of all that is poignant and sensitive in man, is to us in itself a sufficient end. A rose in a moonlight garden, the shadow of trees on the turf, almond blossom, scene of pine, the wine cup and guitar, these and the pathos of life and death, the long embrace, the hand stretched out in vain, the moment that glides for ever away into the shadow and hush of the haunted past, all that we have, all that eludes us, a bird on the wing, a perfume escaped on the gale—-to all these things we are trained to respond, and the response is what we call literature.” Literature is “mirror of life” an influential tool to weigh and to consider. Literature is such catalytic mechanism to inspire our thoughtful feelings and imagination. Literature is one of the instruments, and one of the most powerful instruments, for forming character, for giving us, character armed with reason, braced by knowledge, clothed with strong determination, courage and fortitude, and inspired by that public spirit and public virtue of which it has been well said that they are the brightest ornaments of the mind of man.

In the words of Philip J. Waller , “ The literary student explores the strange voyages of man’s moral reason, the impulses of the human heart, the chances and changes that have overtaken human ideals of virtue and happiness, of conduct and manners, and the shifting fortunes of great conceptions of truth and virtue.” All literary men like poets, dramatists, satirists, fiction writers, novelists, humorists, maxim writers, political orators, character writers and great preachers teach us how to know man and how to delve deep into the human nature.

To quote Emerson : “Literature is a record of the best thoughts.” Literature is the embodiment of written thoughts and feelings of intellectual men and women, expressed in such fantastic pleasurable style for the readers. The main objective of the student of literature is to discover the best which has been thought in the world. The aim of reading is not to dip into everything that even wise men have ever written but according to Cardinal Newman , the function of literature is to educate the individuals, to broaden and refine vision, to correct follies and foibles of ordinary men, to improve comprehensible powers, to enhance knowledge and wisdom of the readers. The main object of literature in education is to open the mind, to correct it, to refine it, to comprehend and digest its knowledge, to give it power over its own faculties, application, flexibilities, method, critical exactness, sagacity, address, and expression.

These are the objects of that intellectual perfection which a literary education is destined to give. The earnest student of literature is like a sailor who sails into new seas of thought. He tries to understand the human heart, its shifting virtues and vices, its sorrows and joys. The value of poets, dramatists, humorists, satirists, novelists lies only in the revelation that they make of the human heart. It is in this sense that literature is called one of the humanities, a training of moral sensibilities and imagination.


Source
http://www.classic-enotes.com/english-literature/introduction-of-literat...

Significance of The Study of Literature

By Nabila Tanvir

Literature is a criticism of life seen through a temperament, hence the study of literature is a study of various temperaments, life is variegated, its facets and problems are multifarious and a study of literature gives us life freely and abundantly. The questions about the technical side of this study, the methods of study, etc. do not concern us. We approach the subject on a broader basis. Thus regarded, literature is a pleasant pastime, an enjoyable companion in all ages and conditions of health. When we relax in an armchair after the day’s work, a story or a poem soon lulls our fagged brains to refreshing ease and slumber. We are hurrying in an express train, a novel is our companion. Out on a picnic we soon are a-piece with Nature. A book is our tonic in attacks of illness and despondence when life hangs heavy on our hands. Books have become an integral part of modern life; we do not know what we shall do without them. Time is money but even then sometimes it becomes irksome.

The ingenuity of man has discovered in Literature the talisman that provides him wings to fly. Life is a bed of thorns; Shelly calls it a dim vale of tears. In reading literature we find an escape from the fever, the fret and the weariness of this world. A commonplace thing acquires new shapes. Our fancy roams from the earth to the skies and on the wings of poesy we flit from flower to flower forgetting the thorns below. Poets and writers have sought this escape and we read their works and we seek it in them. While does not feel elated while reading Keats’s poems ‘ Ode to Nightingale’ and ‘ Ode to the Grecian Urns, two of the finest poems of escapes? Works of romance bewitch our minds and brains in no time. The writer carries us far into his utopian land where love is rewarded, where wealth is in plenty and where pain and sickness do not intrude. Reading books is thus a pleasure and the best writers are those who please us the mot. “Literature exists to please—– to lighten the burden of men’s liver, to make them for a short while forget their sorrows and their sins, their silenced hearts, their disappointed hopes, their grim futures.

Literature not only pleases us but instructs us also. The authors who attain to the eminence of the classics are those who exercise their imagination on the serious problems of life and explain or elucidate them through fiction. Such are the problems of the good and the evil in life, love, duty, beauty, truth, etc. the reader too in the course of his life comes to grips with one or the other of these problems. He is baffled and perhaps would give up but for the guidance from the classics but for the guidance from the classics. They give him not a tangible solution but the heroic temper that enables him to pass through the ordeal and survive brutal shocks. Our tragedies show us how to preserve the emotional balance which is the sign of a healthy man. In this respect biographies and autobiographies are most useful. If we fail to find a kindred soul in actual life we can find any number of them amongst the dead. Carlyle was not far wrong when he said, “History is the biography of great men.” Literatures thus widen our contact and we enjoy life more abundantly. Private journals, diaries, memories and letters takes us to the heart of their authors.

Literature provides a common platform for discussion and exchange of thoughts and social or political reforms through exposition. Those writings with a purpose have played their part in the eradication of a number of ills to which we are heirs. Dickens launched a crusade against slumps. Thackerary exposed the orgies of society; Mrs. Gaskell brought to light the squalor of the rising industrial towns. Carlyle denounced the whole mechanical age devoid of blessedness if not happiness, Ruskin preached the creation and love of beauty in works done by hand and Newman discussed the returns to the fold of the Catholic religion.

In our own times George Bernard Shaw and John Galsworthy utilized the stage for purpose of conveying their messages to the people Satire, irony, rhetoric, parable, fable—–these are the coatings in which the messages are wrapped. Literature does not openly preach like the man in the pulpit. It adopts the politer method of insinuations by showing the existing conditions which are to be removed and leaving us dross and brings up the deeply buried gold. Literature works silently and produces a mental revolution which precedes social and political revolution. The germs of the French Revolution are to be found in Rousseau’s Confessions.

Literature elevates our minds, and ennobles our character. It is a criticism of life and its high seriousness servers to mould our minds. From the pettiness of life we pass over to the natural beauties or the domain of fundamental emotions mirrored in the lyrics, the pure and spontaneous forms of literature. Wordsworth’s nature poems, Shelly’s ‘Ode to the West Wind’ and Keats’ ‘ A thing of Beauty’ appeal to us through their lyrical emotions and by their sweep and rush carry us alone. Sacred literature, hymns and songs are a class apart and their utility is unquestioned. They have sustained many a grieved heart. Their power is akin to the power of David’s hymns, e.g ‘Song to Soul’ by Browning. The ethereal realm of ecstasy only poets can touch. Having once touched it, they trail clouds of glory for their readers. Good poetry induces that mood in us in which we no longer dread the mystery of existence or care for the “ burthen of the mystery” of this “unintelligible world.”

Literature, next to life, provides the stage for conflict of human personality against its opponents—-another human body, circumstances or some other force. Novelists can indulge in psychological studies of their characters, but it is in drama that we see this conflict at its interest. We identify ourselves with the characters after our choice, we rejoice with them in their triumphs and we weep with them in moments of agony. Literature in this way cures us of our selfishness and narrow sympathies and antipathies. During the periods of our study or seeing of these plays we lead exalted lives and when we go away to our homes we carry with us the memory of what we had read or seen. Books, as Stevenson remarks, are a valuable substitute for life.

Literature also exists for the specialist who studies it in order to know a people, an age or language. Here the layman need not enter it he does not care for such things but even the layman is curious. How do people think and dream in Norway? Here is Dbsen to tell us how. What are the feelings of a Red Indian father when his child is dead? Hiawatha tells us. And so on endlessly. Literature is like the air or the ether—-the property of no one people or race. Its universality is the universality of life. Whenever men live and think and dream they live and think and dream with the whole world. As the Latin Poet said, “I am a man; nothing human is alien to me.”

Universality in Literature

By Nabila Tanvir

Literature is great because of its universality. It is powerful enough to supersede the narrow interests of a class in favor of humanity as a whole. lt does not deal with the specific society of a specific community, but with the society of man as a whole. For this reason literature that appealed to the people through the spoken word has a greater appeal than which appeals through the written word—which may not reach all men. “The recited epics of

Homer, the acted plays of Shakespeare, the chanted songs of Chandidas have a more universal appeal than our modern poets and novelists who express only segments of social life and direct their appeal to particular social classes. Poetry that expresses intensely individual standpoints, novels that depict manners of a class or community, and deal with highly specialized problems cannot surely be of the same level as are Tulsidas’s or Krittidas‘s Ramayana which had and still have a mass appeal.”

Universality in literature connotes the appeal to the widest human interests and the simplest emotions. Though we speak of national and race literatures, like the Greek or Teutonic, and each has certain superficial marks arising out of the peculiarities of its own people. It is nevertheless true that good literature knows no nationality, nor any bounds save those of humanity. It is occupied chiefly with elementary passions and emotions,——love and hate, joy and sorrow, fear and Faith which are an essential part of our human nature; and the more it reflects these emotions, the surely does it awaken response in men of every race. Every father must respond to the parable the prodigal son; wherever men are heroic, they will acknowledge the mastery of Homer: wherever man thinks on the strange phenomenon of evil in the world, he will find his own thoughts in the Book of Job whatever place men love their children; their hearts must be stirred by the tragic sorrow of Oedipus and King Lear. All these are but shining examples of the law that only as a book or little song appeals to universal human interest does it become permanent. The restricted appeal of modern literature resulted from the dependence of writers on the patronage of great men. Necessarily such writers had to produce work that would appeal to their patrons primarily. As a result became limited.

But compensation was offered by the delicacy and refinement of their work. The contrast between these writers and the popular writers may be seen in the contrast between Chaucer and balladists. Chaucer is the perfect artist; his insight into life is also profound; but he lacks spontaneity, the range, the popular appeal of the ballad-writers. “Such also is the difference between Bharatchandra of Bengal and the anonymous poets of the Mymensingh ballads. Modern writers depending on the patronage of an educated and well-to-do public, have developed a flair for expressing feelings and situations that are subtle and complex in language that verges on the idiosyncratic. Wordsworth realized this when he made the revolutionary statement that poetry, should use language of common speech. The more literature is freed from its class limitations and becomes the expression of the thoughts and feelings of the common man, the community of working people, the more it will tend to conform to the Wordsworthian doctrine.

It must be noted that literature contains the universal and the particular which are combined together. According to Aristotle, literature indicates the universal element, i.e., what is true for all times and ages and the particular, i.e. what is true of the men, events, customs, culture, and manners of an age. To quote John Bailey: “lt must be at once individual life and universal. If Homer contained nothing but what was abstractedly or universally true, he would be dull. He must have, as he has many things which surprise, amuse, even perhaps, disgust us who live in so different an age and country. He must have things which are peculiar to the Greeks of his day, and even things peculiar to himself alone among the Greeks.

Without that, he would not have individuality or even nationality; and without individuality and nationality there is no life in literature …. But if he were only Homer or only Greek, he would be something worse than dull he would be dead for us, because there would be link between us; dead, because the life of poetry needs an immortal and universal element without which its lease of life is a very short one. A poet cannot carry himself and his own age and their idiosyncrasies and peculiarities unless he provides them with the elixir of immortality which is universal truth.” In other words, literature is manifestation of life as handled by the writer’s personality. His distinctive imagination, his slant of outlook, his feelings, and the character of his experience constitute the medium through which his reading of life is communicated to the reader.

But his feelings and thoughts and fusion of elements extracted from the chaos of life have deeper and paramount significance for all. According to Middleton Murry, “the highest style is . . . a combination of the maximum of personality with the minimum of impersonality 1 on the one hand, it is a concentration of peculiar and personal emotion, on the other, it is a complete projection of this personal emotion into the created thing …. ‘There is no antithesis between personal and impersonal art.” That is why Aristotle said; “Poetry is more philosophical than history.” What he meant was that literature is the mixture of the personal and universal. The whole effort of a sincere man is to build his personal impression into universal pattern.

Source
http://www.classic-enotes.com/english-literature/universality-in-literat...

Structure and Summary

The Divine Comedy has three sections: Inferno (Hell), Purgatorio (Purgatory) and Paradiso (Paradise or Heaven). The first section has 33 cantos (chapters) and an introduction of 1 canto for a total of 34. The second and third sections each have 33 cantos. The characters include mythological and historical personages.

The Forest of Error
On Good Friday in 1300, the 35-year-old Dante enters the Forest of Error, a dark and ominous wood symbolizing his own sinful materialism and the materialism of the world in general. At the top of a hill in the distance, he sees a light representing the hope of the resurrected Christ. When he attempts to climb toward the light, a leopard, lion, and she-wolf–which symbolize human iniquity–block his way. The spirit of the Roman poet Vergil (also spelled Virgil), author of the epic The Aeneid, comes forth to rescue him. Vergil, the exemplar of human reason, offers to escort him out of the Forest of Error by another route, for there is no way to get by the she-wolf. This alternate route leads first through Hell, where Dante will recognize sin for what it is, then through Purgatory, where Dante will abjure sin and purge himself of it. Finally, it leads to Heaven, where Beatrice–a woman Dante had loved before her death in 1295–will become his guide while Vergil returns from whence he came, for human reason cannot mount the heights of paradise. Dante happily agrees to make the journey, and they depart.

Hell (Inferno)

After passing into hell, Dante and Vergil hear the groans and wails of the damned in the outer reaches of the abyss and see persons who were lukewarm and halfhearted in their moral lives. They then cross the Acheron River and arrive at a cone-shaped cavern with nine circles. In the First Circle at the top, called Limbo, are the least offensive souls, such as unbaptized but well-meaning heathens. They suffer no torment. However, they cannot move on to Purgatory or Heaven because they died before Christ brought redemption. Vergil himself dwells in the First Circle.
They then pass down through the other eight circles, seeing terrible sights of suffering experienced by those who died in mortal sin (in Catholicism, the worst kind of sin, such as willful murder and rape). Circles 2 through 6 contain those who could not control their desires for sex, food, money, or wayward religion (heresy). Among the personages they encounter are Queen Cleopatra of Egypt, the Greek warrior Achilles, Helen of Troy, and the man who carried her off, Paris.The Seventh Circle contains those who committed violence against themselves or others, or against God himself. The Eighth Circle contains hypocrites, thieves, forgers, alchemists, swindlers, flatterers and deceivers. The Ninth Circle, reserved for the worst evildoers, are traitors of every kind–those who were false to friends or relatives, or to their country or a noble cause. Dante sees two political leaders frozen together in a lake, head to head. He also encounters the most abominable of all traitors–Judas Iscariot, the betrayer of Christ, and Brutus and Cassius, the assassins of Julius Caesar. Satan himself, the arch fiend, is here frozen in the lake.

Purgatory (Purgatorio)

Dante and Vergil next arrive at the Mount of Purgatory, which is surrounded by an ocean. On ten terraces running up the side of the mountain are souls purging themselves of venial (less serious) sins involving negligence, pride, envy, sloth, political intrigue and other transgressions. Dante exults in the light and hope that greet him after leaving the horrid realm of darkness and death. At the entrance to Purgatory, Dante and Vergil meet Cato, an ancient Roman who, as censor in 184 B.C., attempted to root out immorality and corruption in Roman life. In Dante's poem, Cato symbolizes the four cardinal virtues of Roman Catholicism: prudence, justice, fortitude and temperance. On Cato's instructions, Vergil cleanses Dante's face of the grime of hell and girdles his waist with a reed, symbolizing humility. An angel writes seven P's across Dante's forehead, each representing one of the seven deadly sins. (The Italian word for sin begins with a P.) The angel then tells Dante he must wash away the P's–that is, purge himself of sin–while in Purgatory.
Among the terrace dwellers are excommunicants who repented before they died, a lazy Florentine who postponed doing good works most of his life, and monarchs who neglected their duties. As Dante and Vergil continue upward, they also meet the proud, the envious, the avaricious, the wasteful and the lustful. Farther up the mountain, they can gaze across the River Lethe and see the Earthly Paradise, signaling it is time for Vergil to leave and return to his abode, the First Circle of the heathens.
Still observing from the opposite bank of the river (and still in Purgatory) Dante sees a pageant in which the participants and sacred objects symbolize books of the Bible, virtues, the human and divine natures of Christ and Saints Peter, and Paul and other disciples of the Christian religion. Beatrice is there, too. Out of love for him, she rebukes him for the sins he has committed. After he confesses his guilt, she invites the purified Dante to come across the river and ascend to heaven.

Heaven (Paradiso)

Heaven, a place of perfect happiness, is a celestial region with planets, stars and other bodies. It resembles the earth-centered (geocentric) system of Ptolemy rather than the sun-centered (heliocentric) system of Copernicus and Galileo. The placement of an individual depends on the level of goodness he or she achieved in life, although everyone experiences the fulness of God's love. Dante and Beatrice then rise into heaven, where the poet discovers that even some pagans–persons born before the time of Christ–abide in the heavenly realm because they accepted revelations from God. At the lowest level of Heaven is the Moon. Next come Mercury, Venus, the Sun, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn, the Stars (where St. Peter condemns corruption under Pope Boniface VIII) and the Primum Mobile (First Mover), the cause of time and of all movement in the universe. The highest level is the Empyrean, the abode of the Triune God, the Virgin Mary, other angels, and saints.
When Dante and Beatrice reach the Empyrean, St. Bernard comes forth to prepare Dante to look upon the resplendent beings within. Dante realizes here that knowledge of heaven comes only through the grace of God and deep meditation, not through theology textbooks. After St. Bernard prays to Mary on Dante's behalf, she begs the light of God to welcome the prayer. When Dante glimpses that light, it overpowers him with a love so radiant that he cannot fathom its depth or even remember what he saw.

About the book

The Aeneid is Virgil's Masterpiece. His epic poem recounts the story of Rome's legendary origins from the ashes of Troy and proclaims her destiny of world dominion. This optimistic vision is accompanied by an undertow of sadness at the price that must be paid in human suffering to secure Rome's future greatness. The tension between the public voice of celebration and the tragic private voice is given full expression both in the doomed love of Dido and Aeneas, and in the fateful clash between the Trojan leader and the Italian hero, Turnus. Hailed by T.S. Eliot as 'the classic of all Europe', Virgil's Aeneid has enjoyed a unique and enduring influence on European literature, art and politics for the past two thousand years.

Summary

Book I
The Trojans Land near Carthage
Virgil opens with an appeal to the muse of poetry. Aeneas is a Trojan leader, son of Venus and the mortal Anchises. He suffers as did the other Trojans from the wrath of Juno, after the judgment of Paris favored Venus [?and the desecration of her temple]. The book begins with the Trojan fleet sailing from Sicily and now near Carthage, 7 years after the fall of Troy. Juno bribes Aeolus to unleash storm winds on them, and they founder near Carthage. Venus appeals to Jupiter for their salvation and he reassures her of their glorious future and a golden age to come (the first of many prophecies and futurity scenes). Venus appears to Aeneas disguised as a Carthaginian huntress, tells him of Queen Dido and the settlers from Tyre who have formed the colony at Carthage, surrounded by potentially hostile peoples. A scouting party led by the visible Ilioneus observes the temple under construction (Aeneas is hidden by a shield of invisibility provided by Venus). Dido reassures and hospitably welcomes them and Aeneas eventually appears. Venus arranges for her son Cupid, in the form of Aeneas' s son Ascanius, to cause A. and Dido to fall in love, to ensure his safety. Dido puts on a feast and her passion rises.

Book II
Recounting the Fall of Troy
At Dido's request, A. recounts the fall of Troy. The Trojan Horse. A "captured" Greek Sinon deludes them about the reason why the horse was constructed to appease Minerva [Athena] after their attack on her temple. Laocoön, a priest who spears the horse, is attacked by two serpents, along with his sons. The Trojans break down their wall to get the horse inside. At night, the Greeks sail back to the shore and Sinon releases the men in the horse. A vision of Hector appears to A. telling him to flee the ensuing destruction and found a new city. The palace is attacked, Priam slain by Pyrrhus (Achilles' son). A. considers killing Helen but Venus deters him. A divine portent appears over the head of Iulus (Ascanius), Aeneas' son. Anchises refuses to flee at first but is persuaded, and A. carries him on his shoulders. His wife Creusus becomes separated and dies--her spirit comes to him and prophesies his great future.

Book III
The Wanderings of Aeneas
After sailing from Troy, they sailed north to Thrace and founded Aeneadae. But the ghost of Polydorus warns them to leave. After consulting with the Delian oracle, Anchises misinterprets the advice to seek the land that first bore the Trojan race. They sail to Crete, again try to found a settlement, but a pestilence ensues. A. dreams that Hesperia (the land of the west, or Italy) is their ultimate goal, and they sail west. They encounter the Harpies led by Celeano at the Strophades, west of Greece. After they kill her cattle, they attack the Trojans. Celeano prophesies his future. They sail on to Leucas in W. Greece and stay a year. At Buthrotum in Chaonia (now part of Epirus), they are welcomed by the former Trojan Helenus, who was enslaved by the Greeks but has been freed and made a king, married to Andromache. Helenus prophesies the Italian future and the route to take, including going to the Sibyl at Cumae. A. departs and sails across the Ionian sea to the boot of Italy and on to Sicily. They encounter the stranded Greek, Achaimenides, who tells them his story about the Cyclops. They all have to flee Polyphemus when he appears, and end up at Drepanum on the west coast of Sicily where Anchises dies.

Book IV
Dido and Aeneas
Though bound by a vow to her husband Sychaeus (killed by his brother Pygmalion), Dido has a rising passion for Aeneas, which her sister Anna encourages. Juno gets Venus to agree to the union, and arranges a hunt and a storm to bring them together in a cave. After their tryst, rumors fly through Carthage. Her former suitor, King Iarbus is jealous. Jupiter sends Mercury to chastise Aeneas and to remind him of his destiny, which does not lie with Dido. Dido rebukes A., but A. explains to her his duty without emotion, as prompted by Jupiter, and denies that they were in fact married. Dido is angered at him and swears vengeance. She tries to get Anna to delay their departure, then received bad omens and realizes she is doomed. Mercury warns A. to flee and they hastily depart in their ships. Dido orders an attack on them and curses them, pledging eternal war with the Carthaginians. She ascends to the pyre and kills herself with a sword.

Book V
The Funeral Games for Anchises
As they sail back to Eryx in Sicily, they see the flames in the distance. King Acestes receives them hospitably. He and Aeneas decide to hold funeral games, in the manner of book XXIII of the Iliad, to honor Anchises who died one year ago. They have a race of ships (won by Cloanthus), foot races (Euryalus), boxing (won by Entellus), archery, and equestrian maneuvers. Iris, disguised as the old Trojan woman Beroe, is sent by Juno to stir up trouble--she incites the women to set many of the ships on fire. Jupiter douses the fires. Nautes advises them to divide the group up, leaving the old and weary to found the settlement of Acesta near Eryx there on Sicily. The image of Anchises appears to A., asking to come to him in the underworld. Venus appeals to Neptune and is reassured that only one man will die as they sail to Italy. The helmsman Palinurus is put to sleep by the god of sleep and falls in to the water--an example of "double determination" where a person's actions are influenced by the gods as well as his own will.

Book VI
The Lower World
The ships land at Cumae on the west coast of Italy. A. seeks the Cumaean Sibyl (prophetess) at Apollo's temple, which was founded by Daedalus. The sibyl prophesies war and the trials ahead. A. asks her help in visiting his father. She him to bring a golden bough for Proserpina in order to gain admittance. He learns also that one of his men newly deceased, Misenus, must be buried. They proceed with the cremation. A. prepares to enter the cavern, by the lake Avernus, leading to the underworld. Hecate nears, but Sibyl warns her away. They pass many personified evils and monsters: Briareus, Chimaera, Scyllas, etc. He encounters Palinurus, who cannot yet cross the Styx into the underworld because his body was not buried. Charon is appeased by the golden bough and they sedate Cerberus. They pass the infants, the Fields of Mourning. He encounters Dido, and offers her more excuses--she turns away from him to her husband Sychaeus. They also encounter Trojans and also Greeks, including Deiophobus, the 3rd husband of Helen. We learn how Helen betrayed Troy. Tartarus, on the road to the left, is described, a place of suffering and punishment for those found guilty by the judge Rhadamanthus for a variety of enumerated punishable sins. Instead, they turn right. A. places the bough at the threshold of Proserpine, and finally enters Elysium. There, he encounters Anchises. There are spirits there awaiting reincarnation after drinking of Lethe to induce forgetfulness. Anchises predicts the future: the Alban kings, other kings, Romulus, Iulus, Numa, etc. Anchises says that Rome's fame will be for its leadership and contribution to government rather than for its artistic contributions. He ends with a panegyric to Augustus' deceased son, Marcellus. A. reemerges to the world of the living.

Book VII
Italy and the Outbreak of War
They sail pass Circe's island and land near the Tiber's mouth in Latium. The Laurentians (or Latians, Latins) are ruled by King Latinus. The spirit of Faunus tells Latinus that his daughter Lavinia should marry a foreigner. More omens. The Trojans come to see the king, who treats them generously and offers A. his daughter in marriage. Juno is angered by this tranquil scene and sends the Fury Allecto to stir up discord and war. In a remarkably poetic description, she infects Queen Amata with resentment at her husbands decision. Amata hides Lavinia and goes into a frenzied rage with some Bacchantes (a simile of a top describes her). Allecto also stirs up the Rutulians, in particular Turnus their king, who has been the chief suitor of Lavinia. Turnus seems to plan to march on both the Trojans and the Laurentines. Allecto also causes Iulus (Ascanius), A.'s son, to wound a deer or stag kept as a royal pet by Tyrrhus--this is the precipitating event and war breaks out. Allecto gloats and Latinus is powerless to stop the preparations. The people arm for war and the gates of war are thrown open by Juno after Latinus refuses. A catalog of combatants against Troy is given, as in the Iliad, including the tyrant Mezentius, Messapus, Virbius, and the Volscian warrior-maiden Camilla.

Book VIII
Aeneas at the Site of Rome
Confusion reigns. A. is compared to a bowl of water. Tiber the river-god appears to A. in a dream and encourages Aeneas. A. prays to Tiber, who assists his ships upstream, and advises him to ally with Evander, son of Mercury and therefore kin. He is the leader of Arcadians living on the site of current Rome, Pallanteum (on the Palantine Hill). He sees the white sow that had been prophesied, and encounters Evander's beloved son Pallas. Evander agrees to ally. He tells of Hercules victory over the half-man monster Cacus, a civilizing action. There is a local cult of Hercules worshippers. Evander recites other local history. Saturn (Cronos) gave local law and order and the name of Latium. There was a golden age. They tour the landmarks of the future Rome. Evander lives simply and exemplifies the simple virtues admired by the future Roman state. Venus appeals to her husband Vulcan to make armor for Aeneas. His Cyclops get right to work on this at their forges on the island of Vulcano. Evander tells of Agylla in Etruria and suggests Aeneas ally with them as well. He also describes the sadistic leader Mezentius. Evander nobly and unselfishly turns his beloved son Pallas over to Aeneas to become a warrior, along with many of his warriors and horsemen. Evander recalls his heroic past, then prays for his son. Venus delivers the armor to A. and tells him to not fear war. His shield is decorated with depictions of future Roman triumphs.

Book IX
Attack on the Trojan Camp in the Absence of Aeneas
With Aeneas still away with Evander, Juno sends Iris to mobilize Turnus to action. The enemy marches on the Trojan camp, which is alongside the river. The Trojans stay behind their walls as Aeneas had instructed them. After they do not respond to Turnus' challenge, he tries to set their ships afire. The goddess Cybele (Rhea) is worried about the Trojan ships, which had been constructed out of her sacred grove, and had previously appealed to her son Jupiter to save them. He now acts, and the ships are turned into sea nymphs, leaving the Trojans no alternative but to stay on the land and fight. Turnus goads on the Rutulians, and the fort is surrounded (except the side open to the river). Nisus and Euryalus, close friends, heroically resolve to try to get word to Aeneas at Pallanteum of the siege. Their companions know how risky this is and praise their bravery. Euryalus refuses gifts and only asks that his mother be looked after. They set out at night and begin killing many of the Rutulians lying in their way. But Euryalus foolishly dons the armor and helmet of one he has killed [they seem to have forgotten the main purpose of their mission]. He is spotted by Volcens and his men and subsequently captured and killed despite Nisus' efforts to save him. Nisus kills Volcens and then falls dying over his friend. At dawn, the Trojans see the heads of these brave men impaled on enemy spears. Euryalus' mother arrives at the walls and laments her son's death. The Volscians or Rutulians charge the fort and major fighting breaks out. Iulus takes up his bow and kills young Remulus/Numanus with an arrow, his first taste of combat. Apollo blesses Iulus, and asks him to desist from further killing for the time being. Pandarus and Bitias, both Trojans and caught up in the rage of fighting, open the gates to the fort, and the Rutulians rush in. Pandarus finally closes the gates, but Turnus is there with them and kills many including Pandarus before he retreats and escapes via the river.

Book X
Aeneas at War
With the Trojan camp under siege, the gods debate the conflict. Venus appeals to Jupiter to at least spare Iulus, to which Juno angrily counters. Jupiter responds that he will be neutral and that the fates will determine the outcome. Aeneas sails back with Tarchon's men (Etruscans and former subjects of the evil Mezentius)-- at some point Pallas has taken charge of a cavalry contingent that travels on horseback. A catalog of the Trojan allies is given. The sea-nymphs (recently transformed from their ships) alert Aeneas to the siege and help them to be quickly transported to the site, dumbfounding Turnus and his men. A. invokes Cybele to bless their undertaking. They land and are immediately attacked by the Rutulians. Pallas leads the attack of the contingent on horseback and is sought out by Turnus. Pallas responds bravely. His prayer to Jupiter is answered with affirmation of Jupiter's intention to stay neutral. Pallas is speared and killed by Turnus. A. comes after him after rounding up four sacrificial victims for Pallas' pyre. He goes on a rampage of killing and shows no mercy. Juno appeals to Jupiter to intervene and spare Turnus. She then disguises herself as Aeneas and lures Turnus aboard a ship in pursuit of him--the ship promptly sails away, temporarily saving Turnus. Mezentius joins the battle, offers to give captured armor to his son Lausus (a sacrilege), and is wounded by A. Lausus defends his wounded father and is slain by A. A. takes pity on Lausus and shows respect for his body and the necessary burial rituals. Mezentius laments his son's death, then charges A. on his horse Rhaebus and is slain.

Book XI
The Despair of the Latins
The battle pauses for funeral rites for the numerous victims. A. mourns the death of Pallas. His body is taken to King Evander--even Pallas' horse Aethon weeps! The Latins petition for a peace to bury the dead. A. wonders how destiny has brought about this unexpected war. Evander mourns the death of Pallas, and calls for Turnus' death. Pyres consume the bodies, which are then buried. The Latins receive word via Venulus that Diomede, now living in Arpi, is not willing to join in fighting once again with the Trojans, saying that he has no quarrel with them anymore, that he has suffered enough punishment for his past actions, and that he expects further retribution for his attack on Venus. He advises the Latins to make a treaty with the Trojans. In a council of the Latins, the crafty Drances (who is hostile to Turnus) offers suggestions for ending the conflict including that Turnus go into single combat as he is largely responsible for it. Turnus angrily responds that he is not ready to concede defeat, wants more war, and accepts the challenge to engage in single combat with Aeneas. The council is interrupted by the news that the Trojans and Etruscans are advancing. Turnus calls the men to arms. The noble female warrior Camilla tells Turnus she wishes to lead her Volscians against the Etruscan riders without Turnus' assistance--he praises her but says they will fight together. (Camilla's story: Her father Metabus lived in exile after escaping from the Volscians. When forced to cross a river, he tied her to a spear and consecrated her to Diana, then hurled her safely across and swam himself. Camilla grew up to cherish Diana's weapons.) The battle begins. Camilla fights heroically, Tarchon rallies his horsemen, and Arruns stalks Camilla. She is distracted by Chloreus' shining armor, which she wants to capture, and is slain by Arruns who awaits her in ambush. Opis, Diana's sentinel, kills Arruns. The Latins flee in disarray. Turnus, who had staked out an ambush for Aeneas, leaves the spot just before A. comes by, as all are converging on the city of Laurentum.

Book XII
The Final Combat
Turnus meets with Latinus, and indicates he expects Lavinia's hand if he wins. Latinus advises him his request cannot be granted because she is destined to marry a foreigner, and asks him to relent and break off the combat, sparing them all further needless deaths. But Queen Amata is adamant that she will not accept Aeneas as her son-in-law. Turnus issues a challenge to Aeneas for single combat, the victor to receive Lavinia's hand. At dawn, the Latins and Trojans gather on the plain outside the city [?Laurentum]. Juno plots with Turnus' sister Juturna, now a sea-nymph, to save him. Aeneas prays and makes a pledge that his victory will lead to peaceful coexistence and equality and that if he is defeated, the Trojan's will depart. Latinus also makes a pledge to honor the terms of the single combat. Juturna arrives among the assembled Latins disguised as Tolumnius. An omen of an eagle and other birds suggests that the Trojans can be defeated and Juturna/Tolumnius precipitates the battle. Aeneas tries to stop the fighting, is wounded by an arrow, and is hastily taken away. Iapyx, a healer favored by Apollo, tries to heal A. and is surprised to find himself successful, thanks to herbs Venus adds unseen to the balm. A. speaks with Iulus, then rushes into battle, seeking Turnus. Juturnus assumes the disguise of Turnus' chariot driver Metiscus, keeping him away from serious threats. Many are slain by the two heroes before their final confrontation. Aeneas considers destroying Latinus' city with fire. Queen Amata has lost her mind and hangs herself. Turnus confronts his disguised sister and spurns her aid, preferring a heroic death. He jumps from his chariot and calls to his men to allow him to seek single combat with Aeneas, which Aeneas accepts--the two armies draw back. The combatants are both larger than life. They fight, Turnus' sword breaks against Aeneas' armor, Juturna provides a replacement. Juno and Jupiter conference--he asks that she cease her meddling with the destined outcome, and at last she relents. She asks only that "Troy" be forgotten, the Ausonian customs remain, and that the language of the conquered and commingled peoples shall remain Latin. Jupiter sends a Fury disguised as a screech-owl as an omen to Turnus. Juturna laments the portent against her brother. Turnus tries to throw a large boulder at A. but his strength is flagging, he has no escape, and A. finally spears him in his thigh. Turnus concedes defeat and asks that his body be given a proper burial, even that his life be spared. But Aeneas sees Pallas' swordbelt around Turnus and in a final rage exacts his vengeance, slaying Turnus with his sword.

SHANTA GOKHALE


For Vinda Karandikar, poetry was a serious game. He played it earnestly and fought his battles, resulting in a rich tapestry of colours, sounds, feelings and ideas. A tribute to the poet who passed away last month at the age of 92…





PHOTO: SHANKER CHAKRAVARTY

Living his beliefs: Vinda Karandikar (left) at the the Jnanpeeth Award presentation ceremony in 2003.

It is a supreme irony that Govind Vinayak (Vinda) Karandikar, prolific poet, eminent critic, sophisticated thinker and creative translator, won the Jnanpeeth Award for Ashtadarshane (Eight Philosophies), a collection that came 20 years after he had announced his retirement.

He had intended Virupika (Distortions) to be his last collection. “I believe I have done what little I could in the field of poetry”, he wrote in the preface. His admirers grieved but hailed it as a rare and brave decision for an artist to take. Yet, to their joy (mixed with some dismay), he came right back with Ashtadarshane. He called these eight poems explicating the philosophies of Descartes, Spinoza, Kant, Hegel, Schopenhauer, Nietzsche, Bergson and Charvak, an old man's game. The outcome of the game won him the country's most prestigious award.

Word games

In a sense, the entire body of Vinda Karandikar's work may be seen as a grand and serious game. He played with metres, words, forms, ideas. The result was a poetry rich in colour, sound, smell, feel, thought and emotion. In one of his poems, he pleads ardently for words to express the myriad shades of human life he sees around him — grey words, black words, happy, tasty, pregnant words. Words alone can marry abstract thought to concrete utterance to bring forth a sacred union.

Sensuous touch

Vinda was a sensuous man. He believed in touch as the ultimate means of communion between man and man, man and nature. He asserted that the fullness of a flower's fragrance filled him only when he had touched its petals. He dismissed the possibility of ordinary mortals attaining the highest bliss which we call paramananda. But there was a deeply satisfying joy that men could experience if they became one with the human world.

He was a Marxist, a non-believer. Speaking humorously about a poem in which he looks forward to the next birth to win his lady love, he explains that he wrote the poem when he was still a Hindu. It was a comforting thing to be able believe in rebirth in those days when college classes consisted, most unfairly, of 145 boys to five girls!

Many of Karandikar's earliest poems were written for and about the working class. The title of his first collection, Svedganga (Sacred River of Sweat) itself reflects this preoccupation. The anger of these early poems turned mellow later, but was still capable of flaring up on occasion. There is deep disgust at the self-centredness of the middle-class in lines like, “True, I am a winner, don't you see it?/ I have avoided battles, to avoid defeat”; and deep despair in lines like, “You cannot avoid this road/ These hungry, naked, shivering souls/ Don't look at them/ Sew up your eyes/ Forget they are there/ Repress your sob/ Heart and mind, turn to stone!”

Fun for children

It is amazing but true that Vinda Karandikar, who has given the Marathi language some of its most memorable lines, has also left for children from four to 14 poems to love and cherish. No other writer of his stature has gifted so much poetic fun to the young. “The chair said to the stool/ ‘When will you learn to walk?'/ Said the stool, ‘Exactly when,/ You learn to clap for a lark'!/ Hearing this the fan laughed loud /And minus legs, ran round and round.”

Karandikar lived his beliefs. On the one hand he vowed never to give away a poem free. Poetry had to be respected. It was for the principle, not for the money. Indeed money per se had never mattered to him. He had been imprisoned during the freedom struggle. When friends urged him to apply for the grant that the State gives to freedom fighters, he refused. “Why do I need a grant when I have a job?” He also gave away all the money he won in awards to charities while he himself lived a frugal life.

He was fortunate to have married a woman like Suma, who had the education and the sensitivity to be a true partner to him. She financed his first collection of poems from her savings as a teacher. He loved carpentry and built her a shrine for her gods though he was himself an unbeliever.

Vinda and Suma, both are gone, she a few years before him. He was prepared for this to happen. “It is but a short walk now,” he wrote. “An easy slope to the end/ You first or I first makes no difference/We will soon meet again.”

source: literary magazine

april 04, 2010


VIJAY NAIR


Having a story to tell, or being a literary enthusiast, are both routes to successful writing…




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Thanks to the immense popularity (of) the four books he has penned ... Bhagat has become a cultural phenomenon
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PHOTOS: RAJEEV BHATT, AP, K.MURALIKUMAR

Salman Rushdie.

T he question that baffles writers and readers alike is what distinguishes literary fiction from popular or genre fiction. Various notions are built around the two to give each a set of distinctive characteristics. But they fall short of being worthy frameworks around which we can peg an absolute understanding. There is one which says the fiction of ideas is literary fiction and the fiction of emotions is popular fiction. One evokes thoughts and the other feelings. There are others who say it is pretentious to describe any contemporary writing as literary. Only history can be a judge of that. No one can be a student of English Literature in India without having to study at least one Shakespearean text. Shakespeare or for that matter Charles Dickens were considered popular writers during their times and there is some evidence to suggest they didn't have literary respect, although their popularity was never in question. And yet, we use the adjectives literary and popular as almost exact opposites when it comes to writing fiction.

Fans galore


No other Indian writer, writing in English symbolises this dichotomy more than Chetan Bhagat. Thanks to the immense popularity the four books he has penned to date have enjoyed, Bhagat has become a cultural phenomenon. His books get adapted into plays and screenplays. For millions of his fans, he has turned into some kind of a motivational speaker without necessarily having to work for that label. A friend who went for a panel discussion around Bhagat's latest work on Indian marriages came back with stories of how the audience wanted answers to some of the dilemmas life was posing for them from the author.

I have read the first novel Bhagat penned many years ago. Bhagat wasn't the phenomenon he is today then and I picked up Five Point Someone from an airport bookshop because of lack of alternatives on the shelves. I finished the book during the flight itself and went to sleep. I didn't think his writing was great but the idea around which the book was based seemed worthy enough. Having studied in an elite professional institute in India and now asked sometimes to take a course in another, I could resonate with what Bhagat was saying in the book. He also seemed to have a great sense for the story that most critics and academicians would say is a critical element of the novel. I have not read any other books of Bhagat after that. Not because I consider him a lesser writer but because when I want to be entertained I read detective fiction and Bhagat's books don't fall under that genre.




Chetan Bhagat.

I am always uncomfortable in a writer's gathering whenever someone passes an acerbic comment on Bhagat and his writing. I have never got drawn into defending Bhagat because what I encounter is not only derision but also hostility from many of his peers.

Another writer who seems to be getting there is Anuvab Pal with his seminal work The President is Coming . Pal wrote the first draft of the play in a workshop I attended for 12 Indian playwrights that a theatre group from Mumbai organized along with a much revered British theatre establishment. During the first reading of the play in the workshop, the reaction from the facilitators was poker faced at best. When the play was staged to immense audience acclaim, there were jealous titters from others in the workshop about how hard the director had to work to redeem Pal's play. The play soon found itself into a film adaptation and then a leading publisher commissioned Pal to write a novel on the same idea as the book. Since a novel, unlike a play or a screenplay cannot be redeemed by any director, his peers from theatre are not saying anything anymore. The President is Coming once again is not a farce bereft of ideas. It found a ready resonance with the audience because it pokes fun at them while not taking itself very seriously. The phenomenon of the play is interesting because it became hugely popular in India and abroad without the backing of the self styled patrons of Indian arts and literature that a Sahitya Academy writer once described to me as the cultural mafia. I don't know whether I would ever read Pal's novel having watched the play and the film. But I do have a lot of respect for Pal and what he achieves through his writing.

Different motives

That respect is lacking when it comes to a particular breed of writers who have already styled themselves as literary writers. These are writers whose works come with the coded message “take me seriously.” And the reason they are saying this and have deluded critics into echoing the same is because these are writers who give the impression of being erudite and scholarly. They are writers because they know their Rushdie and Grass. They can give intelligent interviews and most times what they say in their interviews is more interesting than what the reader has to plod through in their works. While writers like Bhagat and Pal seem to write because they have stories to tell and they enjoy writing, there are writers who seem to write because they have read other critically acclaimed writers and want to write like them. And that is always tricky to negotiate. We may dislike a Rushdie or a Naipaul and their works, but we also know they are originals. No one can write like them. Why would we want another Rushdie or another Naipaul who don't quite measure up although their ambition in telling stories about dwarfs and centurions may be worthy and noble?




Evoking strong reactions: V.S Naipaul.

The argument is not that writers should write only out of their experience. It is not an either/or. Anita Nair's debut novel The Better Man for some reason made me feel she has read a lot of Latin American writers. I was reminded of Marquez while I was reading the novel. But it did not prevent me from either liking or respecting that book. In my humble opinion that is one of the most stunning first works by an Indian writer writing in English. Likewise for Anjum Hasan. Both her novels Lunatic in My Head as well as Neti…Neti comes to me with a strong fragrance of E.M. Foster. Particularly her second novel, where the theme seems to be strongly influenced by the cave section in A Passage to India. But there are also original and interesting stories to go with the inspired themes.

Maybe it is a good thing for a writer to be well read and also have a great story to tell.






Vijay Nair is writer and critic based in Bangalore

source: literary magazine

april 04, 2010


KALA KRISHNAN RAMESH


There was a time when one sought out different and life-changing books. Today, everyone seems to be reading the same new books…





PHOTO: SAMPATH KUMAR G.P.

Looking for the voice that calls out to you...

How do you do it? Your colleagues, neighbours, family and friends, how do they all do it? “I follow my nose,” says Dan Rhodes, author of Gold, “I am always on the hunt for the next book that's going to rock my world … my favourite thing is still going into a shop and coming out with something I'd never heard of. ” But if you stand in any bookstore, you're unlikely to see many people using their noses, they just head straight for the “new” Salman Rushdie or the “latest” Chetan Bhagat or the “most recent” Shobhaa De or the “new bestseller” from Paulo Coelho: it's a matter of judging every book by its author.

Seeking questions


I remember that in the days when I first began to buy books, almost all the people I knew were looking for one that would somehow alter the way life felt or the way they conducted themselves in life, because we believed that books could change life. Maybe that was the Catcher effect — most of us had read Catcher in the Rye and Salinger's other books in our late teens, at the same time that we were beginning to buy our own books; Salinger undid everything we had believed about writing and heroes and even about reading. So maybe when we searched long and hard in bookstores — reading page after page of the book, not content with what the flaps were saying — we were looking for something that could stand up to Catcher, a book that could make us look at what else life was about.

It doesn't seem to work that way now: readers don't seem to expect books to make them want to see around life's troubled corners, or under its rough edges, they just want to be settled into their little slice of life, and are happy to read what everyone else there is reading. You “don't want to take a risk,” as software professional Veena Rao puts it, because “What if a completely new book, by an unknown author turns out to be disappointing? What if no one else is reading it?” Vidya Veerkar of Strand Book Store, Bangalore, feels that people in Bangalore — unlike in Mumbai or Delhi — are far less willing to experiment with new books because of a lack of maturity in reading, which causes a “fear of the unknown”.

It's like old money and new money: if it's always been around you, you develop an instinct about it, else you are never sure what the done thing is and you get all clumsy and heavy-handed. Many of the people reading now are not used to books, they have not inherited a graceful way of reading, their birthday gifts were not books, they did not have stories read to them, they did not know a library and most likely, they were never told that books could change life.

Once you get used to the ways of books, you don't get dazzled by the rush of publicity, or the author's reputation, or by who else is reading it; you prefer to follow your nose, like Minakshi Achan, Executive Creative Director and Head, South Operations, Rediff. She has “always read books” and enjoys the adventure of going past front displays in bookstores to the back rows where the surprises lurk or going online and browsing till something catches her fancy and she can order it.

Beyond the obvious


If you're naïve about books, you can let yourself believe many things: you might believe that if a book is being filmed, it must be good; you might think that “controversial” books have to be exciting or that a book by an intellectual will be intellectually stimulating; you might believe that a book said to be good will be good; why, you might even believe that all books coming out of the nation's capital are good books!

Books have always had real or virtual touts; in the days before printing, the rich and powerful waited in their courts, castles and abbeys for news of books-in-the-making to be brought to them by spies or travelling scribes, and then they commissioned copies or thefts or simply kidnapped the scribe! Eons after Gutenberg put letters to the page minus the scribe and Caxton machined copies, after virtualisation took words from pages and put them nowhere, we don't need to search for news of books — it comes at us from everywhere. And maybe we can't do without this news because books are one of our most effective social tools: they not only grease the way through interviews and group discussions and provide a word-hold into page three social groupings, but they are also a way for others to identify who you are and what you might bring up in a conversation.

Talking of which, there's a whole bunch of books that I'm eternally thankful to have been given for reviewing: David Davidar's The House of Blue Mangoes, Shinie Antony's Kardamom Kisses, Meenakshi Reddy Madhavan's … the list could go on. I imagine I might never have been able to look another book in the eye had I actually paid good money and bought those home, as I well might have, because they were saying such interesting things about themselves!

Following your nose in pursuit of a good book is to stop thinking of the world as a safe little place — gridded and mapped to its last inch — and of yourself as a groupie, perpetually on tour, perpetually following.

source: literary magazine

Here is a book about the young girl and her awakening to the world by this talented author. Darsie, the heroine, is selected by an old aunt to come and spend a year or so as her companion. The old woman tries to coach Darsie in matters of deportment and behaviour. This would be pretty odious if it were not for the presence locally of a young family of boys and girls of Darsie's age, whom, being rich and living rather grandly, the aunt allows Darsie to know. The first half of the book describes the times they had. The old aunt promises Darsie that she will make available the funds needed for Darsie to go up to Cambridge as a student at Newnham, a girls' college.

When the second half of the book begins the old aunt has just died, and Darsie feels glad that the poor old lady will be relieved of all her pains. The years of studentship are well described, and the friends that Darsie made come and go through the story. Finally we reach the last exams. Darsie does quite well, but is not in the First Class. She has a Second, which will be enough for her to be able to go and teach at some less distinguished school. But her friend Dan, one of those whom we met in the first half of the book, has obtained a First Class Honours degree, and the book ends with him asking her to marry him. What he doesn't know, and I suppose the author didn't either, is that young men going to teach at a top-rate boys' school are expected to spend their spare time coaching sports, and not to be married. In fact they would be better to have achieved a "Blue" at Oxford or Cambridge than a good degree.

Here is now a book about jokes, compiled by the Planeteers...Just shows you that we can also laugh in English, all together, no barriers!

The Tragical History of Doctor Faustus, normally known simply as Doctor Faustus, is a play by Christopher Marlowe, based on the Faust story, in which a man sells his soul to the devil for power and knowledge. Doctor Faustus was first published in 1604, eleven years after Marlowe's death and at least twelve years after the first performance of the play.
"No Elizabethan play outside the Shakespeare canon has raised more controversy than Doctor Faustus. There is no agreement concerning the nature of the text and the date of composition... and the centrality of the Faust legend in the history of the Western world precludes any definitive agreement on the interpretation of the play

Synopsis

Faustus learns necromancy
As a prologue, the Chorus tells us what type of play Doctor Faustus is. It is not about war and courtly love, but about Faustus, who was born of lower class parents. This can be seen as a departure from the Medieval tradition; Faustus holds a lower status than kings and saints, but his story is still worth telling. It gives an introduction to his wisdom and abilities, most notably in academia which he excels so tremendously that he is awarded a doctorate. During this opening, we also get our first clue to the source of Faustus' downfall. Faustus' tale is likened to that of Icarus, who flew too close to the sun and fell to his death when the sun melted his waxen wings. This is indeed a hint to Faustus's end as well as bringing our attention to the idea of hubris (excessive pride) which is represented in the Icarus story.
Faustus comments that he has reached the end of every subject he has studied. He appreciates Logic as being a tool for arguing; Medicine as being unvalued unless it allowed raising the dead and immortality; Law as being upstanding and above him; Divinity as useless because he feels that all humans commit sin, and thus to have sins punishable by death complicates the logic of Divinity. He dismisses it as "What doctrine call you this? Que sera, sera (What will be, shall be)".
He calls upon his servant Wagner to bring forth Valdes and Cornelius, two famous magicians. The Good Angel and the Bad Angel dispense their own perspective of his interest in Satan. Though Faustus is momentarily dissuaded, proclaiming "How am I glutted with conceit of this?", he is apparently won over by the possibilities Magic offers to him. Valdes declares that if Faustus devotes himself to Magic, he must vow not to study anything else and points out that great things are indeed possible with someone of Faustus' standing.
Faustus' absence is noted by two scholars who are less accomplished than Faustus himself. They request that Wagner reveal Faustus' present location, a request which Wagner haughtily denies. The two scholars worry about Faustus falling deep into the art of Magic and leave to inform the King.
Faustus summons a devil, in the presence of Lucifer and other devils although Faustus is unaware of it. After creating a magic circle and speaking an incantation, a devil named Mephistophilis appears before him. Faustus is unable to tolerate the hideous looks of the devil and commands it to change its appearance. Faustus, in seeing the obedience of the devil (for changing form), takes pride in his skill. He tries to bind the devil to his service but is unable to because Mephistophilis already serves Lucifer, the prince of devils. Mephistophilis also reveals that it was not Faustus's power that summoned him but rather that if anyone abjures the scriptures it results in the Devil coming to claim their soul.
Mephistophilis introduces the history of Lucifer and the other devils while indirectly telling Faustus that hell has no circumference and is more of a state of mind than a physical location. Faustus' inquiries into the nature of hell lead to Mephistophilis saying: "Oh, Faustus, leave these frivolous demands, which strikes a terror to my fainting soul".
The pact with Lucifer
Using Mephistophilis as a messenger, Faustus strikes a deal with Lucifer: he is to be allotted twenty-four years of life on Earth, during which time he will have Mephistophilis as his personal servant. At the end he will give his soul over to Lucifer as payment and spend the rest of time as one damned to Hell. This deal is to be sealed in Faustus' own blood. After cutting his arm, the wound is divinely healed and the Latin words "Homo, fuge!" (Man, flee!) appear upon it. Despite the dramatic nature of this divine intervention, Faustus disregards the inscription with the assertion that he is already damned by his actions thus far and therefore left with no place to which he could flee. Mephistophilis brings coals to break the wound open again, and thus Faustus is able to take his oath.
Wasting his skills

Faustus begins by asking Mephistophilis a series of science-related questions. However, the devil seems to be quite evasive and finishes with a Latin phrase, "Per inoequalem motum respectu totius". This sentence hasn't the slightest scientific value. The reader then starts to ask himself whether Mephistophilis is to be trusted.
Two angels, one good and one bad, appear to Faustus: the good angel urges him to repent and revoke his oath to Lucifer. This is the largest fault of Faustus throughout the play: he is blind to his own salvation. Though he is told initially by Mephistophilis to "leave these frivolous demands", Faustus remains set on his soul's damnation.
Lucifer brings to Faustus the personification of the seven deadly sins. Faustus recognizes these as not as bad and ignores them.
From this point until the end of the play, Faustus does nothing worthwhile, having begun his pact with the attitude that he would be able to do anything. Faustus appears to scholars and warns them that he is damned and will not be long on the earth. He gives a speech about how he is damned and eventually seems to repent for his deeds. Mephistophilis comes to collect his soul, and we are told that he exits back to hell with him.
Damnation or salvation
The text leaves Faustus' final confrontation with Mephistophilis offstage, and his final fate obvious. The scene following begins with Faustus' friends discovering his clothes strewn about the stage: from this they conclude that Faustus was damned. However, his friends decide to give him a final party, a religious ceremony that hints at salvation. It should be noted that the discovery of the clothes is a scene present only in the later 'B text' of the play — the earlier version of the play, in offering no direct evidence of Faustus' fate, is more ambiguous.





THE TRAGICAL HISTORY OF DOCTOR FAUSTUS BY CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE FROM THE QUARTO OF 1604.

EDITED BY THE REV. ALEXANDER DYCE.





THE TRAGICALL HISTORY OF D. FAUSTUS. AS IT HATH BENE ACTED BY THE RIGHT HONORABLE THE EARLE OF NOTTINGHAM HIS SERUANTS. WRITTEN BY CH. MARL.

In reprinting this edition, I have here and there amended the text by means of the later 4tos,--1616, 1624, 1631.--Of 4to 1663, which contains various comparatively modern alterations and additions, I have made no use.





DRAMATIS PERSONAE.

THE POPE. CARDINAL OF LORRAIN. THE EMPEROR OF GERMANY. DUKE OF VANHOLT. FAUSTUS.
VALDES, ] friends to FAUSTUS. CORNELIUS, ] WAGNER, servant to FAUSTUS. Clown. ROBIN. RALPH. Vintner. Horse-courser. A Knight. An Old Man. Scholars, Friars, and Attendants.

DUCHESS OF VANHOLT

LUCIFER. BELZEBUB. MEPHISTOPHILIS. Good Angel. Evil Angel. The Seven Deadly Sins.
Devils.
Spirits in the shapes of ALEXANDER THE GREAT, of his Paramour and of HELEN.

Chorus.





THE TRAGICAL HISTORY OF DOCTOR FAUSTUS FROM THE QUARTO OF 1604.

Enter CHORUS.

CHORUS. Not marching now in fields of Thrasymene, Where Mars did mate the Carthaginians; Nor sporting in the dalliance of love, In courts of kings where state is overturn'd; Nor in the pomp of proud audacious deeds, Intends our Muse to vaunt her heavenly verse: Only this, gentlemen,--we must perform The form of Faustus' fortunes, good or bad: To patient judgments we appeal our plaud, And speak for Faustus in his infancy. Now is he born, his parents base of stock, In Germany, within a town call'd Rhodes: Of riper years, to Wertenberg he went, Whereas his kinsmen chiefly brought him up. So soon he profits in divinity,
The fruitful plot of scholarism grac'd, That shortly he was grac'd with doctor's name, Excelling all whose sweet delight disputes In heavenly matters of theology;
Till swoln with cunning, of a self-conceit, His waxen wings did mount above his reach, And, melting, heavens conspir'd his overthrow; For, falling to a devilish exercise, And glutted now with learning's golden gifts, He surfeits upon cursed necromancy; Nothing so sweet as magic is to him, Which he prefers before his chiefest bliss: And this the man that in his study sits.
[Exit.]

FAUSTUS discovered in his study.

FAUSTUS. Settle thy studies, Faustus, and begin To sound the depth of that thou wilt profess: Having commenc'd, be a divine in shew,
Yet level at the end of every art, And live and die in Aristotle's works. Sweet Analytics, 'tis thou hast ravish'd me! Bene disserere est finis logices. Is, to dispute well, logic's chiefest end? Affords this art no greater miracle? Then read no more; thou hast attain'd that end: A greater subject fitteth Faustus' wit: Bid Economy farewell, and Galen come, Seeing, Ubi desinit philosophus, ibi incipit medicus: Be a physician, Faustus; heap up gold, And be eterniz'd for some wondrous cure: Summum bonum medicinae sanitas,
The end of physic is our body's health. Why, Faustus, hast thou not attain'd that end? Is not thy common talk found aphorisms? Are not thy bills hung up as monuments, Whereby whole cities have escap'd the plague, And thousand desperate maladies been eas'd? Yet art thou still but Faustus, and a man. Couldst thou make men to live eternally, Or, being dead, raise them to life again, Then this profession were to be esteem'd. Physic, farewell! Where is Justinian?

[Reads.]
Si una eademque res legatur duobus, alter rem, alter valorem rei, &c.

A pretty case of paltry legacies!

[Reads.]
Exhoereditare filium non potest pater, nisi, &c.

Such is the subject of the institute, And universal body of the law:
This study fits a mercenary drudge, Who aims at nothing but external trash; Too servile and illiberal for me. When all is done, divinity is best: Jerome's Bible, Faustus; view it well.

[Reads.]
Stipendium peccati mors est.
Ha! Stipendium, &c.

The reward of sin is death: that's hard.

[Reads.]
Si peccasse negamus, fallimur, et nulla est in nobis veritas;

If we say that we have no sin, we deceive ourselves, and there's no truth in us. Why, then, belike we must sin, and so consequently die:
Ay, we must die an everlasting death. What doctrine call you this, Che sera, sera, What will be, shall be? Divinity, adieu! These metaphysics of magicians,
And necromantic books are heavenly; Lines, circles, scenes, letters, and characters; Ay, these are those that Faustus most desires. O, what a world of profit and delight, Of power, of honour, of omnipotence,
Is promis'd to the studious artizan!
All things that move between the quiet poles Shall be at my command: emperors and kings Are but obeyed in their several provinces, Nor can they raise the wind, or rend the clouds; But his dominion that exceeds in this, Stretcheth as far as doth the mind of man; A sound magician is a mighty god:
Here, Faustus, tire thy brains to gain a deity.

Enter WAGNER.

Wagner, commend me to my dearest friends, The German Valdes and Cornelius;
Request them earnestly to visit me.

WAGNER. I will, sir.
[Exit.]

FAUSTUS. Their conference will be a greater help to me Than all my labours, plod I ne'er so fast.

Enter GOOD ANGEL and EVIL ANGEL.

GOOD ANGEL. O, Faustus, lay that damned book aside, And gaze not on it, lest it tempt thy soul, And heap God's heavy wrath upon thy head! Read, read the Scriptures:--that is blasphemy.

EVIL ANGEL. Go forward, Faustus, in that famous art Wherein all Nature's treasure is contain'd: Be thou on earth as Jove is in the sky, Lord and commander of these elements.
[Exeunt Angels.]

FAUSTUS. How am I glutted with conceit of this!
Shall I make spirits fetch me what I please, Resolve me of all ambiguities,
Perform what desperate enterprise I will? I'll have them fly to India for gold, Ransack the ocean for orient pearl,
And search all corners of the new-found world For pleasant fruits and princely delicates; I'll have them read me strange philosophy, And tell the secrets of all foreign kings; I'll have them wall all Germany with brass, And make swift Rhine circle fair Wertenberg; I'll have them fill the public schools with silk, Wherewith the students shall be bravely clad; I'll levy soldiers with the coin they bring, And chase the Prince of Parma from our land, And reign sole king of all the provinces; Yea, stranger engines for the brunt of war, Than was the fiery keel at Antwerp's bridge, I'll make my servile spirits to invent.

Enter VALDES and CORNELIUS.

Come, German Valdes, and Cornelius,
And make me blest with your sage conference. Valdes, sweet Valdes, and Cornelius,
Know that your words have won me at the last To practice magic and concealed arts:
Yet not your words only, but mine own fantasy, That will receive no object; for my head But ruminates on necromantic skill. Philosophy is odious and obscure;
Both law and physic are for petty wits; Divinity is basest of the three, Unpleasant, harsh, contemptible, and vile: 'Tis magic, magic, that hath ravish'd me. Then, gentle friends, aid me in this attempt; And I, that have with concise syllogisms Gravell'd the pastors of the German church, And made the flowering pride of Wertenberg Swarm to my problems, as the infernal spirits On sweet Musaeus when he came to hell, Will be as cunning as Agrippa was,
Whose shadow made all Europe honour him.

VALDES. Faustus, these books, thy wit, and our experience, Shall make all nations to canonize us.
As Indian Moors obey their Spanish lords, So shall the spirits of every element
Be always serviceable to us three;
Like lions shall they guard us when we please;
Like Almain rutters with their horsemen's staves, Or Lapland giants, trotting by our sides; Sometimes like women, or unwedded maids, Shadowing more beauty in their airy brows Than have the white breasts of the queen of love: From Venice shall they drag huge argosies, And from America the golden fleece
That yearly stuffs old Philip's treasury; If learned Faustus will be resolute.

FAUSTUS. Valdes, as resolute am I in this As thou to live: therefore object it not.

CORNELIUS. The miracles that magic will perform Will make thee vow to study nothing else. He that is grounded in astrology,
Enrich'd with tongues, well seen in minerals, Hath all the principles magic doth require: Then doubt not, Faustus, but to be renowm'd, And more frequented for this mystery
Than heretofore the Delphian oracle.
The spirits tell me they can dry the sea, And fetch the treasure of all foreign wrecks, Ay, all the wealth that our forefathers hid Within the massy entrails of the earth: Then tell me, Faustus, what shall we three want?

FAUSTUS. Nothing, Cornelius. O, this cheers my soul! Come, shew me some demonstrations magical, That I may conjure in some lusty grove, And have these joys in full possession.

VALDES. Then haste thee to some solitary grove, And bear wise Bacon's and Albertus' works, The Hebrew Psalter, and New Testament;
And whatsoever else is requisite
We will inform thee ere our conference cease.

CORNELIUS. Valdes, first let him know the words of art; And then, all other ceremonies learn'd, Faustus may try his cunning by himself.

VALDES. First I'll instruct thee in the rudiments, And then wilt thou be perfecter than I.

FAUSTUS. Then come and dine with me, and, after meat, We'll canvass every quiddity thereof;
For, ere I sleep, I'll try what I can do: This night I'll conjure, though I die therefore.
[Exeunt.]
 Enter two SCHOLARS.

FIRST SCHOLAR. I wonder what's become of Faustus, that was wont to make our schools ring with sic probo.

SECOND SCHOLAR. That shall we know, for see, here comes his boy.

Enter WAGNER.

FIRST SCHOLAR. How now, sirrah! where's thy master?

WAGNER. God in heaven knows.

SECOND SCHOLAR. Why, dost not thou know?

WAGNER. Yes, I know; but that follows not.

FIRST SCHOLAR. Go to, sirrah! leave your jesting, and tell us where he is.

WAGNER. That follows not necessary by force of argument, that you, being licentiates, should stand upon: therefore acknowledge your error, and be attentive.

SECOND SCHOLAR. Why, didst thou not say thou knewest?

WAGNER. Have you any witness on't?

FIRST SCHOLAR. Yes, sirrah, I heard you.

WAGNER. Ask my fellow if I be a thief.

SECOND SCHOLAR. Well, you will not tell us?

WAGNER. Yes, sir, I will tell you: yet, if you were not dunces, you would never ask me such a question; for is not he corpus naturale? and is not that mobile? then wherefore should you ask me such a question? But that I am by nature phlegmatic, slow to wrath, and prone to lechery (to love, I would say), it were not for you to come within forty foot of the place of execution, although I do not doubt to see you both hanged the next sessions. Thus having triumphed over you, I will set my countenance like a precisian, and begin to speak thus:-- Truly, my dear brethren, my master is within at dinner, with Valdes and Cornelius, as this wine, if it could speak, would inform your worships: and so, the Lord bless you, preserve you, and keep you, my dear brethren, my dear brethren!
[Exit.]
FIRST SCHOLAR. Nay, then, I fear he is fallen into that damned art for which they two are infamous through the world.

SECOND SCHOLAR. Were he a stranger, and not allied to me, yet should I grieve for him. But, come, let us go and inform the Rector, and see if he by his grave counsel can reclaim him.

FIRST SCHOLAR. O, but I fear me nothing can reclaim him!

SECOND SCHOLAR. Yet let us try what we can do. [Exeunt.]

Enter FAUSTUS to conjure.

FAUSTUS. Now that the gloomy shadow of the earth, Longing to view Orion's drizzling look, Leaps from th' antartic world unto the sky, And dims the welkin with her pitchy breath, Faustus, begin thine incantations,
And try if devils will obey thy hest,
Seeing thou hast pray'd and sacrific'd to them. Within this circle is Jehovah's name, Forward and backward anagrammatiz'd,
Th' abbreviated names of holy saints, Figures of every adjunct to the heavens,
And characters of signs and erring stars,
By which the spirits are enforc'd to rise: Then fear not, Faustus, but be resolute,
And try the uttermost magic can perform.-- Sint mihi dei Acherontis propitii! Valeat numen triplex Jehovoe! Ignei, aerii, aquatani spiritus, salvete! Orientis princeps Belzebub, inferni ardentis monarcha, et Demogorgon, propitiamus vos, ut appareat et surgat Mephistophilis, quod tumeraris: per Jehovam, Gehennam, et consecratam aquam quam nunc spargo, signumque crucis quod nunc facio, et per vota nostra, ipse nunc surgat nobis dicatus Mephistophilis!

Enter MEPHISTOPHILIS.

I charge thee to return, and change thy shape; Thou art too ugly to attend on me:
Go, and return an old Franciscan friar;
That holy shape becomes a devil best.
[Exit MEPHISTOPHILIS.]

I see there's virtue in my heavenly words: Who would not be proficient in this art?
How pliant is this Mephistophilis,
Full of obedience and humility!
Such is the force of magic and my spells:
No, Faustus, thou art conjuror laureat, That canst command great Mephistophilis: Quin regis Mephistophilis fratris imagine.

Re-enter MEPHISTOPHILIS like a Franciscan friar.

MEPHIST. Now, Faustus, what wouldst thou have me do?

FAUSTUS. I charge thee wait upon me whilst I live, To do whatever Faustus shall command,
Be it to make the moon drop from her sphere, Or the ocean to overwhelm the world.

MEPHIST. I am a servant to great Lucifer, And may not follow thee without his leave: No more than he commands must we perform.

FAUSTUS. Did not he charge thee to appear to me?

MEPHIST. No, I came hither of mine own accord.

FAUSTUS. Did not my conjuring speeches raise thee? speak.

MEPHIST. That was the cause, but yet per accidens; For, when we hear one rack the name of God, Abjure the Scriptures and his Saviour Christ, We fly, in hope to get his glorious soul; Nor will we come, unless he use such means Whereby he is in danger to be damn'd. Therefore the shortest cut for conjuring
Is stoutly to abjure the Trinity,
And pray devoutly to the prince of hell.

FAUSTUS. So Faustus hath
Already done; and holds this principle, There is no chief but only Belzebub;
To whom Faustus doth dedicate himself.
This word "damnation" terrifies not him, For he confounds hell in Elysium:
His ghost be with the old philosophers! But, leaving these vain trifles of men's souls, Tell me what is that Lucifer thy lord?

MEPHIST. Arch-regent and commander of all spirits.

FAUSTUS. Was not that Lucifer an angel once?

MEPHIST. Yes, Faustus, and most dearly lov'd of God.

FAUSTUS. How comes it, then, that he is prince of devils?
 MEPHIST. O, by aspiring pride and insolence; For which God threw him from the face of heaven.

FAUSTUS. And what are you that live with Lucifer?

MEPHIST. Unhappy spirits that fell with Lucifer, Conspir'd against our God with Lucifer, And are for ever damn'd with Lucifer.

FAUSTUS. Where are you damn'd?

MEPHIST. In hell.

FAUSTUS. How comes it, then, that thou art out of hell?

MEPHIST. Why, this is hell, nor am I out of it: Think'st thou that I, who saw the face of God, And tasted the eternal joys of heaven, Am not tormented with ten thousand hells, In being depriv'd of everlasting bliss? O, Faustus, leave these frivolous demands, Which strike a terror to my fainting soul!

FAUSTUS. What, is great Mephistophilis so passionate For being deprived of the joys of heaven? Learn thou of Faustus manly fortitude, And scorn those joys thou never shalt possess. Go bear these tidings to great Lucifer: Seeing Faustus hath incurr'd eternal death By desperate thoughts against Jove's deity, Say, he surrenders up to him his soul, So he will spare him four and twenty years, Letting him live in all voluptuousness; Having thee ever to attend on me,
To give me whatsoever I shall ask,
To tell me whatsoever I demand,
To slay mine enemies, and aid my friends, And always be obedient to my will.
Go and return to mighty Lucifer,
And meet me in my study at midnight, And then resolve me of thy master's mind.

MEPHIST. I will, Faustus.
[Exit.]

FAUSTUS. Had I as many souls as there be stars, I'd give them all for Mephistophilis. By him I'll be great emperor of the world, And make a bridge thorough the moving air,
To pass the ocean with a band of men;
I'll join the hills that bind the Afric shore, And make that country continent to Spain,
And both contributory to my crown:
The Emperor shall not live but by my leave, Nor any potentate of Germany.
Now that I have obtain'd what I desir'd,
I'll live in speculation of this art,
Till Mephistophilis return again.
[Exit.]

Enter WAGNER and CLOWN.

WAGNER. Sirrah boy, come hither.

CLOWN. How, boy! swowns, boy! I hope you have seen many boys with such pickadevaunts as I have: boy, quotha!

WAGNER. Tell me, sirrah, hast thou any comings in?

CLOWN. Ay, and goings out too; you may see else.

WAGNER. Alas, poor slave! see how poverty jesteth in his nakedness! the villain is bare and out of service, and so hungry, that I know he would give his soul to the devil for a shoulder of mutton, though it were blood-raw.

CLOWN. How! my soul to the devil for a shoulder of mutton, though 'twere blood-raw! not so, good friend: by'r lady, I had need have it well roasted, and good sauce to it, if I pay so dear.

WAGNER. Well, wilt thou serve me, and I'll make thee go like Qui mihi discipulus?

CLOWN. How, in verse?

WAGNER. No, sirrah; in beaten silk and staves-acre.

CLOWN. How, how, knaves-acre! ay, I thought that was all the land his father left him. Do you hear? I would be sorry to rob you of your living.

WAGNER. Sirrah, I say in staves-acre.

CLOWN. Oho, oho, staves-acre! why, then, belike, if I were your man, I should be full of vermin.

WAGNER. So thou shalt, whether thou beest with me or no. But, sirrah, leave your jesting, and bind yourself presently unto me for seven years, or I'll turn all the lice about thee into
familiars, and they shall tear thee in pieces.

CLOWN. Do you hear, sir? you may save that labour; they are too familiar with me already: swowns, they are as bold with my flesh as if they had paid for their meat and drink.

WAGNER. Well, do you hear, sirrah? hold, take these guilders. [Gives money.]

CLOWN. Gridirons! what be they?

WAGNER. Why, French crowns.

CLOWN. Mass, but for the name of French crowns, a man were as good have as many English counters. And what should I do with these?

WAGNER. Why, now, sirrah, thou art at an hour's warning, whensoever or wheresoever the devil shall fetch thee.

CLOWN. No, no; here, take your gridirons again.

WAGNER. Truly, I'll none of them.

CLOWN. Truly, but you shall.

WAGNER. Bear witness I gave them him.

CLOWN. Bear witness I give them you again.

WAGNER. Well, I will cause two devils presently to fetch thee away.--Baliol and Belcher!

CLOWN. Let your Baliol and your Belcher come here, and I'll knock them, they were never so knocked since they were devils: say I should kill one of them, what would folks say? "Do ye see yonder tall fellow in the round slop? he has killed the devil." So I should be called Kill-devil all the parish over.

Enter two DEVILS; and the CLOWN runs up and down crying.

WAGNER. Baliol and Belcher,--spirits, away! [Exeunt DEVILS.]

CLOWN. What, are they gone? a vengeance on them! they have vile long nails. There was a he-devil and a she-devil: I'll tell you how you shall know them; all he-devils has horns, and all she-devils has clifts and cloven feet.

WAGNER. Well, sirrah, follow me.
CLOWN. But, do you hear? if I should serve you, would you teach me to raise up Banios and Belcheos?

WAGNER. I will teach thee to turn thyself to any thing, to a dog, or a cat, or a mouse, or a rat, or any thing.

CLOWN. How! a Christian fellow to a dog, or a cat, a mouse, or a rat! no, no, sir; if you turn me into any thing, let it be in the likeness of a little pretty frisking flea, that I may be here and there and every where: O, I'll tickle the pretty wenches' plackets! I'll be amongst them, i'faith.

WAGNER. Well, sirrah, come.

CLOWN. But, do you hear, Wagner?

WAGNER. How!--Baliol and Belcher!

CLOWN. O Lord! I pray, sir, let Banio and Belcher go sleep.

WAGNER. Villain, call me Master Wagner, and let thy left eye be diametarily fixed upon my right heel, with quasi vestigiis nostris insistere.
[Exit.]

CLOWN. God forgive me, he speaks Dutch fustian. Well, I'll follow him; I'll serve him, that's flat.
[Exit.]

FAUSTUS discovered in his study.

FAUSTUS. Now, Faustus, must
Thou needs be damn'd, and canst thou not be sav'd: What boots it, then, to think of God or heaven? Away with such vain fancies, and despair; Despair in God, and trust in Belzebub:
Now go not backward; no, Faustus, be resolute: Why waver'st thou? O, something soundeth in mine ears, "Abjure this magic, turn to God again!"
Ay, and Faustus will turn to God again.
To God? he loves thee not;
The god thou serv'st is thine own appetite, Wherein is fix'd the love of Belzebub:
To him I'll build an altar and a church,
And offer lukewarm blood of new-born babes.

Enter GOOD ANGEL and EVIL ANGEL.

GOOD ANGEL. Sweet Faustus, leave that execrable art.
FAUSTUS. Contrition, prayer, repentance--what of them?

GOOD ANGEL. O, they are means to bring thee unto heaven!

EVIL ANGEL. Rather illusions, fruits of lunacy, That make men foolish that do trust them most.

GOOD ANGEL. Sweet Faustus, think of heaven and heavenly things.

EVIL ANGEL. No, Faustus; think of honour and of wealth. [Exeunt ANGELS.]

FAUSTUS. Of wealth!
Why, the signiory of Embden shall be mine. When Mephistophilis shall stand by me,
What god can hurt thee, Faustus? thou art safe Cast no more doubts.--Come, Mephistophilis, And bring glad tidings from great Lucifer;-- Is't not midnight?--come, Mephistophilis, Veni, veni, Mephistophile!

Enter MEPHISTOPHILIS.

Now tell me what says Lucifer, thy lord?

MEPHIST. That I shall wait on Faustus whilst he lives, So he will buy my service with his soul.

FAUSTUS. Already Faustus hath hazarded that for thee.

MEPHIST. But, Faustus, thou must bequeath it solemnly, And write a deed of gift with thine own blood; For that security craves great Lucifer.
If thou deny it, I will back to hell.

FAUSTUS. Stay, Mephistophilis, and tell me, what good will my soul do thy lord?

MEPHIST. Enlarge his kingdom.

FAUSTUS. Is that the reason why he tempts us thus?

MEPHIST. Solamen miseris socios habuisse doloris.

FAUSTUS. Why, have you any pain that torture others!

MEPHIST. As great as have the human souls of men. But, tell me, Faustus, shall I have thy soul? And I will be thy slave, and wait on thee, And give thee more than thou hast wit to ask.
 FAUSTUS. Ay, Mephistophilis, I give it thee.

MEPHIST. Then, Faustus, stab thine arm courageously, And bind thy soul, that at some certain day Great Lucifer may claim it as his own;
And then be thou as great as Lucifer.

FAUSTUS. [Stabbing his arm] Lo, Mephistophilis, for love of thee, I cut mine arm, and with my proper blood Assure my soul to be great Lucifer's, Chief lord and regent of perpetual night! View here the blood that trickles from mine arm, And let it be propitious for my wish.

MEPHIST. But, Faustus, thou must
Write it in manner of a deed of gift.

FAUSTUS. Ay, so I will [Writes]. But, Mephistophilis, My blood congeals, and I can write no more.

MEPHIST. I'll fetch thee fire to dissolve it straight. [Exit.]

FAUSTUS. What might the staying of my blood portend? Is it unwilling I should write this bill? Why streams it not, that I may write afresh? FAUSTUS GIVES TO THEE HIS SOUL: ah, there it stay'd! Why shouldst thou not? is not thy soul shine own? Then write again, FAUSTUS GIVES TO THEE HIS SOUL.

Re-enter MEPHISTOPHILIS with a chafer of coals.

MEPHIST. Here's fire; come, Faustus, set it on.

FAUSTUS. So, now the blood begins to clear again; Now will I make an end immediately.
[Writes.]

MEPHIST. O, what will not I do to obtain his soul? [Aside.]

FAUSTUS. Consummatum est; this bill is ended, And Faustus hath bequeath'd his soul to Lucifer. But what is this inscription on mine arm? Homo, fuge: whither should I fly?
If unto God, he'll throw me down to hell. My senses are deceiv'd; here's nothing writ:-- I see it plain; here in this place is writ, Homo, fuge: yet shall not Faustus fly.
 MEPHIST. I'll fetch him somewhat to delight his mind.
[Aside, and then exit.]

Re-enter MEPHISTOPHILIS with DEVILS, who give crowns and rich apparel to FAUSTUS, dance, and then depart.

FAUSTUS. Speak, Mephistophilis, what means this show?

MEPHIST. Nothing, Faustus, but to delight thy mind withal, And to shew thee what magic can perform.

FAUSTUS. But may I raise up spirits when I please?

MEPHIST. Ay, Faustus, and do greater things than these.

FAUSTUS. Then there's enough for a thousand souls. Here, Mephistophilis, receive this scroll,
A deed of gift of body and of soul:
But yet conditionally that thou perform
All articles prescrib'd between us both.

MEPHIST. Faustus, I swear by hell and Lucifer
To effect all promises between us made!

FAUSTUS. Then hear me read them. [Reads] ON THESE CONDITIONS FOLLOWING. FIRST, THAT FAUSTUS MAY BE A SPIRIT IN FORM AND SUBSTANCE. SECONDLY, THAT MEPHISTOPHILIS SHALL BE HIS SERVANT, AND AT HIS COMMAND. THIRDLY, THAT MEPHISTOPHILIS SHALL DO FOR HIM, AND BRING HIM WHATSOEVER HE DESIRES. FOURTHLY, THAT HE SHALL BE IN HIS CHAMBER OR HOUSE INVISIBLE. LASTLY, THAT HE SHALL APPEAR TO THE SAID JOHN FAUSTUS, AT ALL TIMES, IN WHAT FORM OR SHAPE SOEVER HE PLEASE. I, JOHN FAUSTUS, OF WERTENBERG, DOCTOR, BY THESE PRESENTS, DO GIVE BOTH BODY AND SOUL TO LUCIFER PRINCE OF THE EAST, AND HIS MINISTER MEPHISTOPHILIS; AND FURTHERMORE GRANT UNTO THEM, THAT, TWENTY-FOUR YEARS BEING EXPIRED, THE ARTICLES ABOVE-WRITTEN INVIOLATE, FULL POWER TO FETCH OR CARRY THE SAID JOHN FAUSTUS, BODY AND SOUL, FLESH, BLOOD, OR GOODS, INTO THEIR HABITATION WHERESOEVER. BY ME, JOHN FAUSTUS.

MEPHIST. Speak, Faustus, do you deliver this as your deed?

FAUSTUS. Ay, take it, and the devil give thee good on't!

MEPHIST. Now, Faustus, ask what thou wilt.

FAUSTUS. First will I question with thee about hell. Tell me, where is the place that men call hell?

MEPHIST. Under the heavens.
 FAUSTUS. Ay, but whereabout?

MEPHIST. Within the bowels of these elements, Where we are tortur'd and remain for ever: Hell hath no limits, nor is circumscrib'd In one self place; for where we are is hell, And where hell is, there must we ever be: And, to conclude, when all the world dissolves, And every creature shall be purified,
All places shall be hell that are not heaven.

FAUSTUS. Come, I think hell's a fable.

MEPHIST. Ay, think so still, till experience change thy mind.

FAUSTUS. Why, think'st thou, then, that Faustus shall be damn'd?

MEPHIST. Ay, of necessity, for here's the scroll Wherein thou hast given thy soul to Lucifer.

FAUSTUS. Ay, and body too: but what of that? Think'st thou that Faustus is so fond to imagine That, after this life, there is any pain? Tush, these are trifles and mere old wives' tales.

MEPHIST. But, Faustus, I am an instance to prove the contrary, For I am damn'd, and am now in hell.

FAUSTUS. How! now in hell!
Nay, an this be hell, I'll willingly be damn'd here: What! walking, disputing, &c.
But, leaving off this, let me have a wife, The fairest maid in Germany;
For I am wanton and lascivious,
And cannot live without a wife.

MEPHIST. How! a wife!
I prithee, Faustus, talk not of a wife.

FAUSTUS. Nay, sweet Mephistophilis, fetch me one, for I will have one.

MEPHIST. Well, thou wilt have one? Sit there till I come: I'll fetch thee a wife in the devil's name.
[Exit.]

Re-enter MEPHISTOPHILIS with a DEVIL drest like a WOMAN, with fire-works.
MEPHIST. Tell me, Faustus, how dost thou like thy wife?

FAUSTUS. A plague on her for a hot whore!

MEPHIST. Tut, Faustus,
Marriage is but a ceremonial toy;
If thou lovest me, think no more of it. I'll cull thee out the fairest courtezans, And bring them every morning to thy bed: She whom thine eye shall like, thy heart shall have, Be she as chaste as was Penelope,
As wise as Saba, or as beautiful
As was bright Lucifer before his fall. Hold, take this book, peruse it thoroughly:
[Gives book.]

The iterating of these lines brings gold; The framing of this circle on the ground Brings whirlwinds, tempests, thunder, and lightning; Pronounce this thrice devoutly to thyself, And men in armour shall appear to thee, Ready to execute what thou desir'st.

FAUSTUS. Thanks, Mephistophilis: yet fain would I have a book wherein I might behold all spells and incantations, that I might raise up spirits when I please.

MEPHIST. Here they are in this book. [Turns to them.]

FAUSTUS. Now would I have a book where I might see all characters and planets of the heavens, that I might know their motions and dispositions.

MEPHIST. Here they are too.
[Turns to them.]

FAUSTUS. Nay, let me have one book more,--and then I have done,-- wherein I might see all plants, herbs, and trees, that grow upon the earth.

MEPHIST. Here they be.

FAUSTUS. O, thou art deceived.

MEPHIST. Tut, I warrant thee.
[Turns to them.]

FAUSTUS. When I behold the heavens, then I repent, And curse thee, wicked Mephistophilis,
Because thou hast depriv'd me of those joys.

MEPHIST. Why, Faustus,
Thinkest thou heaven is such a glorious thing? I tell thee, 'tis not half so fair as thou, Or any man that breathes on earth.

FAUSTUS. How prov'st thou that?

MEPHIST. 'Twas made for man, therefore is man more excellent.

FAUSTUS. If it were made for man, 'twas made for me: I will renounce this magic and repent.

Enter GOOD ANGEL and EVIL ANGEL.

GOOD ANGEL. Faustus, repent; yet God will pity thee.

EVIL ANGEL. Thou art a spirit; God cannot pity thee.

FAUSTUS. Who buzzeth in mine ears I am a spirit? Be I a devil, yet God may pity me;
Ay, God will pity me, if I repent.

EVIL ANGEL. Ay, but Faustus never shall repent. [Exeunt ANGELS.]

FAUSTUS. My heart's so harden'd, I cannot repent: Scarce can I name salvation, faith, or heaven, But fearful echoes thunder in mine ears, "Faustus, thou art damn'd!" then swords, and knives, Poison, guns, halters, and envenom'd steel Are laid before me to despatch myself;
And long ere this I should have slain myself, Had not sweet pleasure conquer'd deep despair. Have not I made blind Homer sing to me
Of Alexander's love and Oenon's death?
And hath not he, that built the walls of Thebes With ravishing sound of his melodious harp, Made music with my Mephistophilis?
Why should I die, then, or basely despair? I am resolv'd; Faustus shall ne'er repent.-- Come, Mephistophilis, let us dispute again, And argue of divine astrology.
Tell me, are there many heavens above the moon Are all celestial bodies but one globe,
As is the substance of this centric earth?

MEPHIST. As are the elements, such are the spheres, Mutually folded in each other's orb,
And, Faustus,
All jointly move upon one axletree,
Whose terminine is term'd the world's wide pole; Nor are the names of Saturn, Mars, or Jupiter Feign'd, but are erring stars.

FAUSTUS. But, tell me, have they all one motion, both situ et tempore?

MEPHIST. All jointly move from east to west in twenty-four hours upon the poles of the world; but differ in their motion upon the poles of the zodiac.

FAUSTUS. Tush,
These slender trifles Wagner can decide: Hath Mephistophilis no greater skill?
Who knows not the double motion of the planets? The first is finish'd in a natural day;
The second thus; as Saturn in thirty years; Jupiter in twelve; Mars in four; the Sun, Venus, and Mercury in a year; the Moon in twenty-eight days. Tush, these are freshmen's suppositions. But, tell me, hath every sphere a dominion or intelligentia?

MEPHIST. Ay.

FAUSTUS. How many heavens or spheres are there?

MEPHIST. Nine; the seven planets, the firmament, and the empyreal heaven.

FAUSTUS. Well, resolve me in this question; why have we not conjunctions, oppositions, aspects, eclipses, all at one time, but in some years we have more, in some less?

MEPHIST. Per inoequalem motum respectu totius.

FAUSTUS. Well, I am answered. Tell me who made the world?

MEPHIST. I will not.

FAUSTUS. Sweet Mephistophilis, tell me.

MEPHIST. Move me not, for I will not tell thee.

FAUSTUS. Villain, have I not bound thee to tell me any thing?

MEPHIST. Ay, that is not against our kingdom; but this is. Think thou on hell, Faustus, for thou art damned.

FAUSTUS. Think, Faustus, upon God that made the world.
 MEPHIST. Remember this.
[Exit.]

FAUSTUS. Ay, go, accursed spirit, to ugly hell! 'Tis thou hast damn'd distressed Faustus' soul. Is't not too late?

Re-enter GOOD ANGEL and EVIL ANGEL.

EVIL ANGEL. Too late.

GOOD ANGEL. Never too late, if Faustus can repent.

EVIL ANGEL. If thou repent, devils shall tear thee in pieces.

GOOD ANGEL. Repent, and they shall never raze thy skin. [Exeunt ANGELS.]

FAUSTUS. Ah, Christ, my Saviour,
Seek to save distressed Faustus' soul!

Enter LUCIFER, BELZEBUB, and MEPHISTOPHILIS.

LUCIFER. Christ cannot save thy soul, for he is just: There's none but I have interest in the same.

FAUSTUS. O, who art thou that look'st so terrible?

LUCIFER. I am Lucifer,
And this is my companion-prince in hell.

FAUSTUS. O, Faustus, they are come to fetch away thy soul!

LUCIFER. We come to tell thee thou dost injure us; Thou talk'st of Christ, contrary to thy promise: Thou shouldst not think of God: think of the devil, And of his dam too.

FAUSTUS. Nor will I henceforth: pardon me in this, And Faustus vows never to look to heaven, Never to name God, or to pray to him,
To burn his Scriptures, slay his ministers, And make my spirits pull his churches down.

LUCIFER. Do so, and we will highly gratify thee. Faustus, we are come from hell to shew thee some pastime: sit down, and thou shalt see all the Seven Deadly Sins appear in their proper shapes.

FAUSTUS. That sight will be as pleasing unto me,
As Paradise was to Adam, the first day
Of his creation.

LUCIFER. Talk not of Paradise nor creation; but mark this show: talk of the devil, and nothing else.--Come away!

Enter the SEVEN DEADLY SINS.

Now, Faustus, examine them of their several names and dispositions.

FAUSTUS. What art thou, the first?

PRIDE. I am Pride. I disdain to have any parents. I am like to Ovid's flea; I can creep into every corner of a wench; sometimes, like a perriwig, I sit upon her brow; or, like a fan of feathers, I kiss her lips; indeed, I do--what do I not? But, fie, what a scent is here! I'll not speak another word, except the ground were perfumed, and covered with cloth of arras.

FAUSTUS. What art thou, the second?

COVETOUSNESS. I am Covetousness, begotten of an old churl, in an old leathern bag: and, might I have my wish, I would desire that this house and all the people in it were turned to gold, that I might lock you up in my good chest: O, my sweet gold!

FAUSTUS. What art thou, the third?

WRATH. I am Wrath. I had neither father nor mother: I leapt out of a lion's mouth when I was scarce half-an-hour old; and ever since I have run up and down the world with this case of rapiers, wounding myself when I had nobody to fight withal. I was born in hell; and look to it, for some of you shall be my father.

FAUSTUS. What art thou, the fourth?

ENVY. I am Envy, begotten of a chimney-sweeper and an oyster-wife. I cannot read, and therefore wish all books were burnt. I am lean with seeing others eat. O, that there would come a famine through all the world, that all might die, and I live alone! then thou shouldst see how fat I would be. But must thou sit, and I stand? come down, with a vengeance!

FAUSTUS. Away, envious rascal!--What art thou, the fifth?

GLUTTONY. Who I, sir? I am Gluttony. My parents are all dead, and the devil a penny they have left me, but a bare pension, and that is thirty meals a-day and ten bevers,--a small trifle to suffice nature. O, I come of a royal parentage! my grandfather
was a Gammon of Bacon, my grandmother a Hogshead of Claret-wine; my godfathers were these, Peter Pickle-herring and Martin Martlemas-beef; O, but my godmother, she was a jolly gentlewoman, and well-beloved in every good town and city; her name was Mistress Margery March-beer. Now, Faustus, thou hast heard all my progeny; wilt thou bid me to supper?

FAUSTUS. No, I'll see thee hanged: thou wilt eat up all my victuals.

GLUTTONY. Then the devil choke thee!

FAUSTUS. Choke thyself, glutton!--What art thou, the sixth?

SLOTH. I am Sloth. I was begotten on a sunny bank, where I have lain ever since; and you have done me great injury to bring me from thence: let me be carried thither again by Gluttony and Lechery. I'll not speak another word for a king's ransom.

FAUSTUS. What are you, Mistress Minx, the seventh and last?

LECHERY. Who I, sir? I am one that loves an inch of raw mutton better than an ell of fried stock-fish; and the first letter of my name begins with L.

FAUSTUS. Away, to hell, to hell!
[Exeunt the SINS.]

LUCIFER. Now, Faustus, how dost thou like this?

FAUSTUS. O, this feeds my soul!

LUCIFER. Tut, Faustus, in hell is all manner of delight.

FAUSTUS. O, might I see hell, and return again, How happy were I then!

LUCIFER. Thou shalt; I will send for thee at midnight. In meantime take this book; peruse it throughly, And thou shalt turn thyself into what shape thou wilt.

FAUSTUS. Great thanks, mighty Lucifer!
This will I keep as chary as my life.

LUCIFER. Farewell, Faustus, and think on the devil.

FAUSTUS. Farewell, great Lucifer.
[Exeunt LUCIFER and BELZEBUB.]

Come, Mephistophilis.
[Exeunt.]
 Enter CHORUS.

CHORUS. Learned Faustus,
To know the secrets of astronomy
Graven in the book of Jove's high firmament, Did mount himself to scale Olympus' top, Being seated in a chariot burning bright, Drawn by the strength of yoky dragons' necks. He now is gone to prove cosmography,
And, as I guess, will first arrive at Rome, To see the Pope and manner of his court, And take some part of holy Peter's feast, That to this day is highly solemniz'd.
[Exit.]

Enter FAUSTUS and MEPHISTOPHILIS.

FAUSTUS. Having now, my good Mephistophilis, Pass'd with delight the stately town of Trier, Environ'd round with airy mountain-tops, With walls of flint, and deep-entrenched lakes, Not to be won by any conquering prince; From Paris next, coasting the realm of France, We saw the river Maine fall into Rhine, Whose banks are set with groves of fruitful vines; Then up to Naples, rich Campania,
Whose buildings fair and gorgeous to the eye, The streets straight forth, and pav'd with finest brick, Quarter the town in four equivalents: There saw we learned Maro's golden tomb, The way he cut, an English mile in length, Thorough a rock of stone, in one night's space; From thence to Venice, Padua, and the rest, In one of which a sumptuous temple stands, That threats the stars with her aspiring top. Thus hitherto hath Faustus spent his time: But tell me now what resting-place is this? Hast thou, as erst I did command, Conducted me within the walls of Rome?

MEPHIST. Faustus, I have; and, because we will not be unprovided, I have taken up his Holiness' privy-chamber for our use.

FAUSTUS. I hope his Holiness will bid us welcome.

MEPHIST.
Tut, 'tis no matter; man; we'll be bold with his good cheer. And now, my Faustus, that thou mayst perceive What Rome containeth to delight thee with,
Know that this city stands upon seven hills That underprop the groundwork of the same: Just through the midst runs flowing Tiber's stream With winding banks that cut it in two parts; Over the which four stately bridges lean, That make safe passage to each part of Rome: Upon the bridge call'd Ponte Angelo Erected is a castle passing strong,
Within whose walls such store of ordnance are, And double cannons fram'd of carved brass, As match the days within one complete year; Besides the gates, and high pyramides, Which Julius Caesar brought from Africa.

FAUSTUS. Now, by the kingdoms of infernal rule, Of Styx, of Acheron, and the fiery lake
Of ever-burning Phlegethon, I swear
That I do long to see the monuments
And situation of bright-splendent Rome: Come, therefore, let's away.

MEPHIST. Nay, Faustus, stay: I know you'd fain see the Pope, And take some part of holy Peter's feast, Where thou shalt see a troop of bald-pate friars, Whose summum bonum is in belly-cheer.

FAUSTUS. Well, I'm content to compass then some sport, And by their folly make us merriment.
Then charm me, that I
May be invisible, to do what I please, Unseen of any whilst I stay in Rome.
[Mephistophilis charms him.]

MEPHIST. So, Faustus; now
Do what thou wilt, thou shalt not be discern'd.

Sound a Sonnet. Enter the POPE and the CARDINAL OF LORRAIN to the banquet, with FRIARS attending.

POPE. My Lord of Lorrain, will't please you draw near?

FAUSTUS. Fall to, and the devil choke you, an you spare!

POPE. How now! who's that which spake?--Friars, look about.

FIRST FRIAR. Here's nobody, if it like your Holiness.

POPE. My lord, here is a dainty dish was sent me from the Bishop of Milan.
FAUSTUS. I thank you, sir.
[Snatches the dish.]

POPE. How now! who's that which snatched the meat from me? will no man look?--My lord, this dish was sent me from the Cardinal of Florence.

FAUSTUS. You say true; I'll ha't. [Snatches the dish.]

POPE. What, again!--My lord, I'll drink to your grace.

FAUSTUS. I'll pledge your grace. [Snatches the cup.]

C. OF LOR. My lord, it may be some ghost, newly crept out of Purgatory, come to beg a pardon of your Holiness.

POPE. It may be so.--Friars, prepare a dirge to lay the fury of this ghost.--Once again, my lord, fall to.
[The POPE crosses himself.]

FAUSTUS. What, are you crossing of yourself? Well, use that trick no more, I would advise you.
[The POPE crosses himself again.]

Well, there's the second time. Aware the third; I give you fair warning.
[The POPE crosses himself again, and FAUSTUS hits him a box of the ear; and they all run away.]

Come on, Mephistophilis; what shall we do?

MEPHIST. Nay, I know not: we shall be cursed with bell, book, and candle.

FAUSTUS. How! bell, book, and candle,--candle, book, and bell,-- Forward and backward, to curse Faustus to hell! Anon you shall hear a hog grunt, a calf bleat, and an ass bray, Because it is Saint Peter's holiday.

Re-enter all the FRIARS to sing the Dirge.

FIRST FRIAR.
Come, brethren, let's about our business with good devotion.

They sing.

CURSED BE HE THAT STOLE AWAY HIS HOLINESS' MEAT FROM THE TABLE! maledicat Dominus!
CURSED BE HE THAT STRUCK HIS HOLINESS A BLOW ON THE FACE! maledicat Dominus!
CURSED BE HE THAT TOOK FRIAR SANDELO A BLOW ON THE PATE! maledicat Dominus!
CURSED BE HE THAT DISTURBETH OUR HOLY DIRGE! maledicat Dominus!
CURSED BE HE THAT TOOK AWAY HIS HOLINESS' WINE! maledicat Dominus? sic>
Et omnes Sancti! Amen!

[MEPHISTOPHILIS and FAUSTUS beat the FRIARS, and fling fire-works among them; and so exeunt.]

Enter CHORUS.

CHORUS. When Faustus had with pleasure ta'en the view Of rarest things, and royal courts of kings, He stay'd his course, and so returned home; Where such as bear his absence but with grief, I mean his friends and near'st companions, Did gratulate his safety with kind words, And in their conference of what befell, Touching his journey through the world and air, They put forth questions of astrology,
Which Faustus answer'd with such learned skill As they admir'd and wonder'd at his wit.
Now is his fame spread forth in every land: Amongst the rest the Emperor is one,
Carolus the Fifth, at whose palace now Faustus is feasted 'mongst his noblemen. What there he did, in trial of his art,
I leave untold; your eyes shall see['t] perform'd. [Exit.]

Enter ROBIN the Ostler, with a book in his hand.

ROBIN. O, this is admirable! here I ha' stolen one of Doctor Faustus' conjuring-books, and, i'faith, I mean to search some circles for my own use. Now will I make all the maidens in our parish dance at my pleasure, stark naked, before me; and so by that means I shall see more than e'er I felt or saw yet.

Enter RALPH, calling ROBIN.

RALPH. Robin, prithee, come away; there's a gentleman tarries to have his horse, and he would have his things rubbed and made clean: he keeps such a chafing with my mistress about it; and she has sent me to look thee out; prithee, come away.

ROBIN. Keep out, keep out, or else you are blown up, you are
dismembered, Ralph: keep out, for I am about a roaring piece of work.

RALPH. Come, what doest thou with that same book? thou canst not read?

ROBIN. Yes, my master and mistress shall find that I can read, he for his forehead, she for her private study; she's born to bear with me, or else my art fails.

RALPH. Why, Robin, what book is that?

ROBIN. What book! why, the most intolerable book for conjuring that e'er was invented by any brimstone devil.

RALPH. Canst thou conjure with it?

ROBIN. I can do all these things easily with it; first, I can make thee drunk with ippocras at any tabern in Europe for nothing; that's one of my conjuring works.

RALPH. Our Master Parson says that's nothing.

ROBIN. True, Ralph: and more, Ralph, if thou hast any mind to Nan Spit, our kitchen-maid, then turn her and wind her to thy own use, as often as thou wilt, and at midnight.

RALPH. O, brave, Robin! shall I have Nan Spit, and to mine own use? On that condition I'll feed thy devil with horse-bread as long as he lives, of free cost.

ROBIN. No more, sweet Ralph: let's go and make clean our boots, which lie foul upon our hands, and then to our conjuring in the devil's name.
[Exeunt.]

Enter ROBIN and RALPH with a silver goblet.

ROBIN. Come, Ralph: did not I tell thee, we were for ever made by this Doctor Faustus' book? ecce, signum! here's a simple purchase for horse-keepers: our horses shall eat no hay as long as this lasts.

RALPH. But, Robin, here comes the Vintner.

ROBIN. Hush! I'll gull him supernaturally.

Enter VINTNER.

Drawer, I hope all is paid; God be with you!--Come, Ralph.
 VINTNER. Soft, sir; a word with you. I must yet have a goblet paid from you, ere you go.

ROBIN. I a goblet, Ralph, I a goblet!--I scorn you; and you are but a, &c. I a goblet! search me.

VINTNER. I mean so, sir, with your favour. [Searches ROBIN.]

ROBIN. How say you now?

VINTNER. I must say somewhat to your fellow.--You, sir!

RALPH. Me, sir! me, sir! search your fill. [VINTNER searches him.] Now, sir, you may be ashamed to burden honest men with a matter of truth.

VINTNER. Well, tone of you hath this goblet about you.

ROBIN. You lie, drawer, 'tis afore me [Aside].--Sirrah you, I'll teach you to impeach honest men;--stand by;--I'll scour you for a goblet;--stand aside you had best, I charge you in the name of Belzebub.--Look to the goblet, Ralph [Aside to RALPH].

VINTNER. What mean you, sirrah?

ROBIN. I'll tell you what I mean. [Reads from a book] Sanctobulorum Periphrasticon--nay, I'll tickle you, Vintner.--Look to the goblet, Ralph [Aside to RALPH].--[Reads] Polypragmos Belseborams framanto pacostiphos tostu, Mephistophilis, &c.

Enter MEPHISTOPHILIS, sets squibs at their backs, and then exit. They run about.

VINTNER. O, nomine Domini! what meanest thou, Robin? thou hast no goblet.

RALPH. Peccatum peccatorum!--Here's thy goblet, good Vintner. [Gives the goblet to VINTNER, who exits.]

ROBIN. Misericordia pro nobis! what shall I do? Good devil, forgive me now, and I'll never rob thy library more.

Re-enter MEPHISTOPHILIS.

MEPHIST. Monarch of Hell, under whose black survey Great potentates do kneel with awful fear,
Upon whose altars thousand souls do lie,
How am I vexed with these villains' charms?
From Constantinople am I hither come,
Only for pleasure of these damned slaves.

ROBIN. How, from Constantinople! you have had a great journey: will you take sixpence in your purse to pay for your supper, and be gone?

MEPHIST. Well, villains, for your presumption, I transform thee into an ape, and thee into a dog; and so be gone!
[Exit.]

ROBIN. How, into an ape! that's brave: I'll have fine sport with the boys; I'll get nuts and apples enow.

RALPH. And I must be a dog.

ROBIN. I'faith, thy head will never be out of the pottage-pot. [Exeunt.]

Enter EMPEROR, FAUSTUS, and a KNIGHT, with ATTENDANTS.

EMPEROR. Master Doctor Faustus, I have heard strange report of thy knowledge in the black art, how that none in my empire nor in the whole world can compare with thee for the rare effects of magic: they say thou hast a familiar spirit, by whom thou canst accomplish what thou list. This, therefore, is my request, that thou let me see some proof of thy skill, that mine eyes may be witnesses to confirm what mine ears have heard reported: and here I swear to thee, by the honour of mine imperial crown, that, whatever thou doest, thou shalt be no ways prejudiced or endamaged.

KNIGHT. I'faith, he looks much like a conjurer. [Aside.]

FAUSTUS. My gracious sovereign, though I must confess myself far inferior to the report men have published, and nothing answerable to the honour of your imperial majesty, yet, for that love and duty binds me thereunto, I am content to do whatsoever your majesty shall command me.

EMPEROR. Then, Doctor Faustus, mark what I shall say. As I was sometime solitary set
Within my closet, sundry thoughts arose
About the honour of mine ancestors,
How they had won by prowess such exploits,
Got such riches, subdu'd so many kingdoms,
As we that do succeed, or they that shall Hereafter possess our throne, shall
(I fear me) ne'er attain to that degree
Of high renown and great authority:
Amongst which kings is Alexander the Great, Chief spectacle of the world's pre-eminence, The bright shining of whose glorious acts Lightens the world with his reflecting beams, As when I hear but motion made of him,
It grieves my soul I never saw the man:
If, therefore, thou, by cunning of thine art, Canst raise this man from hollow vaults below, Where lies entomb'd this famous conqueror,
And bring with him his beauteous paramour, Both in their right shapes, gesture, and attire They us'd to wear during their time of life, Thou shalt both satisfy my just desire,
And give me cause to praise thee whilst I live.

FAUSTUS. My gracious lord, I am ready to accomplish your request, so far forth as by art and power of my spirit I am able to perform.

KNIGHT. I'faith, that's just nothing at all. [Aside.]

FAUSTUS. But, if it like your grace, it is not in my ability to present before your eyes the true substantial bodies of those two deceased princes, which long since are consumed to dust.

KNIGHT. Ay, marry, Master Doctor, now there's a sign of grace in you, when you will confess the truth.
[Aside.]

FAUSTUS. But such spirits as can lively resemble Alexander and his paramour shall appear before your grace, in that manner that they both lived in, in their most flourishing estate; which I doubt not shall sufficiently content your imperial majesty.

EMPEROR. Go to, Master Doctor; let me see them presently.

KNIGHT. Do you hear, Master Doctor? you bring Alexander and his paramour before the Emperor!

FAUSTUS. How then, sir?

KNIGHT. I'faith, that's as true as Diana turned me to a stag.

FAUSTUS. No, sir; but, when Actaeon died, he left the horns for you.--Mephistophilis, be gone.
[Exit MEPHISTOPHILIS.]

KNIGHT. Nay, an you go to conjuring, I'll be gone. [Exit.]
FAUSTUS. I'll meet with you anon for interrupting me so. --Here they are, my gracious lord.

Re-enter MEPHISTOPHILIS with SPIRITS in the shapes of ALEXANDER and his PARAMOUR.

EMPEROR. Master Doctor, I heard this lady, while she lived, had a wart or mole in her neck: how shall I know whether it be so or no?

FAUSTUS. Your highness may boldly go and see.

EMPEROR. Sure, these are no spirits, but the true substantial bodies of those two deceased princes.
[Exeunt Spirits.]

FAUSTUS. Wilt please your highness now to send for the knight that was so pleasant with me here of late?

EMPEROR. One of you call him forth.
[Exit ATTENDANT.]

Re-enter the KNIGHT with a pair of horns on his head.

How now, sir knight! why, I had thought thou hadst been a bachelor, but now I see thou hast a wife, that not only gives thee horns, but makes thee wear them. Feel on thy head.

KNIGHT. Thou damned wretch and execrable dog,
Bred in the concave of some monstrous rock,
How dar'st thou thus abuse a gentleman?
Villain, I say, undo what thou hast done!

FAUSTUS. O, not so fast, sir! there's no haste: but, good, are you remembered how you crossed me in my conference with the Emperor? I think I have met with you for it.

EMPEROR. Good Master Doctor, at my entreaty release him: he hath done penance sufficient.

FAUSTUS. My gracious lord, not so much for the injury he offered me here in your presence, as to delight you with some mirth, hath Faustus worthily requited this injurious knight; which being all I desire, I am content to release him of his horns:--and, sir knight, hereafter speak well of scholars.--Mephistophilis, transform him straight. [MEPHISTOPHILIS removes the horns.] --Now, my good lord, having done my duty, I humbly take my leave.

EMPEROR. Farewell, Master Doctor: yet, ere you go, Expect from me a bounteous reward.
[Exeunt EMPEROR, KNIGHT, and ATTENDANTS.]
 FAUSTUS. Now, Mephistophilis, the restless course That time doth run with calm and silent foot, Shortening my days and thread of vital life, Calls for the payment of my latest years: Therefore, sweet Mephistophilis, let us
Make haste to Wertenberg.

MEPHIST. What, will you go on horse-back or on footFAUSTUS. Nay, till I'm past this fair and pleasant green,
I'll walk on foot.

Enter a HORSE-COURSER.

HORSE-COURSER. I have been all this day seeking one Master Fustian: mass, see where he is!--God save you, Master Doctor!

FAUSTUS. What, horse-courser! you are well met.

HORSE-COURSER. Do you hear, sir? I have brought you forty dollars for your horse.

FAUSTUS. I cannot sell him so: if thou likest him for fifty, take him.

HORSE-COURSER. Alas, sir, I have no more!--I pray you, speak for me.

MEPHIST. I pray you, let him have him: he is an honest fellow, and he has a great charge, neither wife nor child.

FAUSTUS. Well, come, give me your money [HORSE-COURSER gives FAUSTUS the money]: my boy will deliver him to you. But I must tell you one thing before you have him; ride him not into the water, at any hand.

HORSE-COURSER. Why, sir, will he not drink of all waters?

FAUSTUS. O, yes, he will drink of all waters; but ride him not into the water: ride him over hedge or ditch, or where thou wilt, but not into the water.

HORSE-COURSER. Well, sir.--Now am I made man for ever: I'll not leave my horse for forty: if he had but the quality of hey-ding-ding, hey-ding-ding, I'd make a brave living on him: he has a buttock as slick as an eel [Aside].--Well, God b'wi'ye, sir: your boy will deliver him me: but, hark you, sir; if my horse be sick or ill at ease, if I bring his water to you, you'll tell me what it is?
FAUSTUS. Away, you villain! what, dost think I am a horse-doctor?
[Exit HORSE-COURSER.]

What art thou, Faustus, but a man condemn'd to die? Thy fatal time doth draw to final end;
Despair doth drive distrust into my thoughts: Confound these passions with a quiet sleep:
Tush, Christ did call the thief upon the Cross; Then rest thee, Faustus, quiet in conceit.
[Sleeps in his chair.]

Re-enter HORSE-COURSER, all wet, crying.

HORSE-COURSER. Alas, alas! Doctor Fustian, quoth a? mass, Doctor Lopus was never such a doctor: has given me a purgation, has purged me of forty dollars; I shall never see them more. But yet, like an ass as I was, I would not be ruled by him, for he bade me I should ride him into no water: now I, thinking my horse had had some rare quality that he would not have had me know of, I, like a venturous youth, rid him into the deep pond at the town's end. I was no sooner in the middle of the pond, but my horse vanished away, and I sat upon a bottle of hay, never so near drowning in my life. But I'll seek out my doctor, and have my forty dollars again, or I'll make it the dearest horse!--O, yonder is his snipper-snapper.--Do you hear? you, hey-pass, where's your master?

MEPHIST. Why, sir, what would you? you cannot speak with him.

HORSE-COURSER. But I will speak with him.

MEPHIST. Why, he's fast asleep: come some other time.

HORSE-COURSER. I'll speak with him now, or I'll break his glass-windows about his ears.

MEPHIST. I tell thee, he has not slept this eight nights.

HORSE-COURSER. An he have not slept this eight weeks, I'll speak with him.

MEPHIST. See, where he is, fast asleep.

HORSE-COURSER. Ay, this is he.--God save you, Master Doctor, Master Doctor, Master Doctor Fustian! forty dollars, forty dollars for a bottle of hay!

MEPHIST. Why, thou seest he hears thee not.

HORSE-COURSER. So-ho, ho! so-ho, ho! [Hollows in his ear.] No,
will you not wake? I'll make you wake ere I go. [Pulls FAUSTUS by the leg, and pulls it away.] Alas, I am undone! what shall I do?

FAUSTUS. O, my leg, my leg!--Help, Mephistophilis! call the officers.--My leg, my leg!

MEPHIST. Come, villain, to the constable.

HORSE-COURSER. O Lord, sir, let me go, and I'll give you forty dollars more!

MEPHIST. Where be they?

HORSE-COURSER. I have none about me: come to my ostry, and I'll give them you.

MEPHIST. Be gone quickly.
[HORSE-COURSER runs away.]

FAUSTUS. What, is he gone? farewell he! Faustus has his leg again, and the Horse-courser, I take it, a bottle of hay for his labour: well, this trick shall cost him forty dollars more.

Enter WAGNER.

How now, Wagner! what's the news with thee?

WAGNER. Sir, the Duke of Vanholt doth earnestly entreat your company.

FAUSTUS. The Duke of Vanholt! an honourable gentleman, to whom I must be no niggard of my cunning.--Come, Mephistophilis, let's away to him.
[Exeunt.]

Enter the DUKE OF VANHOLT, the DUCHESS, and FAUSTUS.

DUKE. Believe me, Master Doctor, this merriment hath much pleased me.

FAUSTUS. My gracious lord, I am glad it contents you so well. --But it may be, madam, you take no delight in this. I have heard that great-bellied women do long for some dainties or other: what is it, madam? tell me, and you shall have it.

DUCHESS. Thanks, good Master Doctor: and, for I see your courteous intent to pleasure me, I will not hide from you the thing my heart desires; and, were it now summer, as it is January and the dead time of the winter, I would desire no better meat than a dish
of ripe grapes.

FAUSTUS. Alas, madam, that's nothing!--Mephistophilis, be gone. [Exit MEPHISTOPHILIS.] Were it a greater thing than this, so it would content you, you should have it.

Re-enter MEPHISTOPHILIS with grapes.

Here they be, madam: wilt please you taste on them?

DUKE. Believe me, Master Doctor, this makes me wonder above the rest, that being in the dead time of winter and in the month of January, how you should come by these grapes.

FAUSTUS. If it like your grace, the year is divided into two circles over the whole world, that, when it is here winter with us, in the contrary circle it is summer with them, as in India, Saba, and farther countries in the east; and by means of a swift spirit that I have, I had them brought hither, as you see. --How do you like them, madam? be they good?

DUCHESS. Believe me, Master Doctor, they be the best grapes that e'er I tasted in my life before.

FAUSTUS. I am glad they content you so, madam.

DUKE. Come, madam, let us in, where you must well reward this learned man for the great kindness he hath shewed to you.

DUCHESS. And so I will, my lord; and, whilst I live, rest beholding for this courtesy.

FAUSTUS. I humbly thank your grace.

DUKE. Come, Master Doctor, follow us, and receive your reward. [Exeunt.]

Enter WAGNER.

WAGNER. I think my master means to die shortly, For he hath given to me all his goods:
And yet, methinks, if that death were near,
He would not banquet, and carouse, and swill Amongst the students, as even now he doth,
Who are at supper with such belly-cheer
As Wagner ne'er beheld in all his life.
See, where they come! belike the feast is ended. [Exit.]

Enter FAUSTUS with two or three SCHOLARS, and MEPHISTOPHILIS.
 FIRST SCHOLAR. Master Doctor Faustus, since our conference about fair ladies, which was the beautifulest in all the world, we have determined with ourselves that Helen of Greece was the admirablest lady that ever lived: therefore, Master Doctor, if you will do us that favour, as to let us see that peerless dame of Greece, whom all the world admires for majesty, we should think ourselves much beholding unto you.

FAUSTUS. Gentlemen,
For that I know your friendship is unfeign'd, And Faustus' custom is not to deny
The just requests of those that wish him well, You shall behold that peerless dame of Greece, No otherways for pomp and majesty
Than when Sir Paris cross'd the seas with her, And brought the spoils to rich Dardania.
Be silent, then, for danger is in words. [Music sounds, and HELEN passeth over the stage.]

SECOND SCHOLAR. Too simple is my wit to tell her praise, Whom all the world admires for majesty.

THIRD SCHOLAR. No marvel though the angry Greeks pursu'd With ten years' war the rape of such a queen, Whose heavenly beauty passeth all compare.

FIRST SCHOLAR. Since we have seen the pride of Nature's works, And only paragon of excellence,
Let us depart; and for this glorious deed Happy and blest be Faustus evermore!

FAUSTUS. Gentlemen, farewell: the same I wish to you. [Exeunt SCHOLARS.]

Enter an OLD MAN.

OLD MAN. Ah, Doctor Faustus, that I might prevail To guide thy steps unto the way of life,
By which sweet path thou mayst attain the goal That shall conduct thee to celestial rest! Break heart, drop blood, and mingle it with tears, Tears falling from repentant heaviness
Of thy most vile and loathsome filthiness, The stench whereof corrupts the inward soul With such flagitious crimes of heinous sin
As no commiseration may expel,
But mercy, Faustus, of thy Saviour sweet, Whose blood alone must wash away thy guilt.
FAUSTUS. Where art thou, Faustus? wretch, what hast thou done? Damn'd art thou, Faustus, damn'd; despair and die! Hell calls for right, and with a roaring voice Says, "Faustus, come; thine hour is almost come;" And Faustus now will come to do thee right.
[MEPHISTOPHILIS gives him a dagger.]

OLD MAN. Ah, stay, good Faustus, stay thy desperate steps! I see an angel hovers o'er thy head,
And, with a vial full of precious grace, Offers to pour the same into thy soul:
Then call for mercy, and avoid despair.

FAUSTUS. Ah, my sweet friend, I feel
Thy words to comfort my distressed soul! Leave me a while to ponder on my sins.

OLD MAN. I go, sweet Faustus; but with heavy cheer, Fearing the ruin of thy hopeless soul.
[Exit.]

FAUSTUS. Accursed Faustus, where is mercy now? I do repent; and yet I do despair:
Hell strives with grace for conquest in my breast: What shall I do to shun the snares of death?

MEPHIST. Thou traitor, Faustus, I arrest thy soul For disobedience to my sovereign lord: Revolt, or I'll in piece-meal tear thy flesh.

FAUSTUS. Sweet Mephistophilis, entreat thy lord To pardon my unjust presumption,
And with my blood again I will confirm
My former vow I made to Lucifer.

MEPHIST. Do it, then, quickly, with unfeigned heart, Lest greater danger do attend thy drift.

FAUSTUS. Torment, sweet friend, that base and crooked age, That durst dissuade me from thy Lucifer, With greatest torments that our hell affords.

MEPHIST. His faith is great; I cannot touch his soul; But what I may afflict his body with
I will attempt, which is but little worth.

FAUSTUS. One thing, good servant, let me crave of thee, To glut the longing of my heart's desire,-- That I might have unto my paramour
That heavenly Helen which I saw of late,
Whose sweet embracings may extinguish clean Those thoughts that do dissuade me from my vow, And keep mine oath I made to Lucifer.

MEPHIST. Faustus, this, or what else thou shalt desire, Shall be perform'd in twinkling of an eye.

Re-enter HELEN.

FAUSTUS. Was this the face that launch'd a thousand ships, And burnt the topless towers of Ilium-- Sweet Helen, make me immortal with a kiss.--
[Kisses her.]
Her lips suck forth my soul: see, where it flies!-- Come, Helen, come, give me my soul again. Here will I dwell, for heaven is in these lips, And all is dross that is not Helena.
I will be Paris, and for love of thee, Instead of Troy, shall Wertenberg be sack'd; And I will combat with weak Menelaus, And wear thy colours on my plumed crest; Yea, I will wound Achilles in the heel, And then return to Helen for a kiss.
O, thou art fairer than the evening air Clad in the beauty of a thousand stars; Brighter art thou than flaming Jupiter When he appear'd to hapless Semele; More lovely than the monarch of the sky In wanton Arethusa's azur'd arms;
And none but thou shalt be my paramour! [Exeunt.]

Enter the OLD MAN.

OLD MAN. Accursed Faustus, miserable man, That from thy soul exclud'st the grace of heaven, And fly'st the throne of his tribunal-seat!

Enter DEVILS.

Satan begins to sift me with his pride: As in this furnace God shall try my faith, My faith, vile hell, shall triumph over thee. Ambitious fiends, see how the heavens smile At your repulse, and laugh your state to scorn! Hence, hell! for hence I fly unto my God.
[Exeunt,--on one side, DEVILS, on the other, OLD MAN.]

Enter FAUSTUS, with SCHOLARS.
FAUSTUS. Ah, gentlemen!

FIRST SCHOLAR. What ails Faustus?

FAUSTUS. Ah, my sweet chamber-fellow, had I lived with thee, then had I lived still! but now I die eternally. Look, comes he not? comes he not?

SECOND SCHOLAR. What means Faustus?

THIRD SCHOLAR. Belike he is grown into some sickness by being over-solitary.

FIRST SCHOLAR. If it be so, we'll have physicians to cure him. --'Tis but a surfeit; never fear, man.

FAUSTUS. A surfeit of deadly sin, that hath damned both body and soul.

SECOND SCHOLAR. Yet, Faustus, look up to heaven; remember God's mercies are infinite.

FAUSTUS. But Faustus' offence can ne'er be pardoned: the serpent that tempted Eve may be saved, but not Faustus. Ah, gentlemen, hear me with patience, and tremble not at my speeches! Though my heart pants and quivers to remember that I have been a student here these thirty years, O, would I had never seen Wertenberg, never read book! and what wonders I have done, all Germany can witness, yea, all the world; for which Faustus hath lost both Germany and the world, yea, heaven itself, heaven, the seat of God, the throne of the blessed, the kingdom of joy; and must remain in hell for ever, hell, ah, hell, for ever! Sweet friends, what shall become of Faustus, being in hell for ever?

THIRD SCHOLAR. Yet, Faustus, call on God.

FAUSTUS. On God, whom Faustus hath abjured! on God, whom Faustus hath blasphemed! Ah, my God, I would weep! but the devil draws in my tears. Gush forth blood, instead of tears! yea, life and soul! O, he stays my tongue! I would lift up my hands; but see, they hold them, they hold them!

ALL. Who, Faustus?

FAUSTUS. Lucifer and Mephistophilis. Ah, gentlemen, I gave them my soul for my cunning!

ALL. God forbid!

FAUSTUS. God forbade it, indeed; but Faustus hath done it: for
vain pleasure of twenty-four years hath Faustus lost eternal joy and felicity. I writ them a bill with mine own blood: the date is expired; the time will come, and he will fetch me.

FIRST SCHOLAR. Why did not Faustus tell us of this before, that divines might have prayed for thee?

FAUSTUS. Oft have I thought to have done so; but the devil threatened to tear me in pieces, if I named God, to fetch both body and soul, if I once gave ear to divinity: and now 'tis too late. Gentlemen, away, lest you perish with me.

SECOND SCHOLAR. O, what shall we do to save Faustus?

FAUSTUS. Talk not of me, but save yourselves, and depart.

THIRD SCHOLAR. God will strengthen me; I will stay with Faustus.

FIRST SCHOLAR. Tempt not God, sweet friend; but let us into the next room, and there pray for him.

FAUSTUS. Ay, pray for me, pray for me; and what noise soever ye hear, come not unto me, for nothing can rescue me.

SECOND SCHOLAR. Pray thou, and we will pray that God may have mercy upon thee.

FAUSTUS. Gentlemen, farewell: if I live till morning, I'll visit you; if not, Faustus is gone to hell.

ALL. Faustus, farewell.
[Exeunt SCHOLARS.--The clock strikes eleven.]

FAUSTUS. Ah, Faustus,
Now hast thou but one bare hour to live,
And then thou must be damn'd perpetually!
Stand still, you ever-moving spheres of heaven, That time may cease, and midnight never come; Fair Nature's eye, rise, rise again, and make Perpetual day; or let this hour be but
A year, a month, a week, a natural day,
That Faustus may repent and save his soul!
O lente, lente currite, noctis equi!
The stars move still, time runs, the clock will strike, The devil will come, and Faustus must be damn'd. O, I'll leap up to my God!--Who pulls me down?-- See, see, where Christ's blood streams in the firmament! One drop would save my soul, half a drop: ah, my Christ!-- Ah, rend not my heart for naming of my Christ! Yet will I call on him: O, spare me, Lucifer!--
Where is it now? 'tis gone: and see, where God Stretcheth out his arm, and bends his ireful brows! Mountains and hills, come, come, and fall on me, And hide me from the heavy wrath of God! No, no!
Then will I headlong run into the earth: Earth, gape! O, no, it will not harbour me! You stars that reign'd at my nativity, Whose influence hath allotted death and hell, Now draw up Faustus, like a foggy mist. Into the entrails of yon labouring cloud[s], That, when you vomit forth into the air, My limbs may issue from your smoky mouths, So that my soul may but ascend to heaven!
[The clock strikes the half-hour.] Ah, half the hour is past! 'twill all be past anon O God,
If thou wilt not have mercy on my soul, Yet for Christ's sake, whose blood hath ransom'd me, Impose some end to my incessant pain;
Let Faustus live in hell a thousand years, A hundred thousand, and at last be sav'd! O, no end is limited to damned souls!
Why wert thou not a creature wanting soul? Or why is this immortal that thou hast? Ah, Pythagoras' metempsychosis, were that true, This soul should fly from me, and I be chang'd Unto some brutish beast! all beasts are happy, For, when they die,
Their souls are soon dissolv'd in elements; But mine must live still to be plagu'd in hell. Curs'd be the parents that engender'd me! No, Faustus, curse thyself, curse Lucifer That hath depriv'd thee of the joys of heaven.
[The clock strikes twelve.]
O, it strikes, it strikes! Now, body, turn to air, Or Lucifer will bear thee quick to hell!
[Thunder and lightning.]
O soul, be chang'd into little water-drops, And fall into the ocean, ne'er be found!

Enter DEVILS.

My God, my god, look not so fierce on me! Adders and serpents, let me breathe a while! Ugly hell, gape not! come not, Lucifer! I'll burn my books!--Ah, Mephistophilis!
[Exeunt DEVILS with FAUSTUS.]

Enter CHORUS.

CHORUS. Cut is the branch that might have grown full straight, And burned is Apollo's laurel-bough,
That sometime grew within this learned man. Faustus is gone: regard his hellish fall, Whose fiendful fortune may exhort the wise, Only to wonder at unlawful things,
Whose deepness doth entice such forward wits To practice more than heavenly power permits.
[Exit.]

Terminat hora diem; terminat auctor opus.



The End

Author
Rabindranath Tagore
Original title
??? ????? Ghare Baire
Country
India
Language
Bengali
Genre(s)
Autobiographical novel
Publication date
1916

About this novel

The Home and the World 1916 (in the original Bengali, Ghôre Baire, lit. "At home [and] outside") is a 1916 novel by Rabindranath Tagore. The book illustrates the battle Tagore had with himself, between the ideas of Western culture and revolution against the Western culture. These two ideas are portrayed in two of the main characters, Nikhil, who is rational and opposes violence, and Sandip, who will let nothing stand in his way from reaching his goals. These two opposing ideals are very important in understanding the history of this region and its contemporary problems. There is much controversy over whether or not Tagore was attempting represent Gandhi in Sandip but many argue that Tagore would not even venture to personify Sandip as Gandhi because Tagore was a large admirer of Gandhi and Gandhi was anti-violence while Sandip would use violence in any respect to get what he wanted. The book shows “the clash between new and old, realism and idealism, the means and the end, good and evil” within India and southern Asia.

The novel is set in early 20th century India in the estate of the Bengali zamindar Nikhil. He marries Bimala, a woman who is both of a lower status and of a darker complexion, which is contradictory to his family traditions. Their love is idyllic and both are dedicated to one another until the appearance of his friend and radical revolutionist, Sandip.
Sandip, a passionate and active man, is a contradiction to the peace-loving and somewhat passive Nikhil. His charismatic speech, support of the Swadeshi movement, and a renewed appreciation of everything Indian while denying everything British garnered support from local natives across the province. After hearing Sandip speak at a rally, Bimala insists that Sandip visit Nikhil’s estate. While visiting, Sandip's influential nature easily attracts the innocent and unsuspecting Bimala, and she suggests he make his headquarters at their house. Once empowered by the inside world, knowing only her husband and home, she becomes engaged with the outside world, taking part in the Swadeshi movement by working with Sandip. As the novel develops, Bimala is drawn to Sandip’s passion and the attraction between the two becomes inevitable, producing a love triangle. She begins to question her marriage with Nikhil and finds in Sandip what she has always sought after in a man: zeal, ambition, and a hint of danger.
She begins to help Sandip by stealing money from Nikhil’s treasury, convinced that if it is not equally his money as well as hers, then it belongs to the country. While Bimala claims her national duty as motivation, her true intentions lie in pleasing Sandip. Nikhil subsequently discovers their actions, but grants Bimala freedom to grow and choose what she wants in her life (as their marriage was arranged when she was a young girl). Meanwhile, Bimala experiences love for the first time, which ultimately helps her understand that it is indeed her husband Nikhil who really loves her.
The novel ends with a secular riot, resulting in Sandip fleeing the city. Nikhil is mortally wounded in the head. Amulya, a young follower of Sandip's movement who considered Bimala as his sister, and whom Bimala thinks of as her son (since she has no children), dies by a bullet through his heart.

A daughter’s tribute to her father

The very word ‘my father’ still evokes a great feeling of love and affection in my heart after an interval of 42 long years. I was born late in his life, the youngest of his three offspring. I lost him when I was barely 18 years old, just on the threshold of adulthood. If I close my eyes, I can still visualize his beloved face.

I will never forget the way he used to emphasise that blood is thicker than water. A drop of ‘Kovoor’ blood mattered a lot to him. He stressed on family values and gave up his magic tricks as his mother felt that they were the work of the devil. His Gandhian principles made him spin yarn from cotton on ‘charka’ and ‘Thakli’. We were made aware of the starving millions and never allowed to waste any food. Thanks to our father’s insistence on eating whatever was in our plates, we could cope easily with our hostel life.

My earliest memories of him were of staring glumly at a plate of ‘puttu’, a typical Syrian Christian steamed breakfast dish of roasted rice flour and coconut. He would mix it with bananas, roll it into balls, imaginatively naming them as pigeon’s egg, ostrich’s egg and so on and would coax me into eating them, incidentally saving me from my mother’s wrath.

One could confide anything to him. It is to him that I whispered my whimsy about one side of jaw feeling deprived if I chewed on the other. However if I was naughty, I was put in a corner and made to learn the multiplication tables. In high school he made me write my own essays and thus inculcated self confidence in me.

According to his theory of education all of us were made to study in a different state at University level in order to acquire proficiency in spoken English. In contrast we had to converse only in our mother tongue at home. My children owe their fluency in their mother tongue, to his ideals.

I will always remember his caring nature, his mechanical ability and the mouthwatering pineapples he cultivated. He may have had his faults but he was a wonderful father. In this era of the fence grazing the grass, he was a father who cocooned his daughter in a blanket of security.

SHELLEY WALIA
Intellectual adventure characterises the life of George Steiner…
He is the last of the generation of twentieth century great literary scholars. At the age of six he could read Homer's Iliad in Greek. His felicity in German, English and French would finally nudge his whole academic career towards the discipline of comparative literature. He has been a thorough anti-Zionist and has often been extremely vitriolic in his criticism of Israeli treatment of Palestinians. His revitalizing calibre has been his gift of moving from Pythagoras, through Aristotle, to Dante, Nietzsche and Tolstoy in a single paragraph. I have deeply enjoyed the tremendous intellectual synthesis of his vast knowledge behind every lecture that he has delivered.

Francis George Steiner ‘a late, late late Renaissance man', as A. S Byatt puts it, ‘has been debating the fate of culture in modern life with the refrain of the Holocaust that underpins his world view. As he put it, ‘the civilization that produced Bach also produced Buchenwald'. Having escaped the scourge of Nazism, the metaphor of the survivor became the obsession of his thought: ‘My whole life has been about death, remembering and the Holocaust.' And ever since, like the metaphoric homeless Jew, he has been an itinerant scholar moving between continents with Professorships at Harvard, Oxford and the University of Geneva, celebrating culture's survival and questioning its value in an age of atrocity and disbelief. Central to his thought is his ‘astonishment, naïve as it seems to people, that you can use human speech both to love, to build, to forgive, and also to torture, to hate, to destroy and to annihilate.'

Opening doors


The lesson that students and teachers of literature can most learn from him is to acquire languages, try to read the originals and never ignore the relevance of music and art to literature. Steiner has often stressed Europe's debt to Goethe in his translations of the great works into Latin, Hebrew and English, and draws attention to his statement: ‘ He who does not know foreign languages, does not know his own.' Thus the history and principles of language are intrinsic to any reading: ‘Comparative literature listens and reads after Babel… Each and every window in the house of language opens to a different landscape and temporality, to a different segmentation in the spectrum of perceived and classified experience. It is the multiplicity of spoken languages which has been ‘the enabling condition of men and women's freedom to perceive, to articulate, to redraft the existential world in manifold freedoms.'

Steiner's whole life has been underpinned by secular humanism and the interaction between languages and culture which, he feels, has the possibility of bringing to an end the barbaric and the murderous in man. Only then could much of the educated Western sensibility emerge out of remorse and endow itself with sufficient ‘empathy to penetrate into other ethnic guises, to take on the world-views, the rules of consciousnesses of another culture, another society. This is the only way of enduring and acknowledging our links with human creativity of not only the past but of other religions and other lands. As a young lad, he regretted moving from University of Chicago to Harvard for his graduate studies as he found it old-fashioned and tedious and he looked back to his happy undergraduate days at Chicago. In desperation, he wrote to Professor Hutchinson, the Chancellor of University of Chicago, requesting him to give him one of the two nominations to Rhodes scholarship and promising, with his undying arrogance, that he would not let him down and that Chicago would have a Rhode scholar for the first time in history. He won it and happily reached Balliol at Oxford.

On numerous occasions I had attended his lectures at Cambridge and at Geneva. I then met him at Oxford in 1995 when he took over as the first Weidenfield Professor of Comparative Literature. He was returning after forty years to the same place where he had been slighted. Before him F.R. Leavis and A.J.P. Taylor had met with the same fate. The aura was the same, the place was the same. But this time it was the return of the scholar, a homecoming.

The D.Phil in English at Oxford was then looked down upon as an American and German import and his supervisor, Professor Hugo Dyson, who had acted in the movie Darling with Julie Christie, was frank with him on the first day, ‘ I am going to charge you 8 guineas for every supervision. This money we are going to spend on either a dinner at the Bear Pub in Woodstock or a play in London. The evening is going to be well spent and I am never going to read the rubbish you are going to periodically give me.'

And so the day arrived for the viva. The thesis was on the inability and failure of the English Romantics to break into theatre. Dame Helen Gardener, the expert at the viva had only one observation to make: ‘Though cricket is a boring sport, you have to know the rules if you want to play the game. Did you not know that to write a doctoral thesis you need to know the technical aspect of writing footnotes, quotations, etc. Did no one teach you documentation?' The dissertation was rejected outright and Steiner found himself in a very cosy job of writing on foreign policy at the Economist.

A few years passed and one morning he was told that a gentleman from Oxford was waiting for him downstairs. Steiner was pleasantly surprised to find Professor Humphrey House ( famous for his Clark lectures and for his pioneering achievement of the Hopkins Journals) Secretary of the Board of English Faculty in the parlour who immediately came to the point: ‘I do not blame you for not knowing the requisite research methodology for your D. Phil. But I strongly feel it is a great ‘dereliction' of the English Faculty for this monumental blunder. So will you be willing to take up research again under my supervision.' Steiner immediately accepted the offer. He knew this would be one way of making his father happy. The Economist too allowed him to take one day off in a week to go down to the London Library to work on his research. Two days before the viva Professor Humphrey House sadly passed away. It would have been joyful for him to know that this time Dame Helen Gardener would be of the view that it was indeed a ‘congratulatory viva.'

Metaphor


And so on this fateful day of occupying the chair at Oxford, the mysterious choice of destiny and the rational design of God's purpose had finally restored the hero to the rightful place he belonged to. But unlike the Homeric warrior who is aware deep in his heart that he cannot master the workings of destiny, it most certainly was the triumph of a young researcher whose suffering at the rejection of his thesis must have all the more strengthened his resolve to seriously devote himself to the study of comparative literature, and return to the position that he had most desired. In this lay his claim to dignity and grandeur.

Being a Jew, Steiner kept up with the metaphor of a wanderer and thus moved to Cambridge as a founding fellow at Churchill. But at an interview for a lecturer he was not admitted to the English Faculty by the two experts Graham Hough and Muriel Bradbrook because of a disagreement on Hegel. Ironically, two months after this rejection, the same faculty would prescribe two passages from his Death of Tragedyfor the Tripos syllabus. Steiner would then move to the University of Geneva as a Professor of Comparative Literature which would occupy him for the next twenty years. With students from various nationalities the job was tailor-made for a course in comparative literature. Being a polyglot, Steiner ensured that he taught every poem in its original language. And in Geneva he could ‘live Europe'. A job at Yale or Princeton would have depressed his father who advised him to think before taking up the position offered to him in the US. Moving to the US would mean that ‘Hitler had won' as the last Steiner had been finally evicted from Europe.

ON CROSSING A DIVIDE

Morning gently roused her, as it lightly touched her eye lids, coaxing them to meet a new day’s bright yellow gaze.

She rose, and reticently strode to the kitchen, switched on the kettle and heard its volcanic rumble as the temperature of the water rose on its certain eruption to boiling point. As she spooned coffee and sugar into her cup with the Chinese character for hope and the phrase “all it takes”, she thought it was a day like any other. A day where she would deal with clients, have a difference of opinion with her Seniors; feed the dog, and be submitted to the odd question or remark of prejudice, an ugly stain on the cloak of any new day; a certain ceiling for unlocking potential; a stifling cage for a tiny bird.

She wished to cross the divide of uncertain loneliness; broaden the narrow horizons of small town living and rise high above the squabbles of colleagues with inferiority complexes battering and tering at the flesh of awareness, like pecking raucous crows in frenzy for the kill.

It was in the afternoon when she logged in to her new world. Cyber space loomed large and unknown before her, like a rickety suspension bridge. Should she walk? Or should she refrain from doing so? Was it wise to stand on the edge and never make the crossing? After all the bridge may swing violently and she may plunge into the precipice of disillusionment, broken trust and a hacker’s intrusion on all she holds sacred.

She sipped her coffee and then logged in. She typed in a profile, sketching the existential portrait of her hours on earth, logged out and then begin the wait.

It was the end of the following working day and her tired feet guided her back to her settler cottage.

She switched on the computer, enabled her 3G connection and logged in.

Firstly, se checked for important mail from family, colleagues with mutual interests outside the confinement of her office and the organization she served. She then proceeded to her library and read some favourite novel, followed by a biography of the reach princess swallowed up by the carnivorous media.

Finally, when she could no longer concentrate on the text streaming into her ears, she, with trepidation logged into the web site, entered the cocoon of her homepage, and scrolled down to “my friends”.
A flutter in her heart.

There it was. I request to be friends. She read the profile and clicked on “yes” to the question “accept Jenny as a friend”.

At last! She had crossed the divide. Found the space to submit her thoughts to; unjudged, clear of all human bias and preconceived notions.

Like a bird spreading her wings she was free to soar into the powdery unknown, to travel to the end of her destiny to a city called “present”, like a bird her wings beat out a rhythm of their own as she soared off into her new found freedom.

Adagio


It is Saturday night. Paula is seated at an outside table, while sipping strong sweet coffee from a styrofoam cup.
The warm liquid is an antithesis to the playful breeze whose childlike hand ruffles her hair, wreaking havoc with her fringe whose bangs dance in the wind. As friend and companion, the honey brown strains of a saxophone playing “baker street” gently beckons, then enters, and treads lightly over her receptive auditory rug, and finally caresses her into this reflective mood in which she does not feel alone, because reflection and observation have always been her friends and sounding boards in her quest to survive and thrive.

As the strains fall and rise in pitch she continues to reflect on her life as it was and as it is at present. It is hard to imagine that a matrix comprising six tiny dots had the powers of an abstract creator, was able to assist with the configuration of her life map and all paths she would take, up until the moment she was brought here. Here, into this moment of awareness of the richly coloured tapestry of opportunity, upon which she is privileged to “look” and enjoy every day of her life.

The high and low notes of the music alternate quickly now and are light and legato – like a butterfly taking off in flight and given the momentary power of speech it chants carpe diem! Then its flight plays its andante multicoloured song across the sky blue palette as it aims for its next flowery destiny.


She Reverts back to her reflections, and realizes that the word look may baffle each sighted reader of this passage, as to them man sees with eyes alone.
No. No, she wanted to correct the reader: because by now it should be common knowledge that one does not see with eyes alone and that there are many dimensions of awareness.
Awareness that if not for the eighth wonder of the world, that wonder many know as Braille, she would never have taken an extraordinary journey of this nature; never touched and handled each word; never crossed paths with the extraordinary people she met daily and always been devoid of awareness of those around her; It is certainly true that many memorable experiences would have evaded her, such as her visit to the home and grave of Louis Braille, where silence is his voice speaking louder than words uttered by voices of the living, and she, reverent pilgrim, listening for each sound.
while her feet, cautiously like styluses write on the blank slate of the tomb floor: “I was here”. As she makes her way out of the tomb, the styluses write: “…and privileged to have stepped into your presence …”
Her final step from the tomb is a decisive dots 256, a full stop, a conclusion.

It is certain that her life would have been insipid without the other senses, who like kindly parents offer to her waking presence the Smells and taste like that of sweet bread; and then, there was the glorious sense of sound! Offering the mercurial, gold-clad lightning streaks – rumbling across the sky! The sound of an organ, whose reverberation of each note ascends high into the dome of a huge cathedral. It is these that would always remain church guests to her, allowing only superficial discourse.
What the six dot matrix gave her was the wait of words. Their worth measured ounce for ounce phone for phone morpheme for morpheme; word for word; sentence for sentence thought for thought; action for action and at last that exquisite state we know as matamorphisis, passing from the old into the new, undiscovered lands of the unknown – the unexplored.
and perhaps the only surety document we are given in life.

The strains from the saxophone increase in volume and intensity, like the primal cry of a malnurished child in dire need of food and drink; with a compelling need to be heard– and as the notes are suspended in the air dangling courageously, brazenly stripped of all pretence, holding out the gauntlet to be thrown down for all to fight for the rights of fellow human beings, who in many instances are still disenfranchised, still wrapped in the mists of ignorance. They are mere rolling stones who never gather the comforting moss of empowerment through literacy.


In a movement marked Adagio, an overwhelming urge urnfurls in her, like a gigantus flower, to cry out loudly with sonorous voice across the plains of this continent, louder than the foghorn, and louder than the gulls raucously chanting their needs and requirements above her head. - and then, being in public she decides that to reverently mouth the phrase: LongLive Louis Braille will be equally effective.

The song nears its conclusion – and she can no longer sense the presence of the butterfly whose legato flight has already led it on to a sunny yellow world of potential.
…As she reveled in the sweet warmth of her drink and allow the honey of sound to wash over her she softly mouthed: “Here’s to you inventor of my freedom. “Long live Louis Braille!”

Sixty, a dreaded milestone,
In life, in a trice gone.
A Kaleidoscope of mixed scenes,
Flash before the eyes, babies into
Towering hunks of flesh and bone.

Surrounded by love, protected
Planned and meticulously executed.
Stolen moments of time, amidst
Busy schedule, set aside.
It is said that love conquers all.

Daughters in-law not at arms length,
In their hearts lie true strength,
Nourishing and cherishing a woman’s role.
As God is in heaven above,
All is well down below.

My mom turned sixty this week, and we celebrated her B'day in style. This is a poem she wrote to mark the occasion.

The Gospel of Judas is a Gnostic gospel purported to document conversations between the apostle Judas Iscariot and Jesus Christ. The document is not claimed to have been written by Judas himself, but rather by Gnostic followers of Jesus. It exists in an early fourth-century Coptic text, though it has been proposed, but not proven, that the text is a translation of an earlier Greek version. The Gospel of Judas is probably from no earlier than the second century, since it contains theology that is not represented before the second half of the second century, and since its introduction and epilogue assume the reader is familiar with the canonical Gospels. The oldest Coptic document has been carbon dated to AD 280, plus or minus 50 years. According to the canonical Gospels of the New Testament (Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John), Judas betrayed Jesus to Jerusalem's Temple authorities, who handed Jesus over to the prefect Pontius Pilate, representative of the occupying Roman Empire, for crucifixion. The Gospel of Judas, on the other hand, portrays Judas in a very different perspective than do the Gospels of the New Testament, according to a preliminary translation made in early 2006 by the National Geographic Society: the Gospel of Judas appears to interpret Judas's act not as betrayal, but rather as an act of obedience to the instructions of Jesus. This assumption is taken on the basis that Jesus required a second agent to set in motion a course of events which he had planned. In that sense Judas acted as a catalyst. The action of Judas, then, was a pivotal point which interconnected a series of simultaneous pre-orchestrated events. This portrayal seems to conform to a notion current in some forms of Gnosticism, that the human form is a spiritual prison, and that Judas thus served Christ by helping to release Christ's spirit from its physical constraints. The action of Judas allowed him to do that which he could not do directly. The Gospel of Judas does not claim that the other disciples knew gnostic teachings. On the contrary, it asserts that the disciples had not learned the true Gospel, which Jesus taught only to Judas Iscariot.

The Bet

By Anton Chekhov

About The Story

In the short story “The Bet” by Anton Chekhov a wager is made that changes the lives of two people. The story begins with a heated argument at a party over which is more moral, capital punishment or life imprisonment. The host of the party, the banker, believes that capital punishment is more moral because the death sentence kills the victim quicker rather than dragging out the process. A twenty-five year old lawyer at the party responds, saying, he would choose the life sentence to be more moral because any life is better than no life at all. Hearing this response causes the banker to bet the lawyer two million dollars that the lawyer can not last five years in solitary confinement. The lawyer accepts the wager, but pushes it to fifteen years in hopes of making a point. The terms of the wager are that the lawyer is to live in solitary confinement without any human interaction for fifteen years, but is granted any books, music, wine, etc. that he wants. As the fifteen years pass, the lawyer discovers the significance of human life.

Through this story, Chekhov demonstrates a belief that the power and capacity for learning exists within the individual, and it isn't something that can happen to everyone.
Let's read the story now.

It was a dark autumn night. The old banker was pacing from corner to corner of his study, recalling to his mind the party he gave in the autumn fifteen years before. There were many clever people at the party and much interesting conversation. They talked among other things of capital punishment. The guests, among them not a few scholars and journalists, for the most part disapproved of capital punishment. They found it obsolete as a means of punishment, unfitted to a Christian State and immoral. Some of them thought that capital punishment should be replaced universally by life-imprisonment.

"I don't agree with you," said the host. "I myself have experienced neither capital punishment nor life-imprisonment, but if one may judge a priori, then in my opinion capital punishment is more moral and more humane than imprisonment. Execution kills instantly, life-imprisonment kills by degrees. Who is the more humane executioner, one who kills you in a few seconds or one who draws the life out of you incessantly, for years?"

"They're both equally immoral," remarked one of the guests, "because their purpose is the same, to take away life. The State is not God. It has no right to take away that which it cannot give back, if it should so desire."

Among the company was a lawyer, a young man of about twenty-five. On being asked his opinion, he said:

"Capital punishment and life-imprisonment are equally immoral; but if I were offered the choice between them, I would certainly choose the second. It's better to live somehow than not to live at all."

There ensued a lively discussion. The banker who was then younger and more nervous suddenly lost his temper, banged his fist on the table, and turning to the young lawyer, cried out:

"It's a lie. I bet you two millions you wouldn't stick in a cell even for five years."

"If you mean it seriously," replied the lawyer, "then I bet I'll stay not five but fifteen."

"Fifteen! Done!" cried the banker. "Gentlemen, I stake two millions."

"Agreed. You stake two millions, I my freedom," said the lawyer.

So this wild, ridiculous bet came to pass. The banker, who at that time had too many millions to count, spoiled and capricious, was beside himself with rapture. During supper he said to the lawyer jokingly:

"Come to your senses, young roan, before it's too late. Two millions are nothing to me, but you stand to lose three or four of the best years of your life. I say three or four, because you'll never stick it out any longer. Don't forget either, you unhappy man, that voluntary is much heavier than enforced imprisonment. The idea that you have the right to free yourself at any moment will poison the whole of your life in the cell. I pity you."

And now the banker, pacing from corner to corner, recalled all this and asked himself:

"Why did I make this bet? What's the good? The lawyer loses fifteen years of his life and I throw away two millions. Will it convince people that capital punishment is worse or better than imprisonment for life? No, no! all stuff and rubbish. On my part, it was the caprice of a well-fed man; on the lawyer's pure greed of gold."

He recollected further what happened after the evening party. It was decided that the lawyer must undergo his imprisonment under the strictest observation, in a garden wing of the banker's house. It was agreed that during the period he would be deprived of the right to cross the threshold, to see living people, to hear human voices, and to receive letters and newspapers. He was permitted to have a musical instrument, to read books, to write letters, to drink wine and smoke tobacco. By the agreement he could communicate, but only in silence, with the outside world through a little window specially constructed for this purpose. Everything necessary, books, music, wine, he could receive in any quantity by sending a note through the window. The agreement provided for all the minutest details, which made the confinement strictly solitary, and it obliged the lawyer to remain exactly fifteen years from twelve o'clock of November 14th, 1870, to twelve o'clock of November 14th, 1885. The least attempt on his part to violate the conditions, to escape if only for two minutes before the time freed the banker from the obligation to pay him the two millions.

During the first year of imprisonment, the lawyer, as far as it was possible to judge from his short notes, suffered terribly from loneliness and boredom. From his wing day and night came the sound of the piano. He rejected wine and tobacco. "Wine," he wrote, "excites desires, and desires are the chief foes of a prisoner; besides, nothing is more boring than to drink good wine alone," and tobacco spoils the air in his room. During the first year the lawyer was sent books of a light character; novels with a complicated love interest, stories of crime and fantasy, comedies, and so on.

In the second year the piano was heard no longer and the lawyer asked only for classics. In the fifth year, music was heard again, and the prisoner asked for wine. Those who watched him said that during the whole of that year he was only eating, drinking, and lying on his bed. He yawned often and talked angrily to himself. Books he did not read. Sometimes at nights he would sit down to write. He would write for a long time and tear it all up in the morning. More than once he was heard to weep.

In the second half of the sixth year, the prisoner began zealously to study languages, philosophy, and history. He fell on these subjects so hungrily that the banker hardly had time to get books enough for him. In the space of four years about six hundred volumes were bought at his request. It was while that passion lasted that the banker received the following letter from the prisoner: "My dear gaoler, I am writing these lines in six languages. Show them to experts. Let them read them. If they do not find one single mistake, I beg you to give orders to have a gun fired off in the garden. By the noise I shall know that my efforts have not been in vain. The geniuses of all ages and countries speak in different languages; but in them all burns the same flame. Oh, if you knew my heavenly happiness now that I can understand them!" The prisoner's desire was fulfilled. Two shots were fired in the garden by the banker's order.

Later on, after the tenth year, the lawyer sat immovable before his table and read only the New Testament. The banker found it strange that a man who in four years had mastered six hundred erudite volumes, should have spent nearly a year in reading one book, easy to understand and by no means thick. The New Testament was then replaced by the history of religions and theology.

During the last two years of his confinement the prisoner read an extraordinary amount, quite haphazard. Now he would apply himself to the natural sciences, then he would read Byron or Shakespeare. Notes used to come from him in which he asked to be sent at the same time a book on chemistry, a text-book of medicine, a novel, and some treatise on philosophy or theology. He read as though he were swimming in the sea among broken pieces of wreckage, and in his desire to save his life was eagerly grasping one piece after another.

II

The banker recalled all this, and thought:

"To-morrow at twelve o'clock he receives his freedom. Under the agreement, I shall have to pay him two millions. If I pay, it's all over with me. I am ruined for ever ..."

Fifteen years before he had too many millions to count, but now he was afraid to ask himself which he had more of, money or debts. Gambling on the Stock-Exchange, risky speculation, and the recklessness of which he could not rid himself even in old age, had gradually brought his business to decay; and the fearless, self-confident, proud man of business had become an ordinary banker, trembling at every rise and fall in the market.

"That cursed bet," murmured the old man clutching his head in despair... "Why didn't the man die? He's only forty years old. He will take away my last farthing, marry, enjoy life, gamble on the Exchange, and I will look on like an envious beggar and hear the same words from him every day: 'I'm obliged to you for the happiness of my life. Let me help you.' No, it's too much! The only escape from bankruptcy and disgrace—is that the man should die."

The clock had just struck three. The banker was listening. In the house every one was asleep, and one could hear only the frozen trees whining outside the windows. Trying to make no sound, he took out of his safe the key of the door which had not been opened for fifteen years, put on his overcoat, and went out of the house. The garden was dark and cold. It was raining. A damp, penetrating wind howled in the garden and gave the trees no rest. Though he strained his eyes, the banker could see neither the ground, nor the white statues, nor the garden wing, nor the trees. Approaching the garden wing, he called the watchman twice. There was no answer. Evidently the watchman had taken shelter from the bad weather and was now asleep somewhere in the kitchen or the greenhouse.

"If I have the courage to fulfil my intention," thought the old man, "the suspicion will fall on the watchman first of all."

In the darkness he groped for the steps and the door and entered the hall of the garden-wing, then poked his way into a narrow passage and struck a match. Not a soul was there. Some one's bed, with no bedclothes on it, stood there, and an iron stove loomed dark in the corner. The seals on the door that led into the prisoner's room were unbroken.

When the match went out, the old man, trembling from agitation, peeped into the little window.

In the prisoner's room a candle was burning dimly. The prisoner himself sat by the table. Only his back, the hair on his head and his hands were visible. Open books were strewn about on the table, the two chairs, and on the carpet near the table.

Five minutes passed and the prisoner never once stirred. Fifteen years' confinement had taught him to sit motionless. The banker tapped on the window with his finger, but the prisoner made no movement in reply. Then the banker cautiously tore the seals from the door and put the key into the lock. The rusty lock gave a hoarse groan and the door creaked. The banker expected instantly to hear a cry of surprise and the sound of steps. Three minutes passed and it was as quiet inside as it had been before. He made up his mind to enter.

Before the table sat a man, unlike an ordinary human being. It was a skeleton, with tight-drawn skin, with long curly hair like a woman's, and a shaggy beard. The colour of his face was yellow, of an earthy shade; the cheeks were sunken, the back long and narrow, and the hand upon which he leaned his hairy head was so lean and skinny that it was painful to look upon. His hair was already silvering with grey, and no one who glanced at the senile emaciation of the face would have believed that he was only forty years old. On the table, before his bended head, lay a sheet of paper on which something was written in a tiny hand.

"Poor devil," thought the banker, "he's asleep and probably seeing millions in his dreams. I have only to take and throw this half-dead thing on the bed, smother him a moment with the pillow, and the most careful examination will find no trace of unnatural death. But, first, let us read what he has written here."

The banker took the sheet from the table and read:

"To-morrow at twelve o'clock midnight, I shall obtain my freedom and the right to mix with people. But before I leave this room and see the sun I think it necessary to say a few words to you. On my own clear conscience and before God who sees me I declare to you that I despise freedom, life, health, and all that your books call the blessings of the world.

"For fifteen years I have diligently studied earthly life. True, I saw neither the earth nor the people, but in your books I drank fragrant wine, sang songs, hunted deer and wild boar in the forests, loved women... And beautiful women, like clouds ethereal, created by the magic of your poets' genius, visited me by night and whispered to me wonderful tales, which made my head drunken. In your books I climbed the summits of Elbruz and Mont Blanc and saw from there how the sun rose in the morning, and in the evening suffused the sky, the ocean and lie mountain ridges with a purple gold. I saw from there how above me lightnings glimmered cleaving the clouds; I saw green forests, fields, rivers, lakes, cities; I heard syrens singing, and the playing of the pipes of Pan; I touched the wings of beautiful devils who came flying to me to speak of God... In your books I cast myself into bottomless abysses, worked miracles, burned cities to the ground, preached new religions, conquered whole countries...

"Your books gave me wisdom. All that unwearying human thought created in the centuries is compressed to a little lump in my skull. I know that I am cleverer than you all.

"And I despise your books, despise all worldly blessings and wisdom. Everything is void, frail, visionary and delusive as a mirage. Though you be proud and wise and beautiful, yet will death wipe you from the face of the earth like the mice underground; and your posterity, your history, and the immortality of your men of genius will be as frozen slag, burnt down together with the terrestrial globe.

"You are mad, and gone the wrong way. You take falsehood for truth and ugliness for beauty. You would marvel if suddenly apple and orange trees should bear frogs and lizards instead of fruit, and if roses should begin to breathe the odour of a sweating horse. So do I marvel at you, who have bartered heaven for earth. I do not want to understand you.

"That I may show you in deed my contempt for that by which you live, I waive the two millions of which I once dreamed as of paradise, and which I now despise. That I may deprive myself of my right to them, I shall come out from here five minutes before the stipulated term, and thus shall violate the agreement."

When he had read, the banker put the sheet on the table, kissed the head of the strange man, and began to weep. He went out of the wing. Never at any other time, not even after his terrible losses on the Exchange, had he felt such contempt for himself as now. Coming home, he lay down on his bed, but agitation and tears kept him a long time from sleeping...

The next morning the poor watchman came running to him and told him that they had seen the man who lived in the wing climb through the window into the garden. He had gone to the gate and disappeared. The banker instantly went with his servants to the wing and established the escape of his prisoner. To avoid unnecessary rumours he took the paper with the renunciation from the table and, on his return, locked it in his safe.

The End

The Kama Sutra is an ancient Indian text widely considered to be the standard work on human sexual behavior in Sanskrit literature written by the Indian scholar Mallanaga Vatsyayana. A portion of the work consists of practical advice on sex.[1] It is largely in prose, with many inserted anustubh poetry verses. Kama means sensual or sexual pleasure, and "sutra" literally means a thread or line that holds things together, and more metaphorically refers to an aphorism (or line, rule, formula), or a collection of such aphorisms in the form of a manual. The modern English word "suture" is derived from the same root.
The Kama Sutra is the oldest and most notable of a group of texts known generically as Kama Shastra (Sanskrit: Kama Sastra).[2] Traditionally, the first transmission of Kama Shastra or "Discipline of Kama" is attributed to Nandi the sacred bull, Shiva's doorkeeper, who was moved to sacred utterance by overhearing the lovemaking of the god and his wife Parvati and later recorded his utterances for the benefit of mankind.[3]
Historian John Keay says that the Kama Sutra is a compendium that was collected into its present form in the second century CE.[4]

THE DREAM OF A DREAM COMING TRUE.

It was about 3PM when Richard was walking home. For everyone else, it was a normal day, but for him, this day was filled with unexpected things. He had never expected to speak with the reporters of both print as well as the electronic media during his working hours. He felt really difficult to answer questions such as “Is this your first time sir?” “Do you think Lilly will be all right?” “How did everything take place?” “Did you witness that accident or visit Lilly after you heard the news?”…
He could neither answer nor could he withstand it. He left two hours early from the hospital where he was working and started heading towards home. He approached the Glasco apartment and showed his house identity to the guards. He boarded the elevator, got down at the fifth floor, entered the house only to find most of the items scattered, broken or thrown everywhere. “Having a great time ha?” he said in a totally casual tone. He could here no answer. “Did you at least have your lunch?” he asked with concern. “Yes” came a feeble voice. “Are you still sleeping?” he said trying to place the scattered items in their respective places.” No, you woke me up”, said the voice now a bit more audible.
He was about to say something when a woman shabbily dressed came to the living room from the place where she was sleeping. “Hai”, he said looking at her. “Who am I?” said the woman with response to “hai”. “I’ve already told you that you are Lilly”. He said trying to make her understand not to ask any more questions. She was unable to understand his intension and asked rather angrily “I know that I’m Lilly. But what relationship do we both have? I cannot remember even a single friend or a relative of mine nor are you telling me anything about anyone except calling me Lilly. You’ll take me to walk every morning and evening without fail. You’re sharing every incident which occurred at your work place. Why don’t you answer when I ask about myself?”
He walked towards her, gently took her hand and just said “Lilly, trust me”. And walked away leaving her confused and furious.

Five minutes later, he arrived with two cups of tea and two cheese capsicum grill sandwiches. Handing over one of each to Lilly, Richard sat in the sofa sipping the tea and not uttering a single word. “Could I ask you something?” said Lilly breaking the silence. “You might do that. But I shall not answer you if you start digging about you.” He said biting the sandwich. “I know that”, she said, as if she didn’t care. “Then what’s it?” he asked with his tone at ease and friendly. “I’m able to understand what you’re speaking. Can I also be able to read books or something else?” she said in a childish manner. He gave a short grin and said, “Are you getting bored being alone here?” She nodded her head symbolizing yes as answer. “Then you can do that. I’m sure that you’ll be able to read and write with ease” said Richard removing a pile of books from the book shelf and handing it over to Lilly.
There were about ten books among which two were the encyclopedias of fairy tales, two were Arabian Nights, four books contained the modified and simplified versions of the famous incidents chosen from the bible and the rest were related to law. She examined each book showing signs of growing happiness and finally said, “I know who I’m!” “What?” he said making his tone sharp and alert. “I know two things about me.” She said with a wide smile on her lips. “Come off it”, said Richard in a high pitched voice. She suddenly changed her expression rather very serious and sounded out “the first thing that I know about me is that I’m Lilly.” “And the second?” asked he, getting confused and agitated. “And the second is that I’m a female.” She said unable to control her laughter. He felt the same and burst out into an intensified laughter which combined all the energies of the mixture of emotions that he was going through. Anyone witnessing this as an outsider would have definitely thought that it was some sort of a great explosion. Not knowing what he was doing, Richard walked towards her, putting his hands around her shoulder, he said “I really want you to come back to me,” and suddenly regretted for the words he spoke. Lilly on the contrary said nothing but just looked strait into his eyes. “Forget it.” He said withdrawing his hand from her shoulder. “I can’t do that”, said Lilly feeling annoyed and walked off to her room. Richard, not knowing what to do next started scratching his head.

Just then, the door bell rang and Richard opened the door. It was Rosy. “Hello there” said Rosy making herself comfortable on a chair. “What’s the matter?” asked Richard still thinking about Lilly. Rosy, sensing that something was wrong said “it’s, it’s about Elena.” “What, what about her?” stated Richard wetting his eyes. “Nothing serious” said Rosy trying to calm him down. “Please, don’t beat around the bush. Quote the matter point blank” said Richard rubbing his eyes. “She has gained consciousness” told Rosy looking at a photograph hanging at the entrance. “It’s all because of her mom” he said and suddenly choked for the words. “It’s all going to be all right” told Rosy putting her arm around his shoulder. “I hope so” he said trying to get back his voice.

Lilly was secretly listening to their conversation and wondered about whom they were addressing. It was just two minutes passed after Rosy left when Lilly asked Richard if he would take her for a walk. He just said ok and set out towards the grand restaurant “the queen’s palace”. On their way, a woman dressed in green matching her eye colour approached them and exposed a broad smile which resembled the smile of a sinister. She was stunningly ugly looking but her eyes were filled with kind and sympathy. Hai Anne said Richard. The woman turned towards them, looking at Richard and Lilly, she just walked off with tearful eyes. “I don’t like her. She smiled first and suddenly cried. What’s bothering her? I know she’s feeling jealous of our friendship right?” said Lilly casually to Richard but she got no reply. They ate a fairly good dinner and walked back home filled with total silence.

The next day, Richard told bye to Lilly and set out on his way to his hospital. Lilly could not bear the reality of being shut within the four walls and instantly burst into tears. She could neither eat nor sleep. She was just looking around her and came across the photo which Rosy was constantly looking on. The photograph was of a cute little baby who was trying to say something and Lilly thought that the baby could not communicate. She then looked the other side and spotted a television. She turned it on and felt shocked to see herself in the news. The reporter was saying: “this is the last case taken up by our famous attorney Mrs. Lilly Richard. Most of the citizens including our channel people feel sorry for this tragedy followed after the case. I really feel pitiful to announce the reports produced by the psychiatrists that Lilly due to this shocking incident has lost her memory of the past and even feel that they are not sure whether she’ll be able to lead her normal life.”

Lilly let out a heavy gasp and turned on to another channel thinking that that news would give her the intricate details about her. This time, it was Rosy who was announcing. “In order to make our citizens understand the actual facts about the tragedy of Mrs. Lilly Richard, we have tried to present before you in detail about her life. Lilly was born in New York and married the Cardiologist Dr. Richard Evens just four years ago. She secured a Post Graduation degree in the field of law from the Oxford University. Her first case was John Millet verses Ashley Cameron which Lilly won and made the prosecution lawyer Robert Stefan her enemy. Her following lawsuits were a great success and a strong conspiracy was building against her as her victories expanded. About 16 months ago, a baby girl was born which marked the love Richard and Lilly had for each other and was named as Elena.

Hearing this, Lilly totally went blank and when she regained herself, Richard was sitting besides her. She immediately started crying, looking strait at Richard. This time, the result was entirely different. He took her in his arms and said “Lilly, don’t worry. You’re all right. Ok?” she thought of speaking out all the things which were in her mind and finally told “are you my husband?” Richard acted indifferent to her speech and said “I think so” in a cold tone. “O please.” She pleaded. “Don’t hide the truth from me.” She said, tears still rolling down her eyes. “Lilly, now that you know so much, it’s no good hiding the truth. But if I tell you the truth, I’ll be the person who will be putting you into trouble. The best is that I say nothing much and even ask you not to reveal that you know something more apart from the two things of you being Lilly and a female.” At this, Lilly chuckled and slept off.
Richard saw to it that Lilly slept normally before he departed. He came to the living room, took out his cell phone. Dialing the number for Rosy, he asked her to come down immediately.

Rosy came down to see Richard Few minutes later. Not uttering any word of greets, he asked her to make her feel comfortable. “O, I’m ok” she said rather sleepily. “You reporters do not have some sort of common sense at least. You people just want to gain and build publicity for your channel, right? You folk do not care for others, ha! You idiots will not even hesitate to sell or loose yourself or your reputation when it comes to publicize right?” spatted out Richard before Rosy could say something.
“What’s wrong with you?” called out Rosy trying the best to remain calm. “What else should happen?” continued Richard in the same tone. “Control your tone” said Rosy trying to bring him to his conscience. “I had never dreamt of you doing such a thing” said Richard trying to lower his voice.
At this, Rosy lost all her patience and sounded out “Come on… have you gone mad? What have I done to hurt you at this rate? Get your nerves on to yourself and tell me what exactly happened because of me. If you still continue this rubbish, then I shall not stay here to bear all your words. Spit it out or explain me tomorrow.” she said rather in the tone equivalent to Richard.

The tones of the two were naturally loud which woke Lilly. She thought about the dream which she was dreaming and came back to reality with the words which Richard said. “I’m sorry, really sorry for the way I acted. I actually called you to note you the things happened today. After I left, I think Lilly saw the news rendered by you as she was telling “Rosy, Truth” when I came back from my work. She was unconscious at the time I came back. I actually looked at your schedule and understood that you reported about Lilly and putting together everything, I came to the conclusion that Lilly saw the forecast of yours. I really hope, she knows nothing about Neha Helen. I could not control my anger. Please excuse me Rosy” he said feeling foolish and regret about himself.

Lilly could not hear the rest of their conversation as she was feeling totally drowsy. When she got up, the house was filled with total silence except for the sound of the breeze. She remembered everything she heard and strongly made up her mind to know a good deal about herself. As silently as possible, she walked towards the book shelf and took out a handful of books. Among them were about five books related to cardiology and the other was the sixth part of Harry Potter titled “Rowling J. K. – 6 Harry Potter and the half blood prince.” She flipped through the pages of this book and some words caught her eyes. They were “Felix Felicis or the liquid luck.” She went through the pages before she spotted the power of the liquid luck even if not taken and just dreamt of taken as in the case of Ronald Weasley playing as a keeper at the game of Quidditch. She imagined as if she had taken this liquid and felt an overwhelming sense of she knowing what she had to do. She just went to bed and had a peaceful sleep when compared with the three previous days.

Two hours later, she was awoken by the sound of Richard switching the TV. She got up and was offered the day’s breakfast. “Good day” said Richard in a manner as if nothing had happened. To his great amaze, she smiled back at him and said “good morning, you are a very good cook.” He could not help except smiling back at her. At the time of his departure, he saw Lilly emerging out of the washroom elegantly dressed. Suddenly she became the most beautiful thing which he had never come across.

It was about 10am when Lilly switched on the TV. There was the usual weather forecast going on but the visual headlines caught her eyes. Today seems to be the most dreadful day as some foolish rumors are turning out true. When Mrs. Lilly Richard left the court room on 12-12-2008, she and her child had almost died due to the hit-run-accident. There was a rumor that the car which caused this accident was driven by the wife of our famous attorney Robert Stefan, Mrs. Neha Helen. Till today, it was just a rumor. But the Interpol has shown some interest and has proved that the rumor is true and it was not just an accident but it was an attempt to murder.

Feeling that she had learnt everything about herself, Lilly thought of getting some entertainment before she prepared the next strategies. Accordingly, she changed the channels but another news item caught her attention. Mrs. Neha Helen is in another great trouble. On December 12th 2008, around 5-30pm, Mr. Pietr Jones was slewed. The police were able to seize a knife wrapped with a hand kerchief. After the necessary tests were performed, it is proved that the kerchief belongs to Neha Helen. Now that there are two things against Neha, it is very difficult to declare her guilt or innocence. Never the less, she has to undergo both the trials.

Lilly felt hard to digest this part. Suddenly, she felt dizzy and fell on the floor. An hour later she got up. Brushing out the dust, she looked at the place she had fallen. She felt something nasty. She sensed that the house had not been cleaned from days. She circled around and looking at the snap of Elena, suddenly wondered where the baby was. On an impulse, she dialed Richard’s cell phone number which was answered at once.
“Richard, if you’re free, come home at once” she said as her first words. Feeling confused, he said, “how did you get this number?” “What are you talking? I know your number from the past five years. Did you by chance think of changing this number after we met with the accident?” she said very casually which still confused him. “I’m coming” he said cutting off the connection.

Few minutes later, he arrived. Adding to his confusion, she opened the door than he opening with his pass-key. He sat on the sofa and asked her the reason why she called. “Where is our baby?” Asked she pointing at the photo. “oh! She is safe at the hospital.” he said coolly. “I want to file a case against Mrs. Neha” continued Lilly. “For that you need to know the procedures of Law” said he not taking off his looks on her. “Really thanks for telling me. I never knew” she told sarcastically and suddenly spotted the calendar which was showing Thursday 18th December 2008.
She felt hard to concentrate about what Richard was saying. When he said “why aren’t you answering!” She realized that he was still speaking. He eventually spotted her looking at the calendar when she said “what happened the previous five days” in a choking voice. It was then that he realized that she regained her memory. “Jesus!” he said in a sort of relieved tone and explained, “due to the terrible accident of yours there was an internal head injury resulting in an extensive memory loss. Though some doctors were of the opinion that you would get your memory back, many told that it was a massive damage.” He said helping her in the chores.
“Really a great miracle right?” he asked her still not able to believe. She actually gave a warm smile and not knowing how to react she said, “I really wish to file a case against Mrs. Neha Helen.” “For that,” he continued “its better we speak to Rosy first.” He suggested.

Immediately she agreed. There was a knock on the door. Looking at the person through the peephole, Lilly said, “think of the devil and the devil is here”, with a friendly smile. Naturally, Rosy felt confused. Sensing this confusion, Richard resorted to explanation including the part of Lilly’s intension of subjecting Mrs. Neha Helen for a trial. At this, Rosy smiled cheerfully and said “already, Mrs. Robert Stefan should undergo two trials including the one you suggested as the Interpol has taken special interest.” “Wav!” exclaimed Lilly unable to control her delight. “I’m going to defend Mrs. Neha in the other case”, she said beaming at them. At this, both Rosy and Richard tried their best to persuade Lilly not to take up such decision. Lilly paid no attention to either of them and just went on; “I must work on getting all the particulars related to this case.”
Finally, both had to agree followed by Rosy saying “to proceed with your decision, you must be proved that you have gained your memory back. Let’s check if the doctors who diagnosed your problem are free for an appointment for you.” Contacting the doctors over the phone, Rosy managed to fix an appointment the same evening. As expected, the doctors who examined Lilly thoroughly, declared that she had gained her memory, was normal and the official reports about her would be delivered the next day

Elena had regained herself completely and the next day, she was discharged from the hospital and was brought home. As promised, a copy of the official reports arrived at their door step through courier.
The media started spreading this news rapidly including Rosy who was one of the best news reporters of the city. On the other hand, Mr. Robert Stefan and Neha Helen became helpless in changing their attorney as it was the decision of the Interpol itself which could be subjected to no sort of influence during such circumstances.


While Lilly chose the defense, Adam Parker occupied the prosecution stand. The trial began with the usual presence of the press and the video coverage by the authorized channels. The jury decided to handle both the cases against Mrs. Neha Helen simultaneously, in the first or second session respectively.
To everybody’s horror, Lilly never produced any witness from the defense side except Mrs. Neha Helen who was the accused nor did she cross examine the, witnesses from the prosecution side. The people, along with the jurors counteracted this strategy of Lilly which included no exception of Richard or Rosy. In fact, at times, the jurors themselves raised the objections or prompted her to ask the objections when they felt that the prosecution lawyer was leading the witness.

This sort of trial continued for fifteen swift days which, for Lilly was just within the wink of the time. On the sixteenth day, the trial about the attempt to murder on Mrs. Lilly Richard reached its pinnacle with the announcement of five years of non-bailable imprisonment due to the fact that it was just an attempt as well as lack of proper evidence to prove this attempt. This verdict was announced at the first session.

In the following session, it was the testimony of the last witness from the prosecution side with reference to the murder of Mr. Pietr Jones. The evidence was the police inspector who had apparently seized the knife wrapped in the hand kerchief.
The inspector was nun other than Miss Anne who had smiled at Richard and walked away with tearful eyes spotting Lilly. For Lilly, the trial had passed within the fraction of a second till this moment.

She was still in her fantasy that was awoken by the words of Mr. Adam Parker and Miss Anne James.
“Did you find anything else apart from this knife at the place?” “No sir, if I had found a minute clue other than this, I’d have surely brought into notice.”
“Did you happen to trace the fingerprints on the knife also?” “Yes sir.” “What were the results?” “The knife belongs to Pietr Jones himself sir.”
“Sounds good”, said the lawyer with a dramatic pause. “Considering the two fingerprints, you filed the complaint against Mrs. Neha Helen right?” he said, when, to everybody’s shock, for the first time in the trial, Lilly raised an objection of leading the witness.
He apologized and continued, “Let me ask you this way. Well, what was your motive in arresting Mrs. Neha Helen as the guilty?”
“Objection your honour!” shouted Lilly at her topmost pitch which even made the prosecution lawyer jump for a second. “The prosecution should mind the tongue your honour as Mrs. Neha Helen is not yet proved guilt by the jury.”
The courtroom suddenly became noisy with the eruption of loud whispers and soft talks all over. There were enthusiastic camera flashes which became still on the spur of the moment with the words by the judge; “silence please. The objection sustains, the prosecution must continue by choosing the words carefully.”
“Oh, well, sorry your honour. Miss Anne James, why did you think that Mrs. Neha Helen was responsible for this act?” “O, yes sir, I did not lodge the complaint with just one evidence sir. I actually asked the opinion of the people who were also the previous witnesses before filing the complaint sir”, she said rubbing her forehead.
“That’s all your honour,” told the lawyer and occupied his seat before the jurors.

Before the judge asked for the cross examination by the defense, Lilly rose from seat in the exact manner of the defense attorney during the cross examination. The jurors bowed their heads approving her move.

“Good afternoon Miss Anne, I hope you’ll not mind me calling you by your first name?” “Oh, not at all,” said Anne beaming at Lilly.
“Since how long are you into this service Miss Anne?” “For about ten year’s m’am.” “Then you must have had fairly good experience in giving out such testimonies right?” “I think so M’am.”
“Since how long are you in the charge at this city?” “Since a year and a quarter.” “I believe this is your first testimony since then?” “Yes M’am, you are right.”

“Your honour, with your due permission, I’m requesting for the display of the evidence number two, the knife.” “”Permission granted”, said the judge and the knife was instantly placed on the table to which Lilly was pointing. Lilly took the knife in her hand and waved it so that everybody present there got a clear view of it.
“Miss Anne, I’d like you to think carefully before you answer me. All right?” “Ok M’am, I shall do that.”
“You were the one who produced this knife as an exhibit or the evidence to this case correct?” “I think so.” “Yes or no please?” “Yes M’am.”
“Do you think there was someone else who spotted this knife before you?” “I don’t know M’am.” “If assumed that you were the one spotting this knife first, do you remember it well before you sent it for the fingerprint observation?” “Yes M’am, it was this knife itself. I remember it very well.”
“Very good,” said Lilly taking out a hand kerchief from her bag.
“Miss Anne, are you sure that this knife was wrapped in a kerchief when you spotted and seized it?” “Yes M’am.” “Could you please show the jury the manner in which the knife was wrapped when you spotted it?” “Sure M’am,” told Anne taking the kerchief which Lilly had removed from her bag.
Anne started covering the knife which resembled like a child covering itself with a blanket, not leaving a minute part of its body outside the blanket during the cold winter days.
“Are you sure this is the way?” asked Lilly not daring to touch the knife. “Yes M’am,” said Anne with her utmost self confidence.
“Then it must be either you or me who has committed this murder, because this kerchief belongs to me and now that you have wrapped the knife.”
Mr. Adam Parker almost stood up to raise an objection when Anne, looking at Lilly said, “I do not understand M’am,” with confusion and suspicion.
“Fine, forget it for now.” Said Lilly looking at Adam.
“I remember you telling me that you seized the knife as it is looking now?” “Yes M’am,” “Then you could find no blood stains on it right?” “No M’am,” said Anne dumbstruck. “Then, possibly, no one could have murdered with this knife without at least a drop of blood on it correct?” “Yes M’am, I don’t know M’am.” “Perhaps, you must have suspected Mrs. Neha Helen just because the knife was wrapped in the kerchief which contained her fingerprints on it?”
“Objection your honour!” raised Adam from his seat. “The defense is confusing the witness.” “Objection sustained,” called out the judge. “It’d be better if the defense justifies.
“Yes your honour, I shall prove the court that Mrs. Neha Helen did not murder Mr. Pietr Jones. When I examine the witness from my side, I shall let you people judge without any further confusions. But, yes, the cross examination of Miss Anne Jones is over from my side. Thank you your honour.”
“The court is adjourned for today,” said the judge looking at the clock. “The further proceedings will take place tomorrow.” Everybody rose from their places including Lilly and Adam who were blocked by the media with a flash and a number of questions; “What will you think about the case sir?” “Mrs. Lilly, did you know that the knife contained no blood stains or you realized it today?” “M’am, will you please tell us whether the act of you today is the result of Mrs. Neha Helen loosing in her trial of her attempt of murdering you?” For all these, Lilly and Adam just said, “No comments please,” and proceeded on without looking at each other.
At home, Lilly never spoke except to Elena who would always smile at Lilly once she came home. In fact, that particular day, Elena had learnt to call Lilly Mama and this made Lilly feel very happy. For Lilly, everything seemed to be taking place within fraction of a second as she felt difficult to remember the time as it passed on.

The next day, it was the examination of Mrs. Neha Helen. People were anxiously waiting for the verdict. Mrs. Neha was first examined by Lilly.
“Good Morning Mrs. Neha, could you answer me why you chose for an attorney for this case?” Asked Lilly rather in a manner of a reporter interviewing. As everybody knew the answer, they felt this to be fishy. “Cause I haven’t murdered Pietr Jones,” She said in a matter of fact manner.
“I guess you have heard the testimonies rendered by the other witnesses?” “Yes, I did so.”
“Most of those witnesses were of the opinion that they saw you in that place in that hour. What do you say for this?” “I agree with them.”
“You do agree but you haven’t committed that murder? How is that possible? Please vindicate your assertion before the jury.” “If people just find someone somewhere near the murder will he be a suspect?” went on Neha in a defiant tone. “I do admit that I was present in that area cause I had an intension of murdering you as you became a great hindrance in almost all the cases which my husband undertook. I knew you had to cross that area to reach your house. I actually managed to attack your car the next moment when you collected your daughter from the day care. I preferred to wipe off my finger marks with my kerchief which accidentally fell from my hand. I did not know who it was trying to murder Mr. Pietr Jones but saw Pietr defending himself by taking out this knife placed before the court. Actually, when I bent down to take my kerchief, the woman who killed Pietr grabbed the kerchief and I just saw her wrapping the knife. But later I resorted to question her and suddenly spotted who she was.”
“Interesting!” said Lilly looking at the jurors who also seemed to be feeling the same. “Whom do you think was present there with that intension?” Asked Lilly cautious to put it in the words which would raise no objection. “It was…” she paused and then continued, “M’am, it was Miss Anne James.
This statement of her made everybody stun. Mr. Adam Parker almost rose from his seat when Lilly just continued ignoring everyone. “Mrs. Neha Helen, please be careful what you say. Everyone here is listening to you intently. You cannot just say something ill about someone who is in a great position. Or else, you should prove it with substantiate information or something as a witness. Do you have anything of those?” asked Lilly before Adam could raise an objection. Listening to Lilly, he just sat back with his fingers on his forehead.
“I know the procedures of the court!” shouted Neha suddenly making everyone look at her. “Do you think I’d give a statement just like that?” continued Neha with that same tone. “When I looked at Miss Anne, she just saw me and said that she had seen me trying to murder you and if I kept my mouth shut, she would not give this news to anyone. Even then, she gave the news and I thought that she at least arranged for a good lawyer to support me. But I guess she has forgotten this and has subjected me to imprisonment.” Said Neha, now sobbing. “But, I was fortunate enough to keep my camera which has recorded that scene and if the court doesn’t believe, it’s not my fault as what I’m telling is true which I as well as the god knows.” Said Neha blowing her nose.
The court suddenly became still which was broken by Lilly’s words; “your honour, as I had secured a special permission to produce my evidence during the time of my examination, I want to present you the camera which Mrs. Neha Helen had.” “Permission granted.” Told the judge and Lilly showed it to the judge first and then to everybody. She also managed to ensure the permission to project the contents of the camera in the court which showed Miss Anne speaking to Pietr Jones, taking out a syringe and suddenly injecting into Pietr’s shoulder that he, after two seconds fell off. Adding to this scene, Lilly also produced the postmortem reports by Dr. Melnikov who had apparently kept it secret. The reports clearly explained that the body was poisoned before his death.
“That’s all your honour.” Told Lilly not looking at anyone.


Even this session was just like a blink for Lilly. When her eyes blinked for the next time, she saw the session of verdict being Mrs. Neha declared innocent and the arrest of Miss Anna James. “What happened to the argument session? How did the court suddenly declare the arrest of Miss Anne James? What’s the date today!” screamed Lilly in her next Blink.
Lilly suddenly found her voice echoing. People started rushing towards her, who included Richard, Rosy and to her great astonishment; there were even Mrs. Neha Helen and Mr. Robert Stefan. She could not figure out the last person from a distance but when she saw the person at close, she gasped.
The person was none other than Miss Anne James who was now smiling at Lilly coming closer. “You’re, you must be in the prison right?” asked Lilly feeling confused and dazed. “What?!” called out everyone at once. “I myself took the case. Neha tried to murder me, the Interpol succeeded in awarding non-bailable imprisonment for five years for her. She was also suspected to murder Mr. Pietr Jones and I remember very well that I managed to get her through in this case by producing a camera as the evidence.”
“Very good!” cried Neha as well as Anne which made Lilly open her eyes wide. “Finally, your dream of a dream has come true right?” they asked eagerly. The others realized what the two were speaking but Lilly could not. “What the hell are you talking?!” shouted Lilly at the top of her voice. “Fine, cool down my dear… explain from first whatever you remember.” Told Richard eyeing Lilly.
Lilly could not resist her temper and yelled from the scene of the two Medias visiting Richard, asking questions about Lilly’s accident caused by Neha, she loosing the memory and gaining it like a shot within five days of span, she occupying the defense stand in the trial of Neha verses Pietr, the report submitted by Dr. Melnikov with reference to postmortem examination, the arrest of Anne and now the faces of the same in a new angle… in a detailed way catching everybody’s attention.
After listening, everybody exploded into an intensified laughter and finally Rosy managed to say, “My dear Lilly, actually, you had just fallen from the bed and screamed so loudly that we had to call a doctor to examine what had happened to you, just yesterday. The doctor declared that nothing was wrong but to prevent you from screaming as you are very sensitive to pain, he advised us to give you some dosage of sleeping pills. But we did a mistake as I gave you the dosage referred by the doctor in the milk you drank and the same was done by Richard in the water. We, realizing this, asked the doctor who told not to worry but you’d only sleep for some extra time. Accordingly, you have slept for about 24 hours exactly.”
“But, I still can’t believe it.” Said Lilly looking at everybody. “Then, let me explain you.” Stated Neha and went on. “Let’s examine from the starting. Why did a press reporter ask Richard “Is this your first time sir?” as there is no sense in putting forth the question in such a manner during such circumstances right? I think there is not a single person who gained the memory within five days of interval unless he or she is faking. How the person did produce a knife which had no blood stains on it as the evidence in a murder? As you stated, everything happened just within the wink of the time right? Where were the sessions of the cross examination of Mrs. Neha by Mr. Adam Parker?” and she suddenly paused.
This made Lilly realize herself. In reality, Robert and Neha were her best friends. Anne had joined them as a good friend of Richard after marriage. Lilly always felt jealous about the true friendship which Richard and Anne shared. On the contrary, Rosy became their friend as a neighbor. At one instance during a conversation, suddenly Lilly had said that at least in her dreams, she wanted to see Neha as well as Anne as her enemy. This present long sleep gave Lilly the opportunity of dreaming of the things what she had dremt though not in an exact enimish manner, both of them shared the same kind of hatred by Lilly.
Adding to Lilly’s realization, Anne said, “You have not forgotten to show what you are.” Lilly stared at her, but Anne continued, “Should everyone come to know that you are a fan of Sidney Sheldon and Rowling J. K.?” “How did you ever come to know that?” asked Lilly looking bewildered. “Come on, those who have read the books titled Harry potter, the rage of angels and if tomorrow comes can easily understand that you are a book worm. In “Rage of angels” by Sidney Sheldon, Jennifer Parker is the attorney who had a relation with Adam Warner and now in your dream, it’s the combination of the two becoming Adam Parker as the attorney. Of course, you have mentioned about Harry Potter in your dream and so it requires no digging. The characters of Pietr and Melnikov comes under the book named” If tomorrow comes” again by Sidney Sheldon who are the famous chess masters whom Tracy Whitney beats on her journey over the deck. By the way, their names are Boris Melnikov and Pietr Negulesco.
At this, everyone chuckled and Lilly, finally realising that this was just a dream, also smiled at herself.

How Much Land Does a Man Need?

by Leo Tolstoy

About The Story

The protagonist of the story is a peasant named Pahóm, who at the beginning can be heard complaining that he does not own enough land to satisfy him. He states that "if I had plenty of land, I shouldn't fear the Devil himself!". A short amount of time later, a landlady in the village decides to sell her estate, and the peasants of the village buy as much of that land as they can. Pahóm himself purchases some land, and by working off the extra land is able to repay his debts and live a more comfortable life.
However, Pahóm then becomes very possessive of his land, and this gets him into discord with his neighbours. "Threats to burn his building began to be uttered.". This is a first sign that greed is disrupting his moral values. Later, he moves to a larger area of land at another Commune. Here, he can grow even more crops and amass a small fortune, but he has to grow the crops on rented land, which irritates him.
Finally, he is introduced to the Bashkirs, and is told they are simple-minded people who own a huge amount of land. Thus, he goes to them to take as much of their land for as low a price as he can negotiate. Their offer is very unusual: for a sum of one thousand rubles, Pahóm can walk around as large an area as he wants, starting at daybreak, marking his route with a spade along the way. If he reaches his starting point by sunset that day, the entire area of land his route encloses will be his. He is delighted as he believes that he can cover a great distance and has chanced upon the bargain of a lifetime. That night, Pahóm experiences a surreal dream in which he sees himself lying dead by the feet of the Devil, who is laughing.
His journey across the land illustrates his greediness. He tries to cover as much land as possible, not content with what he already has. As the sun nearly sets, he realizes his error and runs back as fast as he can to the waiting Bashkirs. He finally arrives at the starting point just as the sun sets. The Bashkirs cheer his good fortune, but exhausted from the run, he drops dead. They bury him in an ordinary grave only six feet long, thus ironically answering the question posed in the title of the story.

I

An elder sister came to visit her younger sister in the country. The elder was married to a tradesman in town, the younger to a peasant in the village. As the sisters sat over their tea talking, the elder began to boast of the advantages of town life: saying how comfortably they lived there, how well they dressed, what fine clothes her children wore, what good things they ate and drank, and how she went to the theatre, promenades, and entertainments.

The younger sister was piqued, and in turn disparaged the life of a tradesman, and stood up for that of a peasant.

"I would not change my way of life for yours," said she. "We may live roughly, but at least we are free from anxiety. You live in better style than we do, but though you often earn more than you need, you are very likely to lose all you have. You know the proverb, 'Loss and gain are brothers twain.' It often happens that people who are wealthy one day are begging their bread the next. Our way is safer. Though a peasant's life is not a fat one, it is a long one. We shall never grow rich, but we shall always have enough to eat."

The elder sister said sneeringly:

"Enough? Yes, if you like to share with the pigs and the calves! What do you know of elegance or manners! However much your good man may slave, you will die as you are living-on a dung heap-and your children the same."

"Well, what of that?" replied the younger. "Of course our work is rough and coarse. But, on the other hand, it is sure; and we need not bow to any one. But you, in your towns, are surrounded by temptations; today all may be right, but tomorrow the Evil One may tempt your husband with cards, wine, or women, and all will go to ruin. Don't such things happen often enough?"

Pahom, the master of the house, was lying on the top of the oven, and he listened to the women's chatter.

"It is perfectly true," thought he. "Busy as we are from childhood tilling Mother Earth, we peasants have no time to let any nonsense settle in our heads. Our only trouble is that we haven't land enough. If I had plenty of land, I shouldn't fear the Devil himself!"

The women finished their tea, chatted a while about dress, and then cleared away the tea-things and lay down to sleep.
 But the Devil had been sitting behind the oven, and had heard all that was said. He was pleased that the peasant's wife had led her husband into boasting, and that he had said that if he had plenty of land he would not fear the Devil himself.

"All right," thought the Devil. "We will have a tussle. I'll give you land enough; and by means of that land I will get you into my power."

II

Close to the village there lived a lady, a small landowner, who had an estate of about three hundred acres. She had always lived on good terms with the peasants, until she engaged as her steward an old soldier, who took to burdening the people with fines. However careful Pahom tried to be, it happened again and again that now a horse of his got among the lady's oats, now a cow strayed into her garden, now his calves found their way into her meadows-and he always had to pay a fine.

Pahom paid, but grumbled, and, going home in a temper, was rough with his family. All through that summer Pahom had much trouble because of this steward; and he was even glad when winter came and the cattle had to be stabled. Though he grudged the fodder when they could no longer graze on the pasture-land, at least he was free from anxiety about them.

In the winter the news got about that the lady was going to sell her land, and that the keeper of the inn on the high road was bargaining for it. When the peasants heard this they were very much alarmed.

"Well," thought they, "if the innkeeper gets the land he will worry us with fines worse than the lady's steward. We all depend on that estate."

So the peasants went on behalf of their Commune, and asked the lady not to sell the land to the innkeeper; offering her a better price for it themselves. The lady agreed to let them have it. Then the peasants tried to arrange for the Commune to buy the whole estate, so that it might be held by all in common. They met twice to discuss it, but could not settle the matter; the Evil One sowed discord among them, and they could not agree. So they decided to buy the land individually, each according to his means; and the lady agreed to this plan as she had to the other.

Presently Pahom heard that a neighbor of his was buying fifty acres, and that the lady had consented to accept one half in cash and to wait a year for the other half. Pahom felt envious.

"Look at that," thought he, "the land is all being sold, and I shall get none of it." So he spoke to his wife.
 "Other people are buying," said he, "and we must also buy twenty acres or so. Life is becoming impossible. That steward is simply crushing us with his fines."

So they put their heads together and considered how they could manage to buy it. They had one hundred roubles laid by. They sold a colt, and one half of their bees; hired out one of their sons as a laborer, and took his wages in advance; borrowed the rest from a brother-in-law, and so scraped together half the purchase money.

Having done this, Pahom chose out a farm of forty acres, some of it wooded, and went to the lady to bargain for it. They came to an agreement, and he shook hands with her upon it, and paid her a deposit in advance. Then they went to town and signed the deeds; he paying half the price down, and undertaking to pay the remainder within two years.

So now Pahom had land of his own. He borrowed seed, and sowed it on the land he had bought. The harvest was a good one, and within a year he had managed to pay off his debts both to the lady and to his brother-in-law. So he became a landowner, ploughing and sowing his own land, making hay on his own land, cutting his own trees, and feeding his cattle on his own pasture. When he went out to plough his fields, or to look at his growing corn, or at his grass meadows, his heart would fill with joy. The grass that grew and the flowers that bloomed there, seemed to him unlike any that grew elsewhere. Formerly, when he had passed by that land, it had appeared the same as any other land, but now it seemed quite different.

III

So Pahom was well contented, and everything would have been right if the neighboring peasants would only not have trespassed on his corn- fields and meadows. He appealed to them most civilly, but they still went on: now the Communal herdsmen would let the village cows stray into his meadows; then horses from the night pasture would get among his corn. Pahom turned them out again and again, and forgave their owners, and for a long time he forbore from prosecuting any one. But at last he lost patience and complained to the District Court. He knew it was the peasants' want of land, and no evil intent on their part, that caused the trouble; but he thought:

"I cannot go on overlooking it, or they will destroy all I have. They must be taught a lesson."

So he had them up, gave them one lesson, and then another, and two or three of the peasants were fined. After a time Pahom's neighbours began to bear him a grudge for this, and would now and then let their cattle on his land on purpose. One peasant even got
into Pahom's wood at night and cut down five young lime trees for their bark. Pahom passing through the wood one day noticed something white. He came nearer, and saw the stripped trunks lying on the ground, and close by stood the stumps, where the tree had been. Pahom was furious.

"If he had only cut one here and there it would have been bad enough," thought Pahom, "but the rascal has actually cut down a whole clump. If I could only find out who did this, I would pay him out."

He racked his brains as to who it could be. Finally he decided: "It must be Simon-no one else could have done it." Se he went to Simon's homestead to have a look around, but he found nothing, and only had an angry scene. However' he now felt more certain than ever that Simon had done it, and he lodged a complaint. Simon was summoned. The case was tried, and re-tried, and at the end of it all Simon was acquitted, there being no evidence against him. Pahom felt still more aggrieved, and let his anger loose upon the Elder and the Judges.

"You let thieves grease your palms," said he. "If you were honest folk yourselves, you would not let a thief go free."

So Pahom quarrelled with the Judges and with his neighbors. Threats to burn his building began to be uttered. So though Pahom had more land, his place in the Commune was much worse than before.

About this time a rumor got about that many people were moving to new parts.

"There's no need for me to leave my land," thought Pahom. "But some of the others might leave our village, and then there would be more room for us. I would take over their land myself, and make my estate a bit bigger. I could then live more at ease. As it is, I am still too cramped to be comfortable."

One day Pahom was sitting at home, when a peasant passing through the village, happened to call in. He was allowed to stay the night, and supper was given him. Pahom had a talk with this peasant and asked him where he came from. The stranger answered that he came from beyond the Volga, where he had been working. One word led to another, and the man went on to say that many people were settling in those parts. He told how some people from his village had settled there. They had joined the Commune, and had had twenty-five acres per man granted them. The land was so good, he said, that the rye sown on it grew as high as a horse, and so thick that five cuts of a sickle made a sheaf. One peasant, he said, had brought nothing with him but his bare hands, and now he had six horses and two cows of his own.
Pahom's heart kindled with desire. He thought:

"Why should I suffer in this narrow hole, if one can live so well elsewhere? I will sell my land and my homestead here, and with the money I will start afresh over there and get everything new. In this crowded place one is always having trouble. But I must first go and find out all about it myself."

Towards summer he got ready and started. He went down the Volga on a steamer to Samara, then walked another three hundred miles on foot, and at last reached the place. It was just as the stranger had said. The peasants had plenty of land: every man had twenty- five acres of Communal land given him for his use, and any one who had money could buy, besides, at fifty-cents an acre as much good freehold land as he wanted.

Having found out all he wished to know, Pahom returned home as autumn came on, and began selling off his belongings. He sold his land at a profit, sold his homestead and all his cattle, and withdrew from membership of the Commune. He only waited till the spring, and then started with his family for the new settlement.

IV

As soon as Pahom and his family arrived at their new abode, he applied for admission into the Commune of a large village. He stood treat to the Elders, and obtained the necessary documents. Five shares of Communal land were given him for his own and his sons' use: that is to say--125 acres (not altogether, but in different fields) besides the use of the Communal pasture. Pahom put up the buildings he needed, and bought cattle. Of the Communal land alone he had three times as much as at his former home, and the land was good corn-land. He was ten times better off than he had been. He had plenty of arable land and pasturage, and could keep as many head of cattle as he liked.

At first, in the bustle of building and settling down, Pahom was pleased with it all, but when he got used to it he began to think that even here he had not enough land. The first year, he sowed wheat on his share of the Communal land, and had a good crop. He wanted to go on sowing wheat, but had not enough Communal land for the purpose, and what he had already used was not available; for in those parts wheat is only sown on virgin soil or on fallow land. It is sown for one or two years, and then the land lies fallow till it is again overgrown with prairie grass. There were many who wanted such land, and there was not enough for all; so that people quarrelled about it. Those who were better off, wanted it for growing wheat, and those who were poor, wanted it to let to dealers, so that they might raise money to pay their taxes. Pahom wanted to sow more wheat; so he rented land from a dealer for a year. He
sowed much wheat and had a fine crop, but the land was too far from the village--the wheat had to be carted more than ten miles. After a time Pahom noticed that some peasant-dealers were living on separate farms, and were growing wealthy; and he thought:

"If I were to buy some freehold land, and have a homestead on it, it would be a different thing, altogether. Then it would all be nice and compact."

The question of buying freehold land recurred to him again and again.

He went on in the same way for three years; renting land and sowing wheat. The seasons turned out well and the crops were good, so that he began to lay money by. He might have gone on living contentedly, but he grew tired of having to rent other people's land every year, and having to scramble for it. Wherever there was good land to be had, the peasants would rush for it and it was taken up at once, so that unless you were sharp about it you got none. It happened in the third year that he and a dealer together rented a piece of pasture land from some peasants; and they had already ploughed it up, when there was some dispute, and the peasants went to law about it, and things fell out so that the labor was all lost.
"If it were my own land," thought Pahom, "I should be independent, and there would not be all this unpleasantness."

So Pahom began looking out for land which he could buy; and he came across a peasant who had bought thirteen hundred acres, but having got into difficulties was willing to sell again cheap. Pahom bargained and haggled with him, and at last they settled the price at 1,500 roubles, part in cash and part to be paid later. They had all but clinched the matter, when a passing dealer happened to stop at Pahom's one day to get a feed for his horse. He drank tea with Pahom, and they had a talk. The dealer said that he was just returning from the land of the Bashkirs, far away, where he had bought thirteen thousand acres of land all for 1,000 roubles. Pahom questioned him further, and the tradesman said:

"All one need do is to make friends with the chiefs. I gave away about one hundred roubles' worth of dressing-gowns and carpets, besides a case of tea, and I gave wine to those who would drink it; and I got the land for less than two cents an acre. And he showed Pahom the title-deeds, saying:

"The land lies near a river, and the whole prairie is virgin soil."

Pahom plied him with questions, and the tradesman said:

"There is more land there than you could cover if you walked a year, and it all belongs to the Bashkirs. They are as simple as sheep, and land can be got almost for nothing."
 "There now," thought Pahom, "with my one thousand roubles, why should I get only thirteen hundred acres, and saddle myself with a debt besides. If I take it out there, I can get more than ten times as much for the money."

V

Pahom inquired how to get to the place, and as soon as the tradesman had left him, he prepared to go there himself. He left his wife to look after the homestead, and started on his journey taking his man with him. They stopped at a town on their way, and bought a case of tea, some wine, and other presents, as the tradesman had advised. On and on they went until they had gone more than three hundred miles, and on the seventh day they came to a place where the Bashkirs had pitched their tents. It was all just as the tradesman had said. The people lived on the steppes, by a river, in felt- covered tents. They neither tilled the ground, nor ate bread. Their cattle and horses grazed in herds on the steppe. The colts were tethered behind the tents, and the mares were driven to them twice a day. The mares were milked, and from the milk kumiss was made. It was the women who prepared kumiss, and they also made cheese. As far as the men were concerned, drinking kumiss and tea, eating mutton, and playing on their pipes, was all they cared about. They were all stout and merry, and all the summer long they never thought of doing any work. They were quite ignorant, and knew no Russian, but were good-natured enough.

As soon as they saw Pahom, they came out of their tents and gathered round their visitor. An interpreter was found, and Pahom told them he had come about some land. The Bashkirs seemed very glad; they took Pahom and led him into one of the best tents, where they made him sit on some down cushions placed on a carpet, while they sat round him. They gave him tea and kumiss, and had a sheep killed, and gave him mutton to eat. Pahom took presents out of his cart and distributed them among the Bashkirs, and divided amongst them the tea. The Bashkirs were delighted. They talked a great deal among themselves, and then told the interpreter to translate.

"They wish to tell you," said the interpreter, "that they like you, and that it is our custom to do all we can to please a guest and to repay him for his gifts. You have given us presents, now tell us which of the things we possess please you best, that we may present them to you."

"What pleases me best here," answered Pahom, "is your land. Our land is crowded, and the soil is exhausted; but you have plenty of land and it is good land. I never saw the like of it."

The interpreter translated. The Bashkirs talked among themselves
for a while. Pahom could not understand what they were saying, but saw that they were much amused, and that they shouted and laughed. Then they were silent and looked at Pahom while the interpreter said:

"They wish me to tell you that in return for your presents they will gladly give you as much land as you want. You have only to point it out with your hand and it is yours."

The Bashkirs talked again for a while and began to dispute. Pahom asked what they were disputing about, and the interpreter told him that some of them thought they ought to ask their Chief about the land and not act in his absence, while others thought there was no need to wait for his return.

VI

While the Bashkirs were disputing, a man in a large fox-fur cap appeared on the scene. They all became silent and rose to their feet. The interpreter said, "This is our Chief himself."

Pahom immediately fetched the best dressing-gown and five pounds of tea, and offered these to the Chief. The Chief accepted them, and seated himself in the place of honour. The Bashkirs at once began telling him something. The Chief listened for a while, then made a sign with his head for them to be silent, and addressing himself to Pahom, said in Russian:

"Well, let it be so. Choose whatever piece of land you like; we have plenty of it."

"How can I take as much as I like?" thought Pahom. "I must get a deed to make it secure, or else they may say, 'It is yours,' and afterwards may take it away again."

"Thank you for your kind words," he said aloud. "You have much land, and I only want a little. But I should like to be sure which bit is mine. Could it not be measured and made over to me? Life and death are in God's hands. You good people give it to me, but your children might wish to take it away again."

"You are quite right," said the Chief. "We will make it over to you."

"I heard that a dealer had been here," continued Pahom, "and that you gave him a little land, too, and signed title-deeds to that effect. I should like to have it done in the same way."

The Chief understood.

"Yes," replied he, "that can be done quite easily. We have a scribe, and we will go to town with you and have the deed properly sealed."
 "And what will be the price?" asked Pahom.

"Our price is always the same: one thousand roubles a day."

Pahom did not understand.

"A day? What measure is that? How many acres would that be?"

"We do not know how to reckon it out," said the Chief. "We sell it by the day. As much as you can go round on your feet in a day is yours, and the price is one thousand roubles a day."

Pahom was surprised.

"But in a day you can get round a large tract of land," he said.

The Chief laughed.

"It will all be yours!" said he. "But there is one condition: If you don't return on the same day to the spot whence you started, your money is lost."

"But how am I to mark the way that I have gone?"

"Why, we shall go to any spot you like, and stay there. You must start from that spot and make your round, taking a spade with you. Wherever you think necessary, make a mark. At every turning, dig a hole and pile up the turf; then afterwards we will go round with a plough from hole to hole. You may make as large a circuit as you please, but before the sun sets you must return to the place you started from. All the land you cover will be yours."

Pahom was delighted. It-was decided to start early next morning. They talked a while, and after drinking some more kumiss and eating some more mutton, they had tea again, and then the night came on. They gave Pahom a feather-bed to sleep on, and the Bashkirs dispersed for the night, promising to assemble the next morning at daybreak and ride out before sunrise to the appointed spot.

VII

Pahom lay on the feather-bed, but could not sleep. He kept thinking about the land.

"What a large tract I will mark off!" thought he. "I can easily go thirty-five miles in a day. The days are long now, and within a circuit of thirty-five miles what a lot of land there will be! I will sell the poorer land, or let it to peasants, but I'll pick out the best and farm it. I will buy two ox-teams, and hire two more
laborers. About a hundred and fifty acres shall be plough-land, and I will pasture cattle on the rest."

Pahom lay awake all night, and dozed off only just before dawn. Hardly were his eyes closed when he had a dream. He thought he was lying in that same tent, and heard somebody chuckling outside. He wondered who it could be, and rose and went out, and he saw the Bashkir Chief sitting in front of the tent holding his side and rolling about with laughter. Going nearer to the Chief, Pahom asked: "What are you laughing at?" But he saw that it was no longer the Chief, but the dealer who had recently stopped at his house and had told him about the land. Just as Pahom was going to ask, "Have you been here long?" he saw that it was not the dealer, but the peasant who had come up from the Volga, long ago, to Pahom's old home. Then he saw that it was not the peasant either, but the Devil himself with hoofs and horns, sitting there and chuckling, and before him lay a man barefoot, prostrate on the ground, with only trousers and a shirt on. And Pahom dreamt that he looked more attentively to see what sort of a man it was lying there, and he saw that the man was dead, and that it was himself! He awoke horror-struck.

"What things one does dream," thought he.

Looking round he saw through the open door that the dawn was breaking.

"It's time to wake them up," thought he. "We ought to be starting."

He got up, roused his man (who was sleeping in his cart), bade him harness; and went to call the Bashkirs.

"It's time to go to the steppe to measure the land," he said.

The Bashkirs rose and assembled, and the Chief came, too. Then they began drinking kumiss again, and offered Pahom some tea, but he would not wait.

"If we are to go, let us go. It is high time," said he.

VIII

The Bashkirs got ready and they all started: some mounted on horses, and some in carts. Pahom drove in his own small cart with his servant, and took a spade with him. When they reached the steppe, the morning red was beginning to kindle. They ascended a hillock (called by the Bashkirs a shikhan) and dismounting from their carts and their horses, gathered in one spot. The Chief came up to Pahom and stretched out his arm towards the plain:

"See," said he, "all this, as far as your eye can reach, is ours. You may have any part of it you like."
 Pahom's eyes glistened: it was all virgin soil, as flat as the palm of your hand, as black as the seed of a poppy, and in the hollows different kinds of grasses grew breast high.

The Chief took off his fox-fur cap, placed it on the ground and said:

"This will be the mark. Start from here, and return here again. All the land you go round shall be yours."

Pahom took out his money and put it on the cap. Then he took off his outer coat, remaining in his sleeveless under coat. He unfastened his girdle and tied it tight below his stomach, put a little bag of bread into the breast of his coat, and tying a flask of water to his girdle, he drew up the tops of his boots, took the spade from his man, and stood ready to start. He considered for some moments which way he had better go--it was tempting everywhere.

"No matter," he concluded, "I will go towards the rising sun."

He turned his face to the east, stretched himself, and waited for the sun to appear above the rim.

"I must lose no time," he thought, "and it is easier walking while it is still cool."

The sun's rays had hardly flashed above the horizon, before Pahom, carrying the spade over his shoulder, went down into the steppe.

Pahom started walking neither slowly nor quickly. After having gone a thousand yards he stopped, dug a hole and placed pieces of turf one on another to make it more visible. Then he went on; and now that he had walked off his stiffness he quickened his pace. After a while he dug another hole.

Pahom looked back. The hillock could be distinctly seen in the sunlight, with the people on it, and the glittering tires of the cartwheels. At a rough guess Pahom concluded that he had walked three miles. It was growing warmer; he took off his under-coat, flung it across his shoulder, and went on again. It had grown quite warm now; he looked at the sun, it was time to think of breakfast.

"The first shift is done, but there are four in a day, and it is too soon yet to turn. But I will just take off my boots," said he to himself.

He sat down, took off his boots, stuck them into his girdle, and went on. It was easy walking now.

"I will go on for another three miles," thought he, "and then turn to the left. The spot is so fine, that it would be a pity to lose
it. The further one goes, the better the land seems."

He went straight on a for a while, and when he looked round, the hillock was scarcely visible and the people on it looked like black ants, and he could just see something glistening there in the sun.

"Ah," thought Pahom, "I have gone far enough in this direction, it is time to turn. Besides I am in a regular sweat, and very thirsty."

He stopped, dug a large hole, and heaped up pieces of turf. Next he untied his flask, had a drink, and then turned sharply to the left. He went on and on; the grass was high, and it was very hot.

Pahom began to grow tired: he looked at the sun and saw that it was noon.

"Well," he thought, "I must have a rest."

He sat down, and ate some bread and drank some water; but he did not lie down, thinking that if he did he might fall asleep. After sitting a little while, he went on again. At first he walked easily: the food had strengthened him; but it had become terribly hot, and he felt sleepy; still he went on, thinking: "An hour to suffer, a life-time to live."

He went a long way in this direction also, and was about to turn to the left again, when he perceived a damp hollow: "It would be a pity to leave that out," he thought. "Flax would do well there." So he went on past the hollow, and dug a hole on the other side of it before he turned the corner. Pahom looked towards the hillock. The heat made the air hazy: it seemed to be quivering, and through the haze the people on the hillock could scarcely be seen.

"Ah!" thought Pahom, "I have made the sides too long; I must make this one shorter." And he went along the third side, stepping faster. He looked at the sun: it was nearly half way to the horizon, and he had not yet done two miles of the third side of the square. He was still ten miles from the goal.

"No," he thought, "though it will make my land lopsided, I must hurry back in a straight line now. I might go too far, and as it is I have a great deal of land."

So Pahom hurriedly dug a hole, and turned straight towards the hillock.

IX

Pahom went straight towards the hillock, but he now walked with difficulty. He was done up with the heat, his bare feet were cut and bruised, and his legs began to fail. He longed to rest, but it was impossible if he meant to get back before sunset. The sun waits for no man, and it was sinking lower and lower.

"Oh dear," he thought, "if only I have not blundered trying for too much! What if I am too late?"

He looked towards the hillock and at the sun. He was still far from his goal, and the sun was already near the rim. Pahom walked on and on; it was very hard walking, but he went quicker and quicker. He pressed on, but was still far from the place. He began running, threw away his coat, his boots, his flask, and his cap, and kept only the spade which he used as a support.

"What shall I do," he thought again, "I have grasped too much, and ruined the whole affair. I can't get there before the sun sets."

And this fear made him still more breathless. Pahom went on running, his soaking shirt and trousers stuck to him, and his mouth was parched. His breast was working like a blacksmith's bellows, his heart was beating like a hammer, and his legs were giving way as if they did not belong to him. Pahom was seized with terror lest he should die of the strain.

Though afraid of death, he could not stop. "After having run all that way they will call me a fool if I stop now," thought he. And he ran on and on, and drew near and heard the Bashkirs yelling and shouting to him, and their cries inflamed his heart still more. He gathered his last strength and ran on.

The sun was close to the rim, and cloaked in mist looked large, and red as blood. Now, yes now, it was about to set! The sun was quite low, but he was also quite near his aim. Pahom could already see the people on the hillock waving their arms to hurry him up. He could see the fox-fur cap on the ground, and the money on it, and the Chief sitting on the ground holding his sides. And Pahom remembered his dream.

"There is plenty of land," thought he, "but will God let me live on it? I have lost my life, I have lost my life! I shall never reach that spot!"

Pahom looked at the sun, which had reached the earth: one side of it had already disappeared. With all his remaining strength he rushed on, bending his body forward so that his legs could hardly follow fast enough to keep him from falling. Just as he reached the hillock it suddenly grew dark. He looked up--the sun had already set. He gave a cry: "All my labor has been in vain," thought he, and was about to stop, but he heard the Bashkirs still shouting, and remembered that though to him, from below, the sun seemed to have set, they on the hillock could still see it. He took a long breath and ran up the hillock. It was still light there. He reached the top and saw the cap. Before it sat the Chief laughing and holding

his sides. Again Pahom remembered his dream, and he uttered a cry: his legs gave way beneath him, he fell forward and reached the cap with his hands.

"Ah, what a fine fellow!" exclaimed the Chief. "He has gained much land!"

Pahom's servant came running up and tried to raise him, but he saw that blood was flowing from his mouth. Pahom was dead!

The Bashkirs clicked their tongues to show their pity.

His servant picked up the spade and dug a grave long enough for Pahom to lie in, and buried him in it. Six feet from his head to his heels was all he needed.


The En

In Elizabeth Bishop: The Art of Travel, Kim Fortuny argues that Bishop's travel poetry reveals a political and social consciousness that, until fairly recently, has largely been seen as absent from her poetry and her life. Fortuny argues that questions of travel bring up questions of form in Bishop’s poems. Moreover, because Bishop knows much about both travel and form, yet is particularly well versed in the latter, Bishop’s poetry sheds light on the ethical and political problems of modern travel from a vantage gained by a scrupulous and hard-won artistry.

Fortuny maintains that there is practical merit in paying close attention to the linguistic complexities of Bishop's poems. The textures of poems concerned with foreign travel—poems such as "Questions of Travel," "Over 2,000 Illustrations and a Complete Concordance," "Crusoe in England," and "Santarém"—reveal a consciousness that is fundamentally social, in spite of the writer's reputation for Modernist and ahistorical reserve. Consequently, the heart of this study is a series of close readings of these poems, in which Fortuny teases out the nuances of Bishop's relationship to the world in which she lived and traveled, examining her "apolitical" poems through a political lens and encountering her poetic style as politically engaged itself.

Elizabeth Bishop: The Art of Travel will appeal to Bishop scholars, literary scholars, and those with an interest in Modernist poetry.

Alexandra
By
Declan Stanley


Version 3.3.2 (January 2009)
ISBN 978-1-907082-00-9
Published By Portlaoise Publishing
www.DeclanStanley.com
© Copyright 1991 to 2009 by Declan Stanley. Some rights reserved.
This work is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 3.0 Unported License. To view a copy of this license, visit:
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or send a letter to Creative Commons, 171 Second Street, Suite 300, San Francisco, California, 94105, USA.
This means that you can, among other things, copy, share, post or otherwise distribute this work in any form you like as long as you attribute Declan Stanley at www.DeclanStanley.com as the original author and license it under the same, or compatible, Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike License.


Preface
--------
This is the first time I have released this novel under a creative commons license. Since 1991, when I first wrote this novel, I have: submitted the manuscript to traditional publishers, released it as shareware, posted some, and all, of the text to various websites and news groups, self published via POD and ebook, and finally posted it on my blog alongside adsense adverts. However, as the internet marketers would say, my efforts to monetize my content have met with limited success. With "successes" such as spending $300 in advertising in order to sell 8 POD books and earning $3 a month in advertising revenue from my blog, I can only hope that I am a better writer than I am businessman.
I cannot say that this is the best novel ever written, I cannot tell you that it will change your life, or start a revolution. Various people, through email and website comments, have told me that they have enjoyed this work and that it has connected with them on a meaningful level. If I had not freely shared my work on the Internet the connections between those people and my work would not have been made. And so it is with the intent of connecting my work with even more people, so that they might enjoy reading it, and maybe discover something about themselves, other people and the world we all share, that I release this novel under a creative commons license.
As a writer I have to realize that my work exists independently to myself. My novel only really exists when it is read. Otherwise it is just dead words printed on dead trees (and not even that for the electronic copies). It is only when a reader reads my words that they come alive and as a living thing my novel deserves to live its own life. And so it is in the spirit of allowing my work to stand on its own, to allow it to grow and develop in its own way that I release it under a creative commons license.
The people who do connect to this novel are spread too thinly across the world to allow the mass production and distribution of this novel as a traditionally published book to be economically viable. And so finally, it is in the hope of finding a new way to market and distribute stories that I release this novel under a creative commons license. I hope that a new business model will develop, one that will allow a much greater variety and freedom in the consumption of fiction to arise, and that this new business model will benefit both readers and writers alike.

- Declan Stanley
30th Nov'08
Portlaoise, Ireland.


Chapter 1
---------

One of the major problems in my life is an irresistible impulse to fall head-over-heels in love with complete strangers. This may not seem much of a problem, but when you combine it with a deep seated insecurity that makes me sure that they'll never be interested in loving me back, it produces quite a few problems.
The first is an unwillingness, or rather an inability, to express my feelings. The first time I fell in love was when I was fourteen. It was with a girl who used to go to the school across the road from mine. But I couldn't even bring myself to talk to her let alone ask her out.
We used to get the same bus home from school and I'd stand there at the bus stop trying not to stare at her. For a whole school year we stood there, not talking to each other. And to this day I have absolutely no idea if she had any similar feelings for me, or if she even noticed me.
The second problem is that I always pick a girl who under no stretch of the imagination would be the least bit interested in me. In my late teens I fell in love with a girl five years older them me. Today this would not cause me any problems, but the gap between a shy, immature eighteen year old boy and a somewhat more sophisticated, mature twenty three year old woman is quite large. She treated me kindly, I'm sure she was fond of me, but she had absolutely no romantic interest in me.
The third problem is that once I've overcome my shyness and I've struck up a friendship with the girl I immediately jump to the conclusion that she's fallen in love with me, despite the fact that we might be having a very casual relationship from her point of view.
In the normal course of events I can take it or leave it if somebody takes a dislike to me. But once I've fallen “in love” there can be no alternative but that she loves me back. And if she doesn't seem to, well, I've got a vivid imagination and I can make no end of excuses to explain her behaviour. I can think of everything, but that she isn't interested in me.
In between falling "in love", which happens about every three years, I have had more normal relationships with women. Indeed I have many friends who are women, a few of them ex-girlfriends. When I'm not "in love" I can communicate quite well. We can go out on a date, have a great time and end the night with a kiss and a cuddle. Sex was never a problem, because we wouldn't get that serious in that way.
And therein lies the problem. The girlfriends I could talk to, and have an honest and open relationship with, were the girls I was most likely to have sex with, but I had no interest in having sex with them. The girls I wanted were the ones I was "in love" with, and they were the ones I had no hope of making it with.
So at the beginning of this story I started out as a twenty four year old virgin waiting for someone to come along and sweep me off my feet on a whirlwind of passion and romance. Someone I could "make a commitment" to and "share my life" with, someone with whom I could have sex with every night.
I met and fell "in love" with a girl who, for reasons of her own that I cannot tell you, had exactly the opposite problems with her relationships with men as I had with women. We complemented each other perfectly and produced one of the worst relationships ever.
It started on a nice bright June evening at a meeting of the City Camera Club. A member of the Club, who was also a member of the Historical Society, was to give a guided tour detailing the history of the area surrounding the club's new premises. I was standing talking to another member of the club, while we were waiting for enough people to turn up for the tour to start, when I noticed a rather attractive woman come into the room.
Something snapped in the back of my mind and I was "in love" again. I was began to make my way over to her, but just then our guide for the evening decided that there was enough people to start the tour. He clapped his hands together to get our attention, asked us all to gather around and gave a short introductory talk about what we were going to see tonight.
Then he asked us all to move outside. As I turned around I noticed that the woman who was to be the new “love of my life” had been standing behind me, talking to a friend of mine called Paul. I don't remember what he said nor what her answer was. But my heart jumped when I heard her voice.
The only way I can describe it is as the cutest accent I have ever heard, but that doesn't convey the impact it had on me. For me one of the most important things about a woman is her voice. I love accents and the way a woman uses words and the textures of her speech, all add to my attraction for her. And here was a woman able to sent shivers down my spine, even when she wasn't talking to me.
Paul asked her what her name was and I heard her reply "Alexandra", before I got separated from them as the crowd squeezed its way through the door. Outside we turned right and followed the guide down the street. I watched Alexandra as she walked along ahead of me. She was wearing an orange track-suit type jacket, with faded blue jeans. And I thought that she had one of the nicest bottoms I'd ever seen.
We followed the guide around the corner and down a little alleyway. He stopped outside the gates of an old Jewish cemetery that I hadn't known was there. Unfortunately the gates were locked so we couldn't get in to explore. But our guide gave us a brief history of it standing on the pavement outside.
I noticed Alexandra sneak a camera out of her pocket and point it through the bars of the cemetery's railings. I walked over to her and reached her just as she was putting the camera away again.
"Nice shot?" I asked.
"Umm, yes," she gave me a petite smile and I almost kissed her.
There was silence for a moment. Our guide had started to walk on and the group was following him. She turned to follow and I walked beside her.
"So what's your name?" I asked, even through I'd heard her tell it to Paul a minute ago.
"Alexandra," the word danced off her tongue.
My heart was beating so loud and she spoke so softly that I had trouble hearing her. "Alex?" I asked.
"I prefer Alexandra," she replied.
"Alexandra," I savored her name.
We walked in silence for a few moments. Then I asked, "So is this your first time down at the Camera Club?"
"Oh, no. I've been to several meetings," she smiled.
"Really," I was surprised. "I must have been asleep not to have noticed you before."
She laughed softly. "Well, I've seen you around."
"Yeah?" I smiled at her. "Well I go to most meetings." I laughed, "Guess I must be addicted to them."
She was a few inches shorter than me and as I looked down at her, she smiled up at me. Our eyes met and I was lost. There and then she stole my heart with the sparkle in her hazel eyes.
The rest of the tour is like a dream to me. I have a hazy impression of the group following our guide around the streets and alleyways, stopping here and there to be told about the historical significance of this or that building. But I judge the highlights of the tour not on the historical pedigree of the buildings, but how close I managed to get to Alexandra as we stood and listened to the stories of our guide. I remember talking to her, but I don't remember what we said.
To my now jaded memory it seems as if I spent the whole tour running about the group trying to be as close as possible to her for as long as possible. The reason I had to keep running to catch up with her was because she kept moving away from me. It wasn't that she didn't like me, or so I thought, it was just that she wanted me to chase after her. A thought to which I should have paid more attention.
But at the time all I thought about was being near her, to be close enough to touch, to talk and listen to her. She had an irresistible attraction for me, like a moth to a candle flame. And I circled closer and closer to the burning passion.
After the tour a group of us retired to the pub as usual. Alexandra joined us, but sat at the opposite end of the group from me. During the night I switched from conversation to conversation, gradually working my way along the group towards her. But unfortunately I didn't get to her before closing time.
For the next week I could think of nothing but her. When I went to bed my last thought was of her and when I woke she was in my first. The physiologists say that men think of sex once every five minutes, well I seemed to have changed that thought to Alexandra. At that time I knew that I was going to have sex with her. Now I know I wanted much more than just sex from her.
It was a sensation of almost physical hunger. I wanted to touch her and see her and be with. To smell her even! I've never paid much attention to smell with a woman before. Except on the odd occasion when I meet a woman who seemingly uses a perfume designed to fumigate the whole room. But with Alexandra it was as if I wanted to devour her with all my senses.
I can't remember what the lecture at next week's meeting of the Club was about. But I do remember the disappointment I felt that she didn't show up before the meeting started. However after the announcements were read and the meeting was concluded I turned to find her sitting in the back row.
I smiled at her and she smiled back. So I made my way over to speak to her.
"Did you enjoy the meeting?" I asked as I stood beside her chair.
"Yes," she stood up. "But I missed the beginning."
There was an electrical tension between us. I wanted to grab her and hug her, but I couldn't.
"Oh, you didn't miss much," I smiled, while the smell of her perfume sent my heart racing.
"Good," she smiled back.
I couldn't think of anything to say. Or rather the only things I could think of were along the lines of, "Let’s go back to your place and have mad, passionate sex.", which didn't seem appropriate to either the location or the stage our relationship was at.
"I think I'll go up stairs for some coffee," she started for the exit.
"Err, yes," I replied and watched her make her way through the crowd.
Paul tapped me on the shoulder and asked, "Are you coming for a pint?"
Normally I would but today I wanted to follow Alexandra up to the coffee dock. "I'll be down later, Paul," I said. "Tonight I feel like a cup of coffee first."
"You, coffee?," he faked amazement. "Are you feeling all right?"
"I do drink coffee on the odd occasion," I replied.
A few other people headed for the street exit. "See you later," he said and joined them.
I made my way upstairs and got myself a cup of coffee. I saw Alexandra browsing through the couple of cupboards that the club stored its small library in. I went over and stood beside her.
"Anything interesting?" I asked.
"Oh," she looked up. "Yeah, it's all about nineteen twenties fashion photographs." She turned the book to show me its pages.
"Oh yes," I half turned and looked at the book. "They had style then, didn't they?"
"Yes," she slowly flicked through the pages and we looked at the old style glamour photos.
I was leaning back against the wall, but close enough to her to feel the heat from her body. As she flipped the pages she lent back and towards me, pressing her shoulder against my arm. I wanted to put my arm around her shoulders and hug her close.
Instead I cleared my throat and asked, "Do you want to come out to the movies with me on Friday?"
She looked up at me, "This Friday?"
"Well yes," I smiled.
"Well..." she hesitated. And my heart stopped beating. "I think that would be very nice." And I sighed with relief.
"Meet you at half seven outside Eason's newsagents on O'Connell Street," I said.
"OK" she smiled back.
I almost left then, but Alexandra turned the page of the book and held it out so that I could see. So we stayed there for the next hour, flicking through photography books.
Then Brian, another member of the club, offered me a lift home, as he lives out in my direction.
I hesitated, not wanting ever to be parted from Alexandra.
“Oh,” gushed Alexandra, “Do take your lift.”
So I said “OK.” And “Goodbye” to Alexandra, and took Brian's lift. And spend the next few days thinking only of Alexandra.


Chapter 2
---------

On Friday I arrived about fifteen minutes early and stood on the street anxiously looking up and down, unsure as to which direction she'd come from. Under the clock outside Easons bookshop on O'Connell Street is a popular place to arrange to meet. Firstly it is a well known landmark. Secondly it is in a fairly busy and public place. And thirdly from the point of view of anyone waiting there are a number of buses that stop there, so you can pretend that people are not looking at you wondering if you have been stood up, and instead convince yourself that they think that you are just waiting for a bus.
Then just as the clock above me began to chime the half hour I saw her walking up from the direction of Abbey St. My heart stopped.
She was wearing a blue cardigan with a matching cotton top and long, flowing skirt, with sandals on her feet. Her long black hair and skirt were blowing in the breeze and she smiled as she saw me. I fell in love with her again. She was just so beautiful it took my breath away. And my heart started pounding in my chest.
"Hi," I said, restraining myself from grabbing her and hugging her off her feet. "How are you?"
"Hi," she smiled. "I'm fine." She shrugged, "A bit tired from work, but you don't want me to go into that."
I wanted her to go into everything. I wanted to know how she spent every minute of every day of her life. But I couldn't tell her that. So instead I just nodded and smiled.
"So," I gestured with my arm and started to walk towards O'Connell Bridge. She walked beside me. "There's a French film on in the Screen cinema that I thought you might like to see." I probably knew the name of it at the time, but I can't remember what it was now.
She nodded, "That sounds nice."
"Do you mind," I slipped my hand into hers.
"No," she smiled and squeezed it gently.
My heart leapt and my grin became ten feet wide.
"So you had a bad day in work then," I said.
"Yes," she sighed. "My boss gave me this load of stuff the other day, that he said he didn't want until next week. Then this afternoon he comes around looking for it and got really annoyed when I didn't have it done." She stopped herself and smiled at me, "But then this is our first date, you don't want me bitching about work."
I just wanted to hear her speak, I didn't care what she talked about. "Not really," I agreed.
It was a bit early for the film so we went into a pub for a drink first. I had a vodka, as drinking a pint before going to a film usually spoils the second half as by that time I'm usually dying to go to the toilet. She had a rum and coke. We sat by a window and were bathed with late evening light filtered through the frosted glass. The sounds of the city traffic could be faintly heard from the outside.
We talked about this and that for a few minutes. I was half turned towards her with my arm on the back of the seat. She sat close to me with her legs crossed and her hands hooked over her knee. As we talked I took hold of her left hand. She smiled at me and squeezed it down into her lap. We slowly finished our drinks as she caressed my hand in her lap and I toyed with her hair, rubbing it across her neck and shoulder.
We stayed a little too long in the pub and when we arrived in the cinema it was quite full. But we managed to find two seats together in the middle of a row that was not too near the screen.
"So have you done much writing recently?" she asked as we sat down.
I sat beside her. "No I seem to have a terminal case of writer's block," I sighed.
"Well I'm sure it'll pass," she looked around the cinema.
"Yeah. But I keep getting itchy fingers, and thinking that I should be at home doing some work instead of being out enjoying myself," I explained.
"Well you might get some inspiration tonight," she looked back at me.
I laughed. "Inspiration! That's the last thing I need. I've got inspiration coming out my ears. What I need is to get some writing done. Not an idea for yet another story."
"Surely you need inspiration before you know what story to write," she said.
"I've got ideas for five novels and about fifteen short stories that I've haven't written. And probably never will," I replied. "I don't need any more."
"Oh," she said softly.
"Anyway," I smiled. "Inspiration is supposed to come from inside me, or from my own observations, not from copying other people's work. You wouldn't want me to plagiarize now, would you?"
"Of course not," she smiled back.
Yes I used to be that touchy about my writing.
Then the lights dimmed and the audience hushed as the projector sprang into action.
"Do you mind if I'm assertive," I whispered as I slipped my arm around her shoulders.
"Please do," she relaxed against me.
Normally when I put my arm around a girl I rest my hand on the outside of her shoulder, because if you put your arm over her shoulder your hand almost inevitably comes to rest on her breast, which is usually a bit too forward for a first date. But with Alexandra I found my elbow came to comfortably rest just past her neck and my hand brushed against her breast before I knew it. I pulled it away and didn't know what to do with it for a moment. But Alexandra came to my rescue. She solved my dilemma by taking my hand in her's, so we were actually holding hands and being intimate without me grouping her. Then she did something which I shall always remember. All through the film she ran her other hand up and down my forearm. Stroking the hairs on my arm and producing a sensation which made me shake with anticipation.
The film was a French romantic comedy about the director of a yoghurt company who falls in love with the cleaning lady at his office. She discovers a plot by one of the managers, who is also having an affair with the director's wife, to unseat him and take over the company. There was lots of intrigue, good one liners and even some social commentary, all wrapped up in a fast moving plot, before we got the happy ending.
All in all it was quite a good film, but it was turned into a masterpiece because I saw it with my arm around Alexandra.
As we were coming out of the cinema I asked, "So where to now, Alexandra?"
"I know a nice pub up towards where I live," She waved in more or less the correct direction. "But I can't remember its name."
"That's OK," I said as I took her hand in mine. "Let’s go." And we walked over to the pedestrian crossing to cross the busy traffic coming down Pearse Street.
We talked about the movie as we walked towards the pub, but by the time we reached the gates of Trinity College in College Green we'd both said how much we'd liked it a good few times and had told each other what the best bits had been and there was a lull in the conversation.
As we walked up Grafton St. I looked at a clock and realized that it was five to eleven. The pubs closed at eleven. I pointed this out to Alexandra.
"Don't worry we'll make it," she started to walk faster.
As we reached the top of Grafton St. and crossed into Stephen's Green I became more and more anxious. I don't know why, I mean it wouldn't have been the end of the world if we didn't get a drink.
"So where's this pub then?" I asked knowing that the nearest pubs were in Wexford St. or Camden St., both of which seemed a long way with only a few minutes to closing time.
"At the top of Camden St," she replied.
"Hold on," I stopped, and because we were holding hands pulled her to a stop. "Is it anywhere near Cassidy's?"
"Cassidy's," she smiled. "Yeah, that's the place."
"We'll never make it," I said.
"Well where else can we go?"
"There's got to be somewhere down Grafton St." I searched my memory. "I know," I turned around and we headed back down towards Davey Byrne's.
We rushed down and managed to get there before the doors closed. I asked her what she wanted and fought my way to the bar through the last-orders rush.
I got the drinks and fought my way back out to find Alexandra had found the one remaining free barstool. As I handed her drink I realized that with her sitting on the stool I could look her straight in the eye.
I smiled at her.
She smiled back. "Cheers," she raised her drink and took a sip.
I took a sip from mine.
"This is nice," she look around at the décor. "Have you been here before?"
"Once or twice," I said. "I don't often drink in this part of town."
"Oh," she smiled. "And what part of town do you normally drink in."
"Well," I confessed. "It's usually Camden St. after Camera Club meetings."
We laughed. And as I leant forward I put my hand on her shoulder.
"So when's your last bus?" She sipped her drink.
"Oh don't worry about that," I wondered if that was a gentle hint that I wouldn't be going back to her place.
I sipped my drink.
"I'll walk you home if you like," I suggested causally.
"OK," she smiled back. "That'd be nice."
And I thought, Hey shit! She really likes me, then.
I put my foot on the bottom rung of her stool and stroked her hair. As I turned to take another drink and she ran her fingers across my head.
"Hey, it's soft," she continued to rub my spiky hair.
"Well of course it is," I said, wondering why she would think that my hair wouldn't be soft.
"I thought that you had gelled it or something," she continued, stroking my hair.
"No," I smiled. "It's all natural. That's just the way it grows."
"And the way you brush it," she moved her hand down onto my face. "Hmm, you didn't shave tonight."
"Yes I did," the sensation of her hand on my cheek was sending shivers through my body and they all seemed to be gathering in my balls. "I shaved before coming out tonight."
"Oh," she said. "It seems so rough."
"I'm just such a 'macho' man," I smiled.
She smiled back. Then realizing that we were in a public place she snatched her hand away and took a sip from her drink.
We talked for another ten or fifteen minutes, but I can't really remember what we said. All I remember is the irresistible desire she held for me. There was a huge passion for her building up inside me.
We finished our drinks and left. We were among the first to go after they stopped serving. I took her hand as we walked back up Grafton St.
"So where do you live?" I asked, wondering if we were going to have to get a taxi.
"I live in Synge St.," she replied.
"Oh," I said, "just around the corner from the Camera Club."
"Yes," she smiled. "And my office is in Harcourt St."
"What?" I smiled back. "You only have a five minute walk to work every day."
"Yes, it's dead convenient," she looked at me.
"It's not some grotty little bedsit, is it?" I asked.
"No it's quite nice," she assured. "I've a very good landlord in this place."
"You mean you haven't always?" I teased.
"No," she replied. "I've lived in my fair share of grotty bedsits."
"And now you've found a nice place, that's convenient for both work and the Camera Club, you're going to settle down for a while?" I asked.
"Well yes," she sounded doubtful. "But you do get fed up looking at the same four walls all the time."
"Oh," I asked. "Are you planning on moving soon?"
"Well, usually I do," she said. "But where I am now is so good I'd have problems finding another like it for the same price."
We continued talking about the poor quality of affordable accommodation in Dublin as we walked. I told her about my own experiences and pointed out that I had found it just as bad when I had lived in London. Then we reached her house. I thought that she might turn to kiss me good night and not invite me in. But without a word she opened the door and walked in. I followed, closing the door behind me. She led the way to the back of the house to the entrance of her flat.
As you walked in there was a tiny entrance hall, where we hung our coats. With a door directly ahead that led into the bathroom and a door to the right that led to the main room. In the main room her bed was against the right hand wall, a small table and two chairs on the left, with the kitchen set in an alcove "behind" the bathroom. There was also a couple of armchairs, some bookcases and a wardrobe crammed in.
"I'll make us some coffee," she headed towards the sink.
I sat on one of the armchairs and asked, "Do you mind if I make myself more comfortable, by taking off my shoes."
"No," she smiled. "Feel free."
So I did.
She called over. "I won't need to put on a gas mask, will I?"
"No," I laughed. "I spend most of my day with my shoes off so there isn't time for the smell to build up."
We laughed and there was comfortable silence for a couple of minutes as the kettle came to a boil.
I looked at her as she moved in the small galley kitchen, drinking her natural grace: the arch of her arm as she reached up to take two cups from a shelve, the swing of her hips as she turned to take a jar of coffee from a press, the tilt of her head as she spooned coffee into two mugs, her tongue caressing her upper lip as she was careful not to spill anything.
The kettle clicked off and she poured the water into the mugs, giving each a quick stir. I watched her hair fall across her shoulders as she stirred.
She looked up and I quickly looked away.
She came over with two steaming mugs. "Here you go," she handed one to me.
"Thank you," I took my mug.
"You’re welcome," she put her mug down on the floor.
She sat on the floor with her back against the other armchair and kicked off her sandals. We sipped coffee and chatted about the films we'd seen and about photography for a while. She sat back and looked up at me. I leaned forward with my elbows on my knees and looked down at her. Then I figured enough polite social interaction had passed.
I put my half finished coffee down beside the leg of my chair where it wouldn't be in the way. Then I slid onto the floor beside her. I gently took her cup from her and put it beside mine. Then I slipped my left arm around her shoulders once more. She leaned into me and turned to kiss. Her lips opened and I pushed my tongue into her mouth. She put her arms around me and I put my right hand to the back of her head.
We kissed for a while, then I slowly moved my hand down to touch her left breast. She didn't object, so I gently massaged as we continued to kiss. A few minutes later we came up for air and I started to unbutton her cardigan. She smiled as I worked my way down the buttons, then pushed it open and put my hand back onto her breast.
I could feel the heat of her body through the thin cotton and her nipple pushing through her bra. She hugged me closer and we started to kiss again. I could feel her soft breast under my hand, with its nipple rubbing against my palm. I could taste her as we kissed. Feel my arm around her, her arms around me, our bodies close. I was in heaven for the next few minutes.
Then she sat up and moved a couple of feet away from me to take off her cardigan. I knelt on the floor beside her and put my arms around her waist. She reached up to my chest and started to unbutton my shirt. She slipped her hands inside and ran them around my body. I leaned forward and we kissed. A few minutes later she was nuzzling my right shoulder and I was licking and kissing her ear. I was feeling decidedly heated and had developed a serious erection.
Moving back slightly I pulled my shirt out of my jeans and slipped it off. She sat up, her hands still on me. We smiled at each other. I started to take off my shirt and she took her hands away. When I'd pulled it off and tossed it away I noticed that she was looking at me with a strange expression on her face. I'm not exactly Rambo, I know, but there was enough hormones flowing that it didn't make much difference.
Putting my arms around her, I leaned close to start kissing again. She froze for a moment, then her lips opened and her tongue slid out. Her arms roamed up and down my back and we held each other close. I could feel the heat of her body as I held her. I could feel her breasts pressing against me as I hugged her. I could feel her arms on my naked body.
I pulled back. "So," I whispered. "Does this come off," I ran my hand along the neck of her top.
She smiled and shook her head, "No."
OK, I thought this is as far as it goes. I was disappointed, but not overly so. I'd never had sex on a first date before and hadn't really expected to have it now.
I don't know if she was feeling adventurous, or if she just took pity at the look of disappointment that must have come across my face, but she added softly, "But it does pull up."
I looked at her and she smiled.
I said, "Yes?" and smiled back.
"Yes," she replied and pulled it out of the waist band of her skirt and up to reveal her breasts cupped in their white cotton bra.
I was mesmerized. Slowly I put my finger tips to each breast. They were so sweet. The skin so soft, yet the flesh firm underneath. I spread my fingers across them and pressed my palms against her nipples. Then I pressed down under and gently pushed them up within her bra. I glanced up at her face. She was beaming at me. So I lent forward and kissed the soft exposed flesh. I ran my lips and tongue back and across them, then moved down to the cotton of her bra and kissed the nipples hidden below.
She shivered in my arms. I hooked my arms around under her top and moved my mouth up to kiss her. As I opened my mouth her tongue slid past my lips. Her warm body was pressed against mine. Our tongues worked in sync. Her hands raced up and down my back. My arms wrapped around and pulled her close.
Her fingers dug into my back and my face was buried in her hair. With my lips I could feel the heat of her naked skin neck and shoulder underneath the tangle of her hair. Her breath was hot and moist on my ear. We hugged each other as close as we could. Then we pulled back to look at each other.
"So," I ran my hands across her cotton covered breasts. "Does this pull up as well?" I looked up at her.
She smiled and nodded yes.
"Yes?" I smiled back, gesturing with my hand.
She reached around and unhooked her bra. I ran my finger tips up from her waist and under her loosened bra to touch her soft, warm breasts. My fingers circled underneath the firm muscle. I ran my thumbs over her erect nipples and she sighed. So I pushed her bra up, bent down and kissed her left nipple. I ran my tongue across it, next my lips, then I opened my mouth wide and sucked as much as I could inside.
Her hands gripped my head and shoulder and she clenched and unclenched her fingers as I worked away. I switched from left to right breast and back again, using my fingers, and tongue, and lips in all sorts of combinations. Then she put her hands onto the front of my shoulders and pushed me back. I looked up. She smiled at me. Then she pulled down her top and moved away to sit with her back against the bed.
"So, how far do you want to go?" I asked as I moved beside her and put my left arm around her shoulders.
"I think you better go now," she whispered.
I kissed her and she responded.
I thought; now don't do anything foolish to spoil it, Kevin. Just take it slow and gentle. Don't push beyond where she wants to go. I had this fear that my desire would get the better of me and I'd end up raping her.
I put my hand up under her top and ran my fingers around her nipple. She lapped her tongue inside my mouth. Moving my hand down her body I found her belly button just under the waist of her skirt. I rubbed my fingers in and around it, but she wasn't very sensitive there.
Our mouths and tongues still intertwined I pulled my hand out from under her waistband and moved it down to her leg. I felt her thigh under the thin material of her skirt. And as I ran my hand up and down I slowly moved from the top to the inside of her thigh. She let her legs open wider. I brushed my fingers lightly across her crotch and found that she was very hot.
We were still kissing so I ran my hand back down the inside of her thigh and started to pull up her skirt. I pulled it up to reveal her knee and pressing my fingers against her skin pushed it right up to totally expose her leg and discovered that she was wearing white cotton panties.
All my attention was focused on her vagina now. I was looking down, so I know I wasn't kissing her. But I don't know if she was still kissing me, or if her arms were around me, or what she was doing. I think she was probably not doing anything.
I put my finger tips onto her warm, damp panties and felt her open lips beneath. I pressed my finger against them and traced her slit. She gasped. Taking hold of the edge of her panties I pulled at them, but there was no give. So I took hold of the top and pulled them down slightly to loosen them. Then I slipped my fingers into the leg of her panties and ran them back down and under to touch her directly.
Her lips parted and my finger was inside her. I pushed my finger down and then back up to find her clitoris. Her mouth was on mine and our tongues found each other again. I pressed harder. She tilted her head back I gently chewed her throat. She sat up and turned to face me. My hand lost its place, so I ran both hands up along her sides to push up her top and reveal her breasts again.
She leaned forward to kiss me and I cupped both her breasts. Her head moved in rhythm with my tongue, her body with my hands. Then I slipped my left hand around to hold her close and bent down so I could work both hand and mouth on her left breast. She leant forward and I pressed my hand between her legs again.
I had my back against the bed now, so I just lay back against it as she started to rub herself against my fingers. I was in a sensual haze. All my attention was centered on the movement of her clitoris against my fingers. The smell, the dim lighting, the heat and weight of her leaning over me was the background against which I rubbed her.
Her rhythm stopped and she tensed and pressed down, her arm across my throat, as she tilted her head back and moaned.
Then she sat down on her knees in front of me and smiled. I let my hand drop and relaxed against the bed. I had the strangest feeling. It was a pleasant sort of contentment, as if I'd come myself, though I hadn't.
She slipped her bra straps off her arms, pulled it from under her top and tossed onto the bed. "That was the perfect end to a perfect night," she glowed. "Thanks, Kevin."
One word stuck in my mind, "End?” What did she mean end? Surely this was just the beginning? But she was so happy and contented. And it was such a buzz to have made her so, that I thought, let’s not spoil it by disagreeing. After all I didn't want to appear like I was one of those guys who were only interested in their own pleasure. Which, by some strange altruistic twist of logic, I figured I'd be if I asked for it, even though she'd clearly come first and was showing no intention of returning the compliment.
It was enough for me to have made her come. It was the first time I'd made love to a woman and I didn't want to spoil such the event by ending the night on a sour note. It would have been nice to have continued and even spent the night with her, but I hadn't even expected to get that far on the first date and I was more than satisfied. Having to ask for it would have ruined it.
I wasn't really thinking straight the fact of having made another person orgasm just blew my mind.
"So you don't want me to spend the night then?" was the most subtle and diplomatic thing I could think of saying.
"No," she giggled, "of course not."
But even though I was thrilled by having made her come I was still keyed up and aroused. And having the expectation of coming myself frustrated was hard to take.
"Come on get up," she pulled my arm roughly. "Up and out, Kevin."
So I had these two conflicting repercussions swimming around in my mind. On the one had I was over the moon that I'd made her come. On the other I was feeling dejected, and even rejected, by her not wanting to return the compliment.
Slowly I got to my feet and picked up my T-shirt. I pulled it on and she handed me my shirt. I buttoned it up and opened my jeans to tuck it inside and readjust my underpants, by this time my erection had subsided. I could feel her looking at me, but I didn't look back. I didn't want to leave, but it was preferable to overstaying my welcome.
I wanted to ask her if she loved me. But I didn't speak. I wanted to ask her why she didn't want to do more. But I didn't want to appear to be asking for it. I wanted to ask her why I couldn't stay. But it was enough that she didn't want to sleep with me.
So I pulled on my socks and tied up my shoes.
She was standing against the table as I looked up. I smiled at her and she smiled back. I walked cross to her and put my arms around her. She hugged me back and we kissed again. I ran my hands down to her bottom, gathered up her skirt and slipped my hand inside her panties. We hugged tightly. Then she pushed back a bit.
I looked at her and she dropped her hand to my crotch and smiled. I mirrored the gesture.
"Do you want to go again?" my voice was hoarse.
"Oh, no," she took her hand away and stepped back.
"Oh," I replied and could think of nothing else to do but to get my coat from the end of the bed. As I put it on I asked, "Do you want to go out again?" I looked around at her, "Like tomorrow or Sunday?"
"Emm," she looked down. "I don't know Kevin."
"If you give me your number I'll phone you," I smiled. The thought of having to ask for her phone number after we'd had sex appealed to my sense of irony.
She hesitated, "Tell you what, why don't you give me yours and I'll phone you."
"477217," I replied.
She turned to the table and scribbled on a pad. "OK," she straightened up. "I'll give you a call tomorrow."
"Do I get yours?" I asked.
"Well it's very difficult to reach me," she said. "Especially at work." She paused. "I'm in and out all day long," she added.
"Oh, OK," there wasn't much else I could say.
She opened the door and stepped into the hallway to unlock the door to her flat.
I walked past and stopped to kiss her.
As we kissed goodnight I squeezed her left breast with my right hand. It was a gesture to remind her of what I'd just done, and to say I'd be back. It was also a mark of ownership. It was meant to show that I was close enough to her not to have to ask permission now.
I didn't consciously think that at the time. Then all I knew was that I was head-over-heels in love with her and that she seemed to love me back.
As I walked home those two conflicting feelings of elation and rejection worked their way through my mind. I reasoned that she didn't want to make love to me because she was shy; she was probably as inexperienced as I was, but hadn't read as many books nor seen as much pornography as I had. Anyway the thought of having made her come just blew my mind. I knew that she must really like me, if not actually love me, to have gotten so intimate with me.
I got home and climbed straight into bed. The smell and taste and feel of Alexandra was still with me. And recalling the events of the evening was as pleasurable as acting them had been, with one important addition. As I remembered the feel of Alexandra in my arms, my hands worked my erection. I savored every little detail of my night with her. All my passion came back renewed. And when at last I came it seemed to go on forever. It was the best masturbation I have ever done.
Afterwards I fell into a contented and exhausted sleep secure in the knowledge that the night had been a great start to my relationship with Alexandra. It was only much later that I realized what a disaster it really had been.


3
---------

The next day I woke up happy. So I've finally done it, I hummed, better late than never. I could smell her on my finger tips, even after I'd washed my hands. I was sure by then that she must really love me. And I thought that she must be as impatient to see me again and get intimate once more as I was
So I waited for her to call with a certain amount of anticipation. Wanting to hold her and touch her again. And wanting to make love to her again. To feel her come under my fingers again would be such bliss. I'm afraid I let my imagination run wild. But she didn't phone.
Then I had lunch and waited for her to call, thinking that she must be a late riser. Especially on a Saturday, when you've been working hard all week, you deserve a little lay in. My dreams began to go a little stale when she didn't phone in the afternoon either.
Then I had dinner and thought well if we are to go out to night she must surely call soon.
At around about half eight or a quarter to nine that evening I finally admitted to myself that she wasn't going to call. But I knew she would have a very good reason for not doing so, though I couldn't think of any at the time. The thought that she didn't phone because she wasn't interested in me began to occur to me. But I dismissed it on every occasion.
On Sunday I again got out of bed early and waited for her to phone. She didn't. She didn't phone in the morning, to perhaps arrange to do something in the afternoon. She didn't phone in the afternoon to arrange something for the evening. She didn't phone in the evening to apologise for not phoning earlier and to explain that she'd been rushed off her feet all weekend by an unexpected visitation of family members. She simply didn't phone.
By Monday I was calling her "That Bitch!" and vowing if I ever saw her again I'd give her a piece of my mind and tell her what she could go do with herself as well. But I couldn't understand it. Why did she have sex with me if she didn't like me? And if she did like me why didn't she phone? The thought that she might view our relationship in a more casual light didn't enter my head. It was all black or white to me. Either it was on or it was off. All or nothing. It just shows you what strong emotion can do for your tolerant, liberal ideas.
On Tuesday I got the shock of my life when she came up to me at the Camera Club and before I could say anything asked, "Don't you ever answer your phone, Kevin?"
I felt my jaw open in shock. "What?" I said.
"I was phoning you all weekend," she explained. "And you never answered."
"Never answered?" my mind had still failed to comprehend what she was saying. "What do you mean, never answered?"
She was getting annoyed, "I mean the phone rang and nobody picked it up."
"But I was home most of the weekend," I didn't say I'd barely strayed more than three feet from the phone. "And you never called."
"Your number's 477217, isn't it," she stated.
"No it's 477210," I replied, a glimmer of light appearing in the gloom. "Have you been phoning 477217?"
"Yes," she said. "That's the number you gave me."
"No it's not," I could see she was about to argue that it was. "But that's not important. I thought that you didn't phone because you didn't want to see me again."
She smiled, "No, don't be silly." She glanced down, "I enjoyed my date with you."
And I was on cloud nine again. Nothing could mar my happiness. She'd enjoyed herself. She liked me!
"Yeah?" I smiled back. "Do you want to repeat it again, say next Friday?"
"OK," she looked up into my eyes.
I looked down into her's and had a deep urge to put my arms around her. But I managed to suppress the impulse.
Then Mary and John came over to us. Mary glanced at Alexandra and gave me a knowing look.
"We're going down the pub," John said. "You coming along?"
"Sure," I said and looked at Alexandra.
"Yeah," she agreed.
So we went down to the pub and had a drink. Over the next ten minutes more members of the club drifted in and joined us for the usual after meeting socializing. I sat beside Alexandra and ran my hand up and down her thigh. She put her hand on top of mine and left it there. This physical intimacy with her sent my hormones racing. As I neared the end of my pint I whispered in her ear.
"So are you going to invite me back to your place for a cup of coffee?" I asked, half jokingly.
"All right," she smiled back.
I raised my eyebrows.
She laughed, "So do you want to come back to my place for coffee, Kevin?"
"That would be nice," I smiled back and quickly finished my drink. We stood up, said goodbye and left.
As we walked around to her flat I wondered what the others were saying about us. What juicy rumors would be circulating around the club.
The first thing I did when we got to her flat was use the toilet. When I came out she had made instant coffee for us both.
"How do you like yours," she asked.
"Oh, black, no sugar," I replied and took one of the mugs from the counter.
She put a drop of milk into the other and sat in one of the armchairs. I sat in the chair beside her. We talked for the next few minutes about this and that. Mostly about the lecture we'd just seen at the camera club. It was some guy who'd been scuba diving in the tropics with an underwater camera. He'd had some really stunning photographs to show. Then I decided to make a move on her.
Kneeling on the floor in front of her, I put my elbows on her knees and smiled up at her. She lent forward, put her hands to my head and we kissed. I ran my hands up her legs and hooked them around her waist. I pushed up against her kiss and she slumped back in the chair. So I ended up leaning forward over her, with her legs to either side of me, resting on my elbows. I put a hand on each of her breasts. Her nipples pressed into the palms of my hands.
I started to unbutton her blouse. She started to breath heavily as I worked my way down and pulled her blouse out of her jeans. I pulled it open to reveal her body. She had a light fuzz of dark hair around her belly button, but my attention was focused on her breasts. Her nipples were clearly visible through the cotton of her bra.
Leaning forward again I put my lips to each nipple in turn and sucked them, leaving two little damp patches behind. I ran my hands under her and she lifted herself up as I unhooked her bra. I brought my hands around again and ran them up and across her breasts to push her bra clear.
Now I could lick and suck her nipples directly, which I did for what seemed like ages. I rubbed and caressed one breast with my hand as I licked and sucked the other. Then I'd switch and rub my warm saliva into her soft skin with my fingers as I licked and sucked the other breast.
Then my knees and back began to complain so I straightened up and sat back on my heels, smiling up at Alexandra. She smiled back and slid off the chair to sit on my lap, her legs pressing against my hips. I reached up to her shoulder and started to push her blouse down.
"No," she said. "I don't want to take it off."
"How about your bra?" I asked.
"OK," she smiled and pushed the strap down her sleeve and hooked it under her arm. Then repeated it with the other strap and arm and threw the bra onto the bed. I was mesmerized by the movement of her breasts as she breathed in and out. Slowly I bent down to lick and kiss and suck them again. She started to lick and suck my ears and after ten minutes of that I was very hot and very hard.
I sat back and pulled my shirt off. Then I reached down and undid her jeans. She brought her legs up and started to take off her shoes. As she took of her right shoe and stocking I took off her left.
Then I reached inside her jeans and ran my hands around to her bottom. She put her elbows onto the chair and lifted herself a few inches. So I pulled her jeans down around her thighs. I put her leg across my lap and pulled it out of her jeans. Then did the same with the other, and tossed the jeans away.
Her hands were around my neck again and we kissed again, while my hands ran all over her body.
I put my hand to her crotch and felt the damp heat there. "So do you want to have sex, then?" I whispered as she nuzzled my shoulder.
She froze. "What?" she asked.
"Sex," I repeated smiling, thinking that her answer must surely be yes.
"No, I do not," she pushed me away and stood up.
"What?" I was stunned.
"I'm not going to have sex with you, Kevin," she walked over to her wardrobe and took out a silk robe.
I didn't know what to say. There wasn't much I could say. It'd seemed pretty obvious to me that we were going to have sex. Suddenly when I mentioned it she stopped being interested.
I didn't understand why she'd do it last time but not now. But I couldn't think of a way of asking her without it turning into an argument were she would think I was trying to persuade her. And I didn't want that. So I started to get dressed.
Alexandra picked up the coffee mugs. "You didn't even finish your coffee," she said.
"Well it must be cold now," I replied. "You can't expect me to finish it."
"No. Of course not," she walked to the sink and poured it away.
I sat up on one of the armchairs and pulled my shoes out from under it.
"So do you want to go out on Friday," I asked.
"Yeah OK," she replied. "I'll be staying up this weekend for a tennis match I have on Sunday anyway."
The thought that she was implying that she wouldn't be interested in staying up for the weekend in order to see me flared in my mind, but I quickly suppressed it.
"Same time same place?" I smiled.
"Err, no, Kevin," she said. "I think we'd better make it a bit later. I don't know how I managed to make it last time."
"Eight O'clock?" I suggested.
"Make it a quarter past," she said.
"A quarter past eight's fine with me," I replied. I was overjoyed that she wanted to go out with me at all.
She stood across the room from me and watched me pull on my shoes. I liked the feeling of her eyes on me.
"I still haven't got over the way you tie your laces," she said.
I looked up and shrugged, "I didn't know that it was so unusual."
She walked across and stood in front of me. "It's weird," she said. "I don't see how they don't open."
"Well they don't," I bent down to demonstrate. "Unless you pull the lose end." I pulled the laces open.
She laughed.
"And then I'd tie them again," I said.
She said nothing as I re-tied them.
I looked up at her and smiled, "So you really don't want to have sex with me then."
She shook her head. "I can see than I'm going to have to play it very cool with you," she giggled.
I felt a momentary unease that she should use a phase like "play it cool". But I reached around her and hugged her, pressing my cheek against her stomach. "Not too cool I hope," I whispered.
She laughed and ran her fingers through my hair.
I didn't want to move I just wanted to hug her and feel her hands on me.
"Come on," she stepped away, "time for you to go." She walked to the door to open it for me.
I followed and as I walked passed I stopped to hug her again. She hugged back and we kissed. I stepped back smiling as I put my hand to her breast and squeezed it through the silk of her robe.
"See you Friday at quarter past eight," I smiled.
She smiled back and ran her hand across the back of mine. "See you Friday," she repeated.
I turned and walked out, confused and frustrated. Frustrated, because I'd wanted to make love to her and she hadn't. Confused, because I felt she'd rejected me by not having sex with me again, but then she'd kissed and hugged me, so she clearly hadn't rejected me. It gave me much food for thought as I mulled over the contradictions over the next few days.
So once again I found myself standing outside Eason's on a Friday night waiting for Alexandra to show. I couldn't help wondering if this was going to become routine. If I was going to spend months, if not years, standing around on O'Connell Street anxiously looking up and down for Alexandra to appear. And if I was going to spend months, if not years, wondering how she felt about me.
Then she arrived. She looked gorgeous in the late evening sunlight, even though she was dressed casually in jeans and a red T-shirt, with a light jacket that matched. It occurred to me that she'd probably dressed up for our first date, but I as usual had just worn jeans and a T-shirt. So this time she'd decided to dress more casual. I don't tend to dress up and forget that people dress to impress each other. I believe that a beautiful girl looks beautiful regardless of what she wears. If I think that a girl only looks good because of her clothes and make-up I tend to be put off. Though it's not always possible to decide in the heat of the moment.
I wanted very much to hug Alexandra as she came up and smiled at me. But she stopped just short, so all I did was smile back and say "Hi."
"Hi," she responded and shivers ran up my spine.
"I thought we might go to another film," I suggested.
"Yeah," she nodded. "There's a good one on up in the lighthouse."
"Do you mean 'September Bride'?" I asked.
"Yes," she smiled. "That's the one." She looked slightly worried, "You haven't seen it already, have you?"
"No. That's the one I was thinking of suggesting, as well," I smiled back.
"So what time does it start at?" she asked.
I checked the time, "In about two minutes."
"So lets go then," she turned and started walking.
I quickly caught up with her and slipped my hand into hers. She smiled and squeezed it tightly.
The film was set in Northern Ireland and was about this headstrong young woman who has an illegitimate baby and ends up living with two brothers. All three, needless to say, get ostracized by the local community. It was a moving insight into the life and times of the period. It left a lasting impression that a lot of the prejudices still exist to this day.
We went for a drink afterwards and had a very heated discussion about the rights and wrongs portrayed in the film. It being a good film there was a lot to discuss. Even though we started out in what could be considered very tricky ground, where our differences in views could easily have mortally wounded our relationship, we ended up discussing such esoteric generalities that neither of us got in the least bit offended.
When we left the pub we didn't say anything about where we were going, we just started walking back to her place. The night was lovely. I was walking hand in hand with a beautiful girl, on my way back to her place, having been entertained and stimulated, and with a few drinks inside me. It was a near perfect night, with more to come.
She led me into her flat without saying a word. As I hung up my coat on the back of the door she asked, "Do you want some coffee?"
"Sure," I said.
"Black no sugar," she stepped into the kitchen alcove. "Right?"
"Right," I agreed and sat in one of her armchairs. There was a tube of tennis balls and a racket on the other. "So have you played much tennis this week?" I picked up the racket and tested the tension against my finger tips.
"Yes," she smiled. "I beat the number ten ranked player on Wednesday." She put two mugs on the counter, "But it was only a friendly, so it doesn't count for the rankings."
"Yeah," I said. "But now you know you can beat her."
"But now she knows to," she smiled back as she spooned some coffee into the mugs.
I put the racket down and bent to my shoes. "Do you mind if I make myself comfortable?" I gestured to my laces.
"No," she screwed the coffee jar closed and put it back in the cupboard. "Be my guest."
"I am your guest," I smiled back as I took off my shoes and stockings, tucking them under the chair, out of the way.
"I'll be back in a moment," she walked towards the door. "Make the coffee when the water boils, will you," she flicked on the light and closed the bathroom door behind her.
I heard her moving around inside, but couldn't quite figure out what she was doing. The kettle boiled just as she flushed the toilet. I got up and poured the water into the mugs as she washed her hands. A few moments later she came back out.
"I didn't know if you took milk and sugar," I nodded towards the coffee. "So I didn't put any in."
"That's OK, Kevin," she poured a drop of milk into her coffee. "I don't take sugar."
I took a sip from my mug. She'd refreshed her perfume in the bathroom and she smelt gorgeous. I brushed my fingers across the side of her face and lightly caressed her ear. She smiled back and sipped her coffee. I continued to caress.
"Why are we standing," she looked around at the armchairs. "Let’s sit." She walked over, dumped the tennis balls and racket on to the floor and sat down.
I walked over and sat beside her.
"So how often do you play tennis then?" I asked.
"As often as I can," she replied. "Usually about three or four times a week."
"You really do like it then," I sipped my coffee.
"Oh, yes," she said. "I couldn't live without it."
Her hand was resting on the arm of her chair so I reached over and started to stroke her fingers. She wiggled them and stroked my hand back.
I can't remember what we talked about for the next ten or fifteen minutes as we sipped our coffee and stroked each other's hands. But I was very aroused by the time we finished.
She took the empty mug from my hand. "At least you finished the coffee this time," she smiled.
"I feel I might need the caffeine tonight," I replied.
She walked across and put the cups in the sink. I stood and followed her, stopping behind her and putting my arms around her waist. She leant back against me as I hugged her and buried my face in her sweet smelling hair.
Then I ran my hands up to squeeze her breasts. She turned smiling and we kissed, my hands running across her back, her hands through my hair.
Stepping back I opened my mouth to say something, but she put her finger to my lips. "Don't talk, Kevin," she whispered and kissed me again.
I pulled her T-shirt out of her jeans, pushed my hands underneath and ran them up her back. She leaned forward against me and sighed. I hugged her as she nuzzled my shoulder. Then I unhooked her bra. She tensed and leaned away. I smiled at her and ran my hands around to lift her bra clear of her breasts. As soon as my hands were on her breasts she sighed and relaxed again.
We kissed lightly. She brought her hands down and put them around my waist. I lifted her T-shirt and looked down at her breasts. She kissed my cheek and ear as I caressed her breasts. Then I cupped one in my hand and bent down to kiss her nipple. Her hands came up to rub my hair again.
I pinched her nipple between my lips, released it and I lightly licked it. I ran my tongue around and across it, pressing my lips to her breast. Then I opened my mouth as wide as I could and sucked inside as much of her breast as would fit. She gasped her breath hot and moist on my ear.
I slowly closed my mouth and pushed her breast back out again, circling my head as I did so, tightening my lips across her skin, until just her nipple was caught between them. I ran my tongue back and forth across it, pressing it first against my top lip, then against my lower.
Her left hand was massaging the back of my neck, her other had a handful of my hair. She was looking down at me and I could feel her breath, fast and ragged, against the side of my face.
I looked up at her and smiled, then knelt in front of her and rubbed my nose against her belly button, brushing it through the light fuzz of hair that surrounded it, smiling at the tickles. Both her hands rested on my head, but she made no attempt to guide me.
Then I opened her belt and unbuttoned her jeans. I pulled them open and ran my nose down through the thickening hair until I reached her panties. I could smell she was aroused. I pushed my hands inside her jeans and felt her warm soft skin, with her firm muscles underneath. Leaving my head pressed against her abdomen I ran my hands down her legs pushing her jeans down and pulled them away as she stepped out of them.
Sitting back on my ankles I looked up at her again. At the T- shirt bunched up to expose her breasts and at her hair falling down around her face as she looked down at me. I reached up to pull her panties down, but she pushed my hands aside and knelt beside me with her legs together. I leaned forward, put my arms around and kissed her. She responded and we hugged each other close.
I was quite heated by this stage, so I sat back and unbuttoned my shirt. She ran her hands across my body as I slipped my arms out of the sleeves and tossed the shirt to one side. I was wearing a T-shirt underneath and I quickly pulled that off and tossed it aside as well. Her fingers plucked at the hairs on my chest.
I reached over to pull her T-shirt off, but she shook her head and whispered "No." So I put my arms around her again and we kissed.
Our tongues rolled around each other's and she leaned into me, one hand on my back, the other caressing one of my nipples. My right arm was around her, holding her close. And I brought my left hand down onto her breast again and massaged it in time to the thrusts of my tongue.
Then I slowly slid it down her body and slipped it between her legs. I ran my finger along her damp panties and felt her open lips underneath. I brought my hand back up and slipped my fingers under her panties and into her thick pubic hair.
She shifted against me and I moved around a fraction to support her with my right arm and get a slightly better angle for my left. Our tongues and lips still worked with each other, but my attention was focused on the finger tips of my left hand as they slipped through her hair and across her other lips.
Her legs opened wider and I ran my finger along the length of her slit and around the opening of her vagina. Our mouths separated and she rested her head against my shoulder. I could feel her warm skin against mine and her breath against my ear. I slipped the tip of my finger inside and began to rub my hand up and down.
She gasped and her breath began to come faster as I established a rhythm and then began to slowly increase it. She began to rock against me in time with my strokes and moaned as I pushed my finger further inside her. All my attention was focused on my fingers as they rubbed against her and on my ear as her hot breath poured over it. I could feel the weight of her against my arm and her rocking against me as only minor background events.
Then she tensed against me. Her body arching, her arms hugging me close and the muscles of her vagina squeezing closed around my finger. She let out one long last breath against my ear.
We stayed that way for a timeless moment. Then she relaxed again and reached down to pull my hand out of her panties.
She nuzzled my shoulder. I lay back and rested my shoulders against one of the armchairs. She settled on top of me, rubbing her cheek against my chest. I felt elated. I felt as if I glowed. This was almost better than coming myself. My orgasm is a known pleasure, sometimes great, sometimes not so great, yet always something within the normal range of my experiences. But I'd never felt this pleasure before. To hold Alexandra in my arms while she climaxed; to know that I'd made her come; to have had such an intimate exchange with her. It just blew my mind.
In fact, I suddenly realized, I wanted to do it again. I reached down and ran my fingers under her breast, rubbing her nipple with my thumb. She looked up lazily and slowly smiled. I leaned forward and she sat up so we could kiss.
Maybe I was still keyed up because I'd not come, but I rushed into it. I wanted to make her come again. I wanted to relive that thrill of excitement when she came. I pushed my hand back down into her panties. She froze her lips cold on mine. I leant back to ask her what the matter was. But before I could speak she took hold of my hand and pulled it away. I didn't know why, but I knew that I'd offended her.
She stood up and my hands were empty again.
"I think you'd better go now," she said.
I almost asked "Why?", but caught myself in time.
She sat on the end of the bed and pulled her jeans on, not looking at me.
I didn't understand why, but she'd asked me to leave so I thought I'd better go. I dressed quickly. We didn't say anything. We didn't look at each other.
She kissed my cheek as she handed me my coat. I put my arm around her waist and kissed her lips. She responded. And I thought, At least she's not angry with me.
"So do you want to do anything over the weekend?" I whispered.
She looked down. "I'm not sure I'll have time, Kevin." Then she stepped away from me. "I've got tennis coaching on Saturday, and I'm going stock car racing on Saturday night with my brother." She shrugged, "And then on Sunday I've got a tennis match against the girl who's ranked second in the club." She looked up at me, "So I really don't have the time."
"That's OK," I smiled at her as I put on my coat.
She smiled back for a moment, then turned to open the door for me.
At the door I put my arm around her and we kissed again. I hugged her and she snuggled into my embrace. I reached down and pressed my hand against her bottom, remembering the feel of her skin under my fingers. She brought her arms down between us. I stepped back my hands going to her hips.
"See you next Tuesday," she whispered.
"All right," I brought my hand up to her left breast and gave it one final squeeze and kissed her lightly. "See you then," I turned and walked out.
As I walked home I had a underlining dread that this was going to become routine. That somehow making love to Alexandra wasn't bringing us closer to each other as it should. That I'd end up walking home alone for the rest of my life. But then maybe this is just hindsight. At the time I was just ecstatic that she'd come in my arms again.


Chapter 4
---------

Over the next month we saw each other twice a week; at meetings of the Camera club, after which we'd go back to her flat and talk and I would make love to her. And we went out on dates on the first two Fridays and then on the Saturday of the following week. I was head-over-heels in love with her, or lusted after her, or was compulsively obsessed by her. My feelings were so intense that I can't really say what it was. But I do know that I thought of virtually nothing else but her and the taste of her kiss. The way her eyes sparkled when she laughed. How it felt to hold her in my arms, or even just to walk down the road holding her hand.
I lived to share my life with her, to spend every waking moment in her presence. I wanted to tell her everything about myself and learn everything about her. I wanted to totally possess her, and more important to be totally possessed by her. I wanted to live in the warmth of her love.
But yet, despite my best endeavors, every time I tried to realize my desires I ended up being frustrated. Every time I tried to talk to her about how I felt for her I became more confused. Every time I tried to get closer to her, I ended up feeling further away from her than ever. I was taking two steps back for every step I took forward.
I didn't understand, nor could I control, my feelings for her. Neither did I understand what her feelings for me were. She seemed to be saying one thing and doing the complete opposite. I was hopelessly lost in a sea of conflicting desires and incomprehensible reactions, both from her and from myself.
I wanted to totally process her, yet I wanted her to be free. I wanted to be totally possessed by her, yet I wanted to remain free. I wanted to crush her in my arms with all my strength, yet I was afraid that even the lightest touch would mar the perfection of her skin. I wanted to make her love me, yet I didn't want to coerce or trick her into loving me.
I was a mess. And I don't think I made a very good impression on her. Yet every time I saw her I was hooked worse than before. And she continued to see me. She continued to kiss and hug me. She let me make love to her. She gave me enough encouragement to let me pretend that she could love me. To let me fool myself into thinking that she did.
Maybe she did. Maybe her love for me was more genuine than mine for her. Maybe we were both totally confused.
All three dates followed a similar pattern. I'd phone her place on the Wednesday or Thursday, but she'd not be in when I called. I'd leave a message and she'd phone me from work the next day, because by the time she got in she felt it was too late to call me back. We'd arrange to meet in O'Connell St. outside Easons at about a quarter past eight. I'd arrive about ten or fifteen minutes early. She'd arrive about ten or fifteen minutes late. I'd spent half hour fretting about whether or not she'd turn up, impatient to see her again. She'd arrive all bright and breezy and once again take my breath away with her beauty and grace.
We'd have a quick drink and go to a movie. Two light hearted Hollywood blockbusters and another French comedy. I'd have my arm around her during the film, smelling her perfume and feeling the heat of her body, while the hormones raced through my blood stream. Afterwards we'd go for a cup of coffee and then back to her place. Where we'd kiss and cuddle and I'd masturbate her. Then she'd ask me to leave and I'd end up even more frustrated and confused.
And in between all that we talked, about all sorts of things.
We talked about the movies we'd seen and discovered that we liked the same things, though for completely different reasons. We talked about the best movies we'd ever seen and what we liked most about them. We liked the same movies. Though in one I'd particularly like the plot twist at the end, but she'd think it was the character development made it. And in another I'd think it was the stunning photography that made it, but she'd think it was the in-depth plot. We talked about the worst movies we'd seen and complained about the direction, or the inane script, or the pathetic jokes.
I told her all about my writing. How I was planning on being an international best-selling author. How I had given up a good job, with an inflated salary, in a city of London merchant bank to write a SF novel. She didn't believe me, but she was not alone. Most people can't believe that I gave up a job earning the amount of money that I did in order to become what society calls unemployed.
I explained to her my passion for science fiction and computer games and how I had to avoid games and book shops so I didn't blow my life savings all in one go, rather than trying to use it to eke out a life until I got my big break. (I failed!)
She told me about her passion for tennis. And how she planned to work her way up the rankings of the club she'd just joined. That she loved the thrill of competition and was really quite a competitive person in all aspects of her life.
She described her work and told stories about the people she worked with. She loved making fun of her boss. Some of the things she told me made me glad that I no longer worked in a office. I had had my fill of politics and back biting.
We talked about photography. Since we'd met in a camera club it was obviously something we had in common. She had just taken it up as a hobby and her enthusiasm reminded me of how I used to feel when I first caught the bug in my early teens. I tried to explain something of what I'd learnt over the years, but I felt as if I was patronizing her so I stopped.
And all the while I was trying to persuade her that I really loved her. I was holding back my passion, trying not to push her too hard, trying to build up her trust in me. Yet the taste and smell and feel of her in my arms marked the highlights of my relationship with her. I made love to her because I loved her. And I wanted nothing back, but what she could give me.
And yet I did. I wanted her to make love to me. It was natural enough that I should want to come as well. But more than that I wanted her to love me. I wanted her to worship me the way I worshipped her. I wanted her to desire me. I wanted her to make me whole.
But I also wanted to prove to her that I wanted more than carnal pleasure from her. I wanted to share my life with her. I wanted to go to sleep with her in my arms and wake up beside her. I wanted to eat with her. I wanted to live with her. I wanted to get to know everything there was to know about her. And I wanted her to know everything there was to know about me.
So I didn't insist that she return the complement every time I made love to her. So I didn't demand to know why she left me frustrated and alone at the end of every date. Firstly because I didn't want to appear as if I was begging for it. Because I felt that if we were engaged in some sort of fucked up power struggle that she would have won a victory over me.
Secondly I didn't want to acknowledge that it was that important to me. I didn't want her to think I was ruled by my balls. And I didn't want to admit to myself that I was just lusting after her. In some weird way I was proving to myself that I really loved her by not forcing her to do anything that she didn't want to do.
And thirdly I didn't want to appear as if I was blackmailing her, a sort of I'm not going to make love to you until you agree to make love to me, because she might have called my bluff. And I wanted to make love to her so badly that I couldn't risk not being able to.
So every night I made love to her and every night she sent me home frustrated. I didn't even unzip my jeans to remind her that I was getting aroused and would have liked something done about it. Until on the forth date when I finally managed to ask her to return the complement.
I was lying on my back. She lay across my stomach. Her arm across my chest her head resting on top, with her legs curled up under my left arm, as she relaxed in the afterglow of her orgasm.
My right hand was under my head and with my left I was caressing her thigh. "So are you going to give me a blow job, then?" I asked softly.
She looked up at me and smiled. "No," she giggled, “of course not."
And that was it. I didn't want to make her do it, I wanted her to want to do it. And I didn't want to argue with her. I didn't ask her why. It made no difference why. Oh I'd like to have known. But I didn't think I could ask her to explain without her thinking that I was trying to argue her into doing it. The fact she didn't want to do it was enough for me.
I wanted her to want to love me the way that I wanted to love her. But she didn't and even then I think some part of me realized that she would never let me love her the way I really wanted to.
And yet the problem of sex still bothered me. I thought I was head over heels in love with her. And I thought I was expressing the depth of my love by making love to her, by trying to please her, by giving her pleasure. Oh I enjoyed it as well, I wouldn't have done it if I hadn't. But I was getting no feedback from her. When I told her that I loved her she would just smile, or kiss me or some such. And when I made love to her she wouldn't respond. I mean she'd respond to my love making, but she wouldn't actively make love back to me.
So how was I expected to know how she felt about me. If she didn't love me would she let me make love to her? Yet if she did love me why wouldn't she make love to me? I didn't know if it was because she really didn't know how or she just wasn't bothered. And yet I got a real kick out of making love to her. Was it just that the excitement of the physical acts made it that much easier to pretend about the emotions behind it?
Maybe she really loved me and she was just too shy and inexperienced and repressed by her Catholic upbringing to be able to admit it, to either herself or to me. And then again maybe she really was just using me. Maybe I was just being the gullible fool that I normally am. The truth was that I didn't know. I couldn't figure out how she felt. And I couldn't get her to tell me. And to be completely honest I really didn't know how I felt myself. I was knocked totally off balance by the ferocity of my desire for her.
I was in a right mess. I loved making love to Alexandra. I loved making her come. It didn't bother me in the least that we weren't having what might be called "normal" sexual intercourse, That is, the penetration of her vagina with my penis. Using my fingers was enough for me.
Yet it did bother me that she didn't make me come. That she didn't seem to want to make me come. And it bothered me that she wouldn't sleep with me. I mean that in the literal sense, that is to curl up and go to sleep in the same bed. Or even let me sleep on her floor. To have to get and leave after having sex seemed like rejection to me.
It all boiled down to this. If we were just going to have a casual relationship, then surely I should be entitled to get some enjoyment out of it. But yet if we were going to have a serious deeply committed relationship then why wouldn't she talk to me about it. Either way I was beginning to feel used and abused by the current situation.
It shows the measure of my confusion that it was over a month before I thought of contraception. One Wednesday afternoon it suddenly dawned on me. Obviously she didn't want to have straight sex with me because she didn't want to get pregnant. So buy some condoms and then we can ride all night long. It further shows the measure of my confusion that fear of pregnancy didn't explain why she wouldn't give me head or masturbate me. Perhaps I thought she didn't want to cause a mess on her carpet.
It was only much later that I thought of Aids. I recently discovered that some teachers use fear to discourage teenagers from having sex. Fear of pregnancy, fear that some future husband won't respect you because you aren't a virgin, fear that you'll catch some deadly diseases. And now the deadliest of them all, Aids. (With no known cure at time of writing.)
Anyway, going to the chemist and buying the condoms proved a lot less embarrassing than I'd thought it would. It was my first time and like all things the first time can be a bit nerve racking. But it was quite simple. I just walked into the shop and asked the assistant if they sold condoms. She smiled and said "Yes. There they are." and pointed to the display I was standing in front of. I looked down and found myself confronted by an array of half familiar names. I did a quick scan and selected, almost at random, a packet. I handed over my money and she put the packet into a paper bag before handing it to me, along with my change. And that was that.
Now all I had to do was talk to Alexandra about using them.
I decided to ask her after the next time I made love to her. It was after our next date. We were lying half naked on the floor of her flat. She was lying across me wearing just a T-shirt and panties. I had on just my jeans and underpants. I could feel her breath on my skin as I caressed the back of her head with my right hand. The fingers of my left were still damp from being inside her.
"So would you let me use my penis if I had a condom on?" I asked.
"What?" she looked up.
"Would it be OK if I used a condom?" I repeated.
She sat up. "Why would you want to use a condom?" she didn't look at me.
I thought for a second, unsure what she meant then decided to interpret her question literally . "So you won't get pregnant and so we'll not pass any diseases to each other."
She stood up, "I think you'd better go now." She walked to her closet and put on her robe.
I watched her move and thought how beautiful she was. One part of me wanted to call her a fucked up little bitch, but the other couldn't get over how beautiful she was. So I got up and got dressed, after once again being fucked.
At the door I stopped and kissed her. I'd meant to walk out without doing so, but she was still irresistible. Once my lips were on her's, my arms went around her automatically and I ended up hugging her tightly, ever so tightly. She hugged me back and I was in heaven for those few minutes. Then she stepped back.
My hand went to her breast again. I could feel her nipple through the silk of her robe and the cotton of her T-shirt. "See you next week at the club?" I asked.
"Yes," she said and kissed my cheek.
I turned and walked out and didn't see her for another month.


Chapter 5
---------

It wasn't that I didn't want to see her, or that I avoided her, it was just that she was out every time I phoned and didn't show up at the camera club. I even called around to her flat a couple of times, but there was no answer.
At first it didn't cause me any concern. She didn't come to the camera club the following Tuesday, but while I was disappointed it was nothing unusual. I mean it isn't compulsory to attend every meeting. And when I phoned on the Thursday and she wasn't in, again that was quite normal. She didn't phone me from work on the Friday as she usually did and then I started to worry, but not very much. I phoned her back on Friday night, but she was out. It was no great surprise, Alexandra was not the type of girl you'd expect to be in on a Friday night.
But when she didn't phone me back on Saturday and was out both times I phoned her, I realized that the bitch had gone away for the weekend without bothering to tell me. Great! I thought, here was I hanging around all Friday and Saturday not doing anything because I was waiting to arrange to do something with her and she'd disappeared without a second thought. I was livid. I couldn't wait to get to the club on Tuesday to tell her what I thought of that.
But, of course, she didn't show up. Neither did she bother to return my calls the next day. Or the day after. Or the day after that. So Saturday afternoon I went around to her flat to really give her a piece of my mind. But there was no answer. She wasn't home. Had she gone away two weekends in a row? Without bothering tell me either time. Just to be sure I called back later, and again on Sunday. But there was still no answer.
By this stage my anger had evaporated and a state of shock had set in. I was exceedingly nervous about showing up at the club on Tuesday. I didn't know what to make of her behavior, nor how I should react. I was even more frightened by how I might react if my anger resurfaced. But I decided that staying away would not be any better.
As it turned out all my anxiety and worry was for nothing, because she didn't show. I must have walked around in a daze for the next day or so. I didn't know how to react. She'd obviously dumped me. And because she hadn't had the decency to tell me to my face I didn't quite know why, though I strongly suspected that it had something to do with our last date. But neither did I have a chance to vent my anger at her. She'd just disappeared from my life. I couldn't say or do anything about it. One more frustration to end our relationship with.
Then I realized that tomorrow was Friday and I developed this irrational fear that she'd phone me up. I walked around in dread for the rest of the day. Half the time telling myself that as she'd dumped me she wasn't likely to phone me ever again. The other thinking that as she hadn't "officially" dumped me, that is told me to my face, maybe she'd change her mind and decide to go out with me again. I was scared shitless! What was I going to do?
Then I came to my senses. She was avoiding me, not me her, I had nothing to fear from meeting her again, she was the one with all the explaining to do, not me! She was the one who'd walked out on me. If I ever met her again I was just going to play it cool, as if nothing had ever happened between us.
I told myself this repeatedly over the next few weeks, slowly adjusting to the fact that Alexandra really didn't love me. That I'd have to find someone else to share my life and raise a family with. But it was still pretty depressing.
Then she showed up in the club one Tuesday night. I'd arrived late for the meeting and found a seat at the back. The lecturer was showing slides so it was dark and all I could make out of the people around me were vague shadows. But a few minutes after I'd arrived I recognized the shape of the head in front of me. I thought, that's Alexandra. Then I thought, no it can't be. But my heart was already beating faster.
I couldn't concentrate on the lecture. Which was a pity, because it was by a guy who'd taken photos while pot-holing. He'd used all sorts of intricate combinations of lights and flash guns to illuminate some fantastic rock formations he'd discovered underground. But I couldn't focus on what he was saying. All I could think of was that Alexandra was sitting in front of me. I could smell her perfume and the memories of our love making came flooding back to me.
When the lecture was over she turned around in her seat and noticed me. "Hi," she smiled. "Long time no see, stranger."
I opened my mouth to respond, but my mind went blank. I'd fallen in love with her, she'd treated me with contempt, then dumped me without a word of explanation, and now she was acting as if we were casual acquaintances who'd not seen each other for a few days.
"So what have you been up to while I was away?" she asked.
"You where away?" I didn't know what to say.
"Yeah," she smiled again. "Don't tell me you didn't notice."
"Oh, I noticed all right," I replied. "I just wish you'd bothered to tell me about it before hand."
"Sorry?" she stopped smiling.
"I missed you," I said. I thought, If I make a fuss about her disappearing will she get offended and walk out on me for good? I couldn't risk it. I'd have to show the true strength of my love for her by accepting her back and loving her even more.
She smiled back, then looked down. "I missed you, as well," she whispered.
My heart jumped. I reached up and stroked her cheek. She looked up and I went weak at the knees as our eyes met. I cleared my throat to say something, but lent forward to kiss her instead.
Once again we ended up in her place again. And once again I caressed and stroked her. Once again she kissed and hugged me back. Once again I kissed and licked and sucked her, ran my hands all over her body, gloried in our physical intimacy. Once again I was sure of my love for her.
And once again, when I'd made her come, she asked me to leave without returning the compliment. Once again we could have sex, but I couldn't sleep with her. Once again I'd told her that I loved her and once again I felt rejected even though she'd not rejected me.
So there I was left wondering what she felt for me. Could I love someone who didn't love me? Could she love me and treat me with what I was increasingly calling contempt? Was I just an easy lay to her or did she have stronger feelings for me? Would this uncertainty ever end? Could I ever love her properly and know that she loved me back?
And then it was Friday night and once again I was standing outside Easons wondering if Alexandra would turn up. A month before I had been wondering if I was going to spend the rest of my Friday nights standing here waiting for her and just the week before I'd thought I'd never have to do it again. But there I was once more, waiting for her to pop out of the crowd.
I was saying to myself, I don't know why I agreed to see her again. She obviously doesn't love me. I'm just going to be hurt again. She's just going to fuck me about again. I should be old enough to know better by now. I should just go home now and forget about her.
But I didn't. Looking back I suppose I was trying to be noble, to take the moral high ground, to prove myself better than her by treating her decently, even while she used and abused me. But more importantly I couldn't forget the feel of her in my arms. The taste of her when I made love to her, the thrill of making her come, the smell from my fingers that would linger for days.
And then she was there, walking towards me through the crowd, a smile on her face as she saw me. She was wearing a long black skirt, and black leather boots. On top of which she had a chunky wool cardigan, black with green flecks through it. Her long black hair was tied back in a pony tail with a red ribbon. And her green eyes shone out at me.
"Hi," she said as she stopped beside me.
My mouth was dry, but I managed to respond. "Hi," I smiled back, my heart beating faster, my balls tightening at the thought of making love to her.
Once again we had a nice pleasant evening out. We had a drink, saw a movie and went to Bewley's for coffee afterwards. All the time we chatted about this and that, about photography and movies, about work and shopping, about her tennis and my writing. About almost everything, but what I most wanted to talk about, what I felt for her, and what she felt for me.
It wasn't until we were on our way back to her place that I managed to get around to bringing up the subject. But once again my frustration worked its way to the fore.
"So what does us having sex mean to you?" I asked.
"Sex?" she almost laughed. "Where was I when we had sex?"
"What do you mean," I was astonished. "We had sex on our first date." I added quickly, "And most dates since."
"What?" she seemed surprised.
"When we made love," I explained.
"Oh, that," she smiled. "That wasn't sex."
"OK" I took a breath to control my anger. "So if it wasn't sex what was it?"
"It was..." she searched for words. "... just foreplay."
It was damn well just foreplay for me, Bitch! I glared at her as the thought burned through my mind. You made dam sure it was nothing more.
She smiled, and I wanted to smash her face in.
"What made you think it was sex?" she asked.
I fought to keep myself under control. "I made love to you and you fucking came, that's what made it sex."
"No, Kevin," she smiled as she gently shook her head.
I was humiliated. To have made love to her. To have worshipped her. To have given her the greatest pleasure I could. The greatest pleasure she'd let me anyway. And to have her dismiss it as something totally trivial. Something she'd almost overlooked. I was shaken to the core. To have put her in such a central position in my life and to have her regard me as something so inconsequential was devastating.
One part of me knew that this was just what she wanted me to feel. That this was all part of some perverted scheme she had. And another part of me knew that she really loved me. That I couldn't make love to somebody, and have her react to me the way she did, and not have her fall in love with me. That surely nobody could open themselves' physically without exposing themselves' emotionally as well. That sex couldn't be meaningless to her.
The two thoughts combined to make me believe that she was rebelling against her love for me. That she couldn't accept that she loved me, or that I loved her. That somehow she couldn't trust her own emotions. So that on the one hand she was drawn to me and let me make love to her. But on the other she couldn't accept that our feelings for each other were valid. She couldn't respond to me in the way that I wanted, simply because I'd told her that was how I wanted her to respond.
Then the notion of sin came to me. She'd told me that she was a Catholic, that she went to mass every Sunday. And I thought that she probably couldn't admit that she was having sex with me, because having sex was a sin. That she had reasoned that if I didn't penetrate her vagina with my penis, that if I didn't come, that it mustn't be sex. And the safest way to ensure that was to ignore my penis altogether, to make sure that I didn't come. A sort of homemade version of "Safe Sex" for repressed Catholics.
We continued back to her place, but when we got to the door she stopped and turned to me.
"I not going to invite you in tonight, Kevin," she looked down.
"Oh," I said, wanting to ask why, but knowing it would only start an argument if I did. "OK," I shrugged.
She put her arms around my neck and we kissed. I put my arms around her and hugged. She stepped back and turned to unlock the door. I started back down the garden.
"See you next week at the club," she said.
"Yeah," I replied. "See you then." Wondering if I would or not. I made my lonely way home.
Looking back on my relationship with her I realize that one of my biggest mistakes might have been that I'd usually asked her those "tricky" questions after she'd come, when for all intents and purposes she seemed to have no further interest in me. Maybe if I'd asked her beforehand she'd have been more interested in talking to me about them. But then I'd have run the risk of having an argument with her and not getting a chance to make love to her. And I'd wanted to make love to her so badly. Maybe I had only been interested in "having my evil way" with her after all.
But yet we'd not really argued this time and still she hadn't invited me inside.
So maybe I should have pushed her into arguments more often. Maybe then she'd have believed how important those things had been to me. But then I had told her how I'd felt and she'd just not believed me. And I feel now as I felt then that if the only way I could make her accept what I told her I felt was what I truly did feel was by having an argument with her, then she wasn't worth the bother needed to convince her. I guess it was the sin of pride that made me unable to plead and beg for understanding.
But the next time we made love I was going to make dam sure she didn't ignore my penis.
She didn't actually turn up at the next meeting of the Camera Club, which didn't surprise me. By this stage I knew that if she said she'd see me at the Club than she'd not turn up. But what did surprise me was that she was in when I phoned her the next Thursday. So I arranged to meet her the following day, at the same time and place.
Once again she took my breath away when she arrived, so I didn't mind having stood there for twenty minutes waiting for her. We went to see some Hollywood blockbuster. I can't remember which one it was, but the smell of her perfume and the feel of her snuggling against my shoulder for over an hour gave me a pleasant hormonal buzz. And when we came out of the cinema we headed straight back to her place.
By this stage we'd made love often enough for the thrill of discovery to be somewhat abated. It was still exciting to make love, but we had started to develop regular habits and favorite positions. One of my favorite to this day is me lying on my back with her on top, one breast in my mouth, a hand on the other, with my other hand stretched down to caress her to orgasm.
But this time I tried to encourage her to take a more active interest in my. I wanted her hands to caress me to orgasm as well. So when we started to make love I deliberately put her hand to my crotch so she could feel the bulge of my erection through my jeans. I encouraged her to stroke and caress me. I got completely naked, even though she only stripped to T-shirt and panties.
And when she took her hand from my genitals I took mine from her's, though we continued to kiss and rub each other. She put her hand back on my penis and I slipped my fingers back into her vagina. We had a long slow delicious session, slowly building up to a climax.
We started off fully clothed leaning against one of the arm chairs. Then we where half naked lying on the floor, first her on top of me, then me on top of her, then her on top again. It must have taken us over half an hour just to strip. All the time we were kissing and cuddling and caressing each other.
By the time I was completely naked we were both more than ready to come. We were on the floor. I was sitting between her legs leaning forward to kiss her. She was resting back on one arm, her other hand on my penis. Her T-shirt was pulled up and her breast was in my mouth, nipple hard against my tongue. Her hand rubbed gently across the tip of my erection, much too gently to make me come, but more than enough to stimulate me.
My fingers once again found their way to her vagina. She was wide open and hot. And I just couldn't help myself. I couldn't deny her orgasm. It was one thing if I'd tried and failed, but I was much too experienced for that. I knew what to do, and I really couldn't help myself. My fingers found their own way across and around and inside. I pumped her for a few timeless moments, then she shuddered and gasped and came.
When she'd relaxed and I'd taken my fingers out I realized that her hand was no longer on my penis. She'd brought it down to push my fingers away. I leant back on my elbow, expecting her to resume her caresses. But instead she stood up and walked out into the bathroom. I was left reclined on the floor, with an erection, wondering what the hell I was supposed to do now.
This was worst then being ignored completely, to have been aroused. To have her acknowledge my arousal, even stimulate and encourage it. And then for her to just walk away from it was... well unbelievable. Yet she'd done it. I was living through it. I didn't want to believe it. Yet it had happened. I couldn't ignore it. I was in a state of complete and utter shock.
What was I supposed to do? Rush into the bathroom and rape her! I tell you I nearly did. Much as I hate to admit it, I nearly fucking raped her. And I'm sure there's not a court in the land that would have convicted me of the crime either.
But I am not an animal. I am not ruled by my hormones. I was not so frustrated and degraded that I'd lost control of my actions. I was devastated, yes. But I was not going to exact any revenge on her. I was not going to stoop to her level. I wasn't going to start playing her fucked up little games. So I started to get dressed.
As I was tucking my T-shirt into my jeans she came out of the bathroom. "Oh, are you leaving," she seemed genuinely surprised.
I said nothing. Just sat on the end of her bed and pulled on my shoes. She sat beside me. I put my hand on her knee. Then moved it up and squeezed her thigh. I looked at her. I wanted to say so many things: that I loved her, that I wanted her, that I needed her, that I worshipped her, that I wanted so much to understand her, wanted so much to reach her. I wanted just once to believe that we'd really understood each other. But I couldn't.
So instead I slid off the bed onto the floor in front of her. She brought her knees together, so I kissed and licked them, working my way up her thighs. I wanted to grab her and make mad passionate love to her. For her to respond and embrace me, open her legs and let me come inside her, to forget everything else and unite us in an act of total surrender to each other.
But she pulled my head away and smiled down at me. "You're lively tonight," she whispered, kissing my forehead. "But I think you've really had enough."
I looked up at her, my hands on her thighs, her hands pressing against my ears as she held my head away. I opened my mouth, but I couldn't say anything. I swallowed, but still couldn't speak. So I looked down and nodded.
"Come on," she stood up and got my coat from the back of the door.
I stood up and put it on. She opened the door to let me out. I stood in front of her for a moment. Then she was in my arms. My face was buried in her hair, pressing against the side of her neck and her shoulder. My hands caressed her hips and back through the cotton of her T-shirt. Then my left hand was underneath, pressing her panties into the crack between her buttocks, my fingers reaching down and around to caress her.
She stepped back and pushed me away. "My, you're spunky tonight," she smiled and kissed my cheek. "See you next week."
"Yeah," I replied, my hand gently cupping her breast. "See you next week."
Then I was outside, walking away, with the door closing behind me.
On the next date I decided to try another tack. Instead of going straight to the cinema I suggested we go for a drink first. Once we were settled at a table with our drinks I tried to talk to her about how I felt for her, how she felt for me and what type of relationship she wanted us to have. But instead I found myself talking to her about sex. Why couldn't I talk to her about love without mentioning sex? It was as if my desire for her was so strong and I was so frustrated, after having my hopes raised and dashed so often, that all my energies seemed to be channeled into lustful thoughts.
But she had no qualms about talking about sex, just as long as the conversation didn't get too personal. And I didn't say anything that she could interpret as either asking to have sex with her or implying that we were having sex.
I can't remember what strange twists and turns our conversation must have taken during our first drink, but half way through our second we ended up talking about masturbation.
"So what would you tell your twelve year old son if you found him masturbating?" I took a sip of my drink.
"Well..." I felt she was going to just shrug it off, but she didn't. "I'd tell him what it was all about. What it was for."
Visions of her inaptness at doing anything for me came to mind and I wondered how she was going to tell her son how to masturbate properly. I doubted if she knew that there was more than one technique. So I asked, "What do you mean?"
"You know," she smiled, "about the birds and the bees."
I wanted to explain to her that I meant if she had discovered him masturbating after he'd been told about the birds and the bees. I wanted to know if she would tell him that it was a sin and that he shouldn't do it. But I felt that the guy sitting at the end of the next table was beginning to take an interest in our conversation and I didn't want to discuss this in front of an audience.
I decided to change the conversation again. Most people in Ireland, regardless of religious or political persuasion, believe that the sex education in Irish schools is inadequate. Though when it comes to the question of what should be done to improve it opinions differ widely. Which is probably why so little has been done about improving the situation.
"Well I'm glad you'd tell him," I smiled, "because if you left it up to the schools he'd not find out about anything."
She seemed surprised. "Oh, I don't know," she said. "We had very good sex education classes in our school."
"I thought you went to a nun's school," I said.
"I did," she nodded.
"And they had sex education classes?" I didn't believe it.
"Of course," she smiled. "Didn't you have them?"
"All the priests told us was that it was immoral to masturbate. And that you shouldn't get your passions inflamed as it might to be difficult to control them and you'd end up getting a girl into trouble," I smiled then at how silly it had seemed. But when I think now of the stupidity of it makes me so angry.
She laughed with me. "Really?" she asked.
"Really," I stopped laughing.
"We were taught all about sex," she said.
"By the nuns?" The thought of a nun being explicit about sex was incredible.
"Well it was a lay teacher that gave the classes," she conceded. "But the nuns must have known what she was teaching us."
"What?" I asked. "All about contraception and how to make love, or even masturbate."
"Don't be disgusting, Kevin," She looked away.
"Disgusting?" I smiled. "Which one of those was disgusting?" I thought, you sure find the thought of making love to me disgusting.
"They don't teach you that sort of thing in school," she said.
"I know," I replied. "I went to school as well."
There was silence for a moment. "So where are you supposed to learn about that sort of thing if they don't teach you in school?" I asked.
"Well," she replied. "Where did you learn about it?"
"From books and magazines," I said, "and late night television programs." I smiled, "Particularly channel Four."
We laughed. And I noticed she'd finished her drink.
"Do you want another?" I asked.
"No, Kevin," she shook her head. "I have to make an early start in the morning, so I think it's time I headed home."
"OK" I knocked back the remains of my pint while she put on her coat. I think she was going to leave without me, but when she saw me putting on my coat she waited for me.
We walked back down towards O'Connell St. I thought that we'd be going back to her place as usual. But she stopped and took hold of my arm.
"Listen," she said. "There's just enough time for you to catch your last bus home. Isn't there?"
I shrugged, "Yeah. The stop is just down the road. The last bus isn't due to leave for another half hour."
"Well," she hesitated. "It's just that I have to get up early in the morning to catch a bus home," she looked down. "So I don't think that you'd better come back with me tonight."
I felt a familiar disappointment. "OK," I said. What else could I say. "So you're going away for the rest of the weekend, then."
"Yes," she looked up, but offered no other explanation.
I put my arms around her and leaned forward to kiss her. She kissed me quickly and stepped away.
"I'll see you then," she said. Then she looked down again. "You know it was a very interesting conversation we had tonight," she turned and hurried away.
And left me with a lot to think about. I'd certainly achieved my goal of finding more about what she thought of sex. But I'd failed miserably in finding out just what she felt about me. I had this unshakeable believe that she didn't know how she felt about me. That she was unwilling to look at our relationship and decide what she felt about me. Because if she knew she'd surely tell me.
But at least I now knew some more about her attitude to sex. It was no wonder she knew fuck all about sex. If she thought what the nuns were likely to have told her was all there is to know she must have been in a bad state. I don't mean that they wouldn't have taught her anything. I'm sure that she knew a lot more about menstrual cycles, gestation periods and even genetics than I did. But I'm equally sure that she knew little about contraception. And she definitely knew nothing about making love.
And she didn't seem to have come to terms with the guilt of wanting sex yet. I know that guilt. I was raised as a Catholic. And even now I'm not sure that I've come to terms with the guilt that was instilled in me at having normal feelings and emotions.
So I spent the next few weeks thinking, the poor little kid, feeling all these desires that she was not supposed to have. Not knowing what to do with them and so repressing them. No wonder she couldn't make up her mind if she wanted to have sex or not. Or rather, that she wanted to have sex, but she couldn't admit it, least of all to herself.
And all the time I ignored all the trouble I was having with my own uncontrollable desires. Ironic justice perhaps?


Chapter 6
---------

The next week I phoned her as usual on the Thursday night. But she wasn't in. So I left a message and waited once again for her to phone me back. About five on Friday I phoned her again and left a message, thinking that she would get it when she came in from work. Saturday morning I phoned and left another message, but my hopes were low. I figured that she'd gone away for the weekend again. She didn't phone me back that weekend and she didn't turn up at the Camera Club on Tuesday either.
So next Thursday I phoned again, after ten thirty so there was plenty of time for her to have gotten home from her classes. But once again she wasn't in and I left a message for her. On Friday I phoned and left another message. And another on Saturday. When she didn't turn up at the Camera Club that week or the next, I realized that she'd really disappeared for good. I was sorry that she hadn't had the decency to tell me to my face. But that was probably just because I wanted to scream and shout at her to relieve my anger and frustration. But I still found myself dreaming about her every night.
Then a month later she turned up at the Camera Club again. After an unexplained absence of six weeks she walked back into my life.
The club meeting was the judging of the summer competition. The judge had just held up the first of my prints and had started to comment about it when she walked in. I didn't hear a word he said. All my being was focused on the fact that Alexandra was once again in the same room as me.
I'd half thought, really hopped, that she wouldn't attend the Camera Club, that if she hadn't the courage to face me when she'd dumped me that she wouldn't want to face me ever again. Yet the fact that I knew where she lived burned in the back of my mind. And I knew that someday I'd have gone to her flat to face her again.
Now she'd come to me, but in a place where I'd not want to make a scene. Perhaps it was better that way. It'd only hurt to say the things that I'd have ended up saying in private.
The next hour is a haze. As the judge made comment after comment about all the photos entered in the competition I found my eyes constantly straying to look at Alexandra. I'd snap them back and refocus on the print the judge was discussing, but I'd not be able to concentrate on what he was saying. I would try to listen to his words and find my eyes once again on Alexandra.
As soon as the meeting was over I left the main room. I was sweating and my knees were trembling. I went straight upstairs to get some coffee and steady my nerves before Alexandra could engage me in conversation. There was all the normal chit-chat going on among my fellow members of the club, but it all went straight past me. I knew that she was going to follow me up and I knew that she'd talk to me.
The top floor of the club’s building had a little room at the rear fitted out as a kitchen and a larger room at the front with a mismatched assortment of tables and chairs donated by members. I was on autopilot as I got my coffee and walked into the front room to sit at a table alone. I had just sat down and taken my first sip of coffee when she walked in. She hadn't gone into the back room to get some coffee first, she'd walked straight in to see me.
"Hi," she said in that soft whisper of a voice that even the memory of can still send shivers down my spine.
"Hi," my voice nearly broke.
"Did we have a fight or something?" she stood beside me.
"What?" there was a strange ringing in my ears.
"You haven't phoned and didn't come to talk to me downstairs," she seemed somewhat puzzled.
My heart must have been doing 120 or more, "No, we didn't have a fight." I swallowed, "I did phone, but you never answered any of my messages."
"Oh," she smiled and sat down. "That was because I was on holiday in Spain."
My heart skipped a beat as two thoughts flared simultaneously in my brain. "She hadn't dumped me after all!" and "She'd gone on holiday without telling me she was going." "She loves me", followed by, "She thinks so little of me that she didn't even bother to tell me she was going on holiday."
I looked down. "Where did you go to?" was all I could think of saying.
"To Madrid and Santander and Avila," she smiled her excitement of the fantastic things she'd seen. "The cathedrals and castles were magnificent."
"I'm glad that you enjoyed it," I cut into her excitement. "Only sorry that you didn't bother to tell me you were going."
She stopped. "Of course I told you," she looked at me.
"The last time I saw you was six weeks ago," I stated. "And the last thing you said to me then was 'see you next Tuesday at the Club'." I shrugged, "I didn't see you till tonight."
She seemed sorry. "Oh that's right," she explained. "I went away for the few weekends before going to Spain. I guess I didn't get to see you then."
Derek and Paul came in with their coffee. Paul split a knowing look between me and Alexandra, but didn't say anything.
"Congratulations, Kevin," Derek beamed. "So you finally beat me."
"Well that's because we finally got a judge that wasn't satisfied by 'Pretty pictures'," I replied smiling, happy to have something else to think about beside Alexandra.
"'Pretty pictures' my foot," Derek put his cup down on the table and sat beside me. "It was because you finally took one that was in focus," he smiled.
"After all those soft-focus, 'Candy box' shots of flowers you did last year!" I replied. "You've got some nerve."
"So, where have you been for the last while, Alexandra?" Paul asked. "I haven't seen you at the Club for weeks."
"Oh," she beamed. "I've been on holiday in Spain."
"Really," he smiled back. "Where did you go?"
Smiling she launched into a graphic description of her holiday. Paul encouraged her by saying that he'd been there a few years ago and they compared a couple of places that they both been to. Then somebody else said that his sister had married a Spaniard and that he'd stayed with her for two weeks at the beginning of the year. And he detailed all the famous places he'd been. Then the conversation turned to holidays in general. And, it being a photographic club, to the trials and tribulations of taking photos on holiday.
And all the time I sat there, while the conversation lapped around me, wanting to take Alexandra by the scruff of the neck and demand an explanation of why she'd just disappeared from my life, why she'd gone on holiday and not even sent me a post card? To beat out of her what she felt for me. To demand an explanation of why she treated me the why she did!
But I couldn't say anything here. I couldn't make a scene in front of everyone. I didn't want to make a scene, because I didn't think an argument would solve anything. I just wanted to talk to her.
As the conversation faded and people started to leave I turned to her and asked softly, "Do you fancy a drink?"
"OK" she shrugged.
I stood and said "See you later," to the guys.
"Cheers."
"Goodbye."
"G'luck."
Alexandra nodded her goodbyes and followed me out.
As we walked out of the club she started to turn left towards the pub we normally go to after meetings. But I didn't want to be with her in the middle of a crowd again. I needed somewhere we could talk. Somewhere I could tell her what I felt about her.
I put my hand on her arm. "Let's go to Ryan's," I suggested. "It's just up the road and we can talk there."
"Sure," she turned to follow me.
When we got to the pub I discovered that instead of being a quite, sleepy little place, as it had been on the previous occasions I'd been there, it was jammed full of people. We made our way to the bar and I noticed a couple of free stools at a table in the corner.
"See if those are free," I nodded towards them. "And I'll get you a drink."
"Great," she replied over the noise of the crowd. "I'll have a glass of Guinness." And turned to make her way across to the stools.
I got the drinks and followed her over.
As I sat beside her most of the people broke out into a rousing chorus of "Happy Birthday" to Linda, making conversation impossible.
"Linda sure has a lot of friends," I smiled at Alexandra as soon as they'd finished.
"Yes," she smiled back. "It's great, isn't it?"
"Yes," I smiled back. Really great! I thought, I come here for a heart to heart with you and end up in the middle of a birthday party.
We didn't say much to each other for the next fifteen minutes. Just sat and drank and chatted about photography. All the time I was putting off raising the matter that most bothered me. But eventually I spit it out.
"So why did you disappear on me for six weeks?" I asked.
"Sorry?" she seemed somewhat stunned at the sudden in my tone of voice.
I calmed down a little, "So why did you disappear on me for six weeks." I looked at her, "As far as I knew you'd just dumped me and hadn't the decency to tell me to my face."
"Oh," she said. "Is that why you didn't want to talk to me in the club?"
"No," I got angry at the suggestion that it was ever me that didn't want to talk, when it was her that refused to tell me anything of her feelings, either positive or negative, for me. "That's why I wanted to talk to you somewhere that we could have a private," I gestured at the crowd around us. "Or at least semi-private conversation, away from all my friends and acquaintances at the Club."
"Oh," she repeated.
I waited for to say something more, but after a few moments she looked down and took a sip from her drink.
"Is that all you have to say?" I asked.
"Well I don't know what you want me to say," she replied.
"What I want you to say?" I didn't want her to say anything. I wanted her to talk to me. I wanted to understand her. I wanted to know what she felt for me. I wanted her to understand what I felt for her. This wasn't just some game with set phases we were supposed to say to each other. This was supposed to be a conversation. Preferably an open and honest conversation were we'd both learn something of and develop an better appreciation of each other.
I took a deep breath and tried a different tack.
"What's the most important think in your life at the moment?" I asked.
She paused for a moment, then smiled and said, "Improving my ranking at my Tennis club."
"And after that," I didn't smile back.
"Well," she shrugged. "Going out with my friends. And having a good time at the weekends."
"And where do I fit in?" I looked down.
"I don't understand," she said.
"As far as I can see," I explained. "I'm ranked lowest on your list of priorities. You'd rather play tennis or got to the pictures with your friends, or even stay at home and read a book, before you'd want to socialize with me." I didn't mention work or her classes because I could understand her needing to do them. "And then you only want to see me at weekends and if you're going away, to wherever it is that you disappear to, you have no time to see me at all!" I snorted, "Not even enough time to phone me and tell me that you're going away. You're not even bothered enough to pretend that you'll miss me."
"Oh," she looked down into her glass. Then swallowed half her drink. "I see."
"Do you?" I asked. "That's good, because I don't. I don't understand what I mean to you. And no matter how often I tell you that I love you, you never tell me how you feel." I looked down again, "You never tell me anything."
We were silent for a moment. I sipped my drink and looked up at her. But she was still staring into her Guinness.
I tried to explain again. "I don't expect to be the centre of your universe," though I'd have loved it if I had been. "But I do expect to be up there somewhere." I shrugged, half attempting to make a joke, "I mean, who gets to walk home alone all the time and who gets all the orgasms?"
She looked at me and raised her almost empty glass, "If that were fuller you'd have it all over you."
"Why?" I asked. "You do!"
She looked away.
"I'll buy you another if you want to throw it over me," I said.
There was silence for a moment. Then she laughed softly. "You know," she looked back to me. "I really think you mean that."
"Of course I do," I spread my hands. "Why would I say it if I didn't?"
She shook her head and smiled. "I'm not sure I'm ready for this," she sipped her drink. "I'm not sure I want it."
I didn't know how to reply, so I sipped my drink.
"This is just going a bit too fast for me," she said. "I just need time to adjust to it." She looked at me again, "Just give me time to adjust to it. OK?"
"OK," I replied and looked down, not knowing quite what she'd meant.
We finished our drinks in silence.
Outside the pub I turned to walk home with her. But she put a hand to my shoulder and stopped me.
"I don't think you should come back with me tonight," she looked down.
"OK," I looked down as well. Once again I didn't have any choice.
She put her hand to the side of my head and stretched up to kiss my cheek. "Goodnight," she whispered.
I reached out to put my arms around and hug her and kiss her a proper goodnight, but she'd stepped away before I could react.
"I'll phone you," she turned and walked away.
I watched her go, knowing that she'd often said she'd phone me and that she never had, thinking that she was walking away from me forever, hoping against hope that she really would, this time, just this once, actually phone me.
But she had told me that she would phone me! How could I doubt her? Why would she tell me she would if she had no intention of doing so? Forget that she done so in the past. She'd told me that she'd phone me and I believed her. She would phone. I would have faith in her above all else.
So that night, as I walked home along, I occupied my mind by trying to figure out what my feelings for her were. By that time I'd given up any attempt at trying to work out what she was feeling.
Was I really in love with her? I thought about her all the time. It ached when she wasn't there. I wanted to hold her, to touch her, even just to be in the same room as her. I wanted most of all to talk to her. I wanted to tell her what I felt. Or rather I wanted her to believe me when I told her that I loved her. I knew, deep down inside me, that she couldn't accept that I did.
Every time I met her I couldn't stop myself from touching her. Did she think I was some sort of pervert feeling her up all the time? Did she think that all I wanted was to have sex with her? Did she not know that every time I got her alone I just couldn't help myself?
And yet I never lost total control. I never got carried away so much that I ended up raping her. I never did anything she didn't want. And she wasn't just passively lying there letting my do it to her either. She took an active interest in me making love to her. She'd just draw the line at doing anything that'd make me come.
Was it some sort of test? Was she trying to see if I was just some low-life that simply wanted to 'have my evil way' with her and then dump her. I can sympathize with her not wanting to be just another conquest on my hit list. The only thing is, I was beginning to feel that I was one on her's.
But was I "having my evil way" with her even if I didn't get to come? I think now that she wouldn't let me come because she thought that I wasn't. As long as I didn't come, she wasn't conquered. But I never wanted to conquer her. I wanted to share myself with her. I mean making her come was the highlight of... well my whole life at that time. I lived and breathed just to make love to her. Oh it mattered that I didn't come. It mattered a hell of a lot! But as long as I was making love to her I could live in the hope that one day she'd respond. And wouldn't it be a glorious day when she shared herself with me, when she finally admitted her love for me!
It was only much later that it occurred to me that she didn't know how to respond to me. Yet even at the time I saw that she didn't seem to know how to make love to me. I don't just mean the physical acts, but the whole emotional attitude she needed to take to love someone. But for some reason I never connected this to the fact that she wouldn't let me come. I'd always assumed that she didn't make love to me because she wouldn't accept the fact that she loved me. Of course I never directly asked her if she did love me, because she might have said no. And then where would I have been.
So once again I'd tried to get closer to her and had ended up further away. Maybe I was just feeling sorry myself, because I wouldn't be making love to her. Or maybe it was because I couldn't pretend that she loved me when she left me standing alone in the cold street. Either way I didn't have the momentary illusion of being close to her. I didn’t have those few precious moments after I'd made love to her that I could pretend that she did really love me. A feeling of rejection hummed in the back of my head.
But now, looking back at our relationship, I realized that night was one of the few times that we really communicated. The closest we'd ever come to each other. I'd finally told her that I was serious about her. She'd told me that she didn't want to be rushed into anything. The thought that maybe we would end up sharing our lives with each other was out in the open.
But all the frustration and bitterness that was building up inside me had to go somewhere. A combination of writers block, being unemployed for over a year, having no money, having to live with my parents, a total lack of success in any aspect of my life, was surrounding me in a fog of depression and uncertainty. All my insecurities were being aggravated.
I needed somebody who'd give me a steadying hand through to the other side. But Alexandra had her own insecurities to deal with. I didn't know what they were. But I could see that they were there. Would the stresses we were both suffering under forge us together or tear us apart?


Chapter 7
---------

Then a miracle happened! Alexandra phoned me on the next Thursday to arrange to meet me on Friday. I was stunned. I'd half expected her to disappear from my life for good. But she'd phoned. She wanted to continue our relationship. I shot from the depths of depression to the highs of elation.
And yet the elation was tempered with a hint of suspicion. I wasn't a complete fool; I knew that she hadn't suddenly started to love me. By this stage I was beginning to believe that she never would. And yet my "master plan" had been to give to her as much as I could and to keep giving, until there could be no doubt in her mind that I really did love her.
Some part of me knew even then that I'd fail. That if she didn't want to believe that I loved her, if she couldn't believe that I loved her then no matter what I did she wouldn't be convinced. If she believed that I was lying when I told her that I loved her, then she could believe that everything I did to try to convince her of that love was simply part of some plan I had to trick her.
This is where I first realized that guilt was playing a part in my thinking, because I did have a plan to make her change her mind. I did do these things to convince her that I was in love with her. And I began to have an inkling that I was not only trying to fool her, but that I was trying to fool myself. I was not only trying to prove to her that I loved her, but I was trying to prove it to myself as well.
I was totally confused about how I felt about her. When I held her in my arms and the hormones were flowing I could forget everything else. There was no doubt in my mind. I had her all to myself and she filled my universe. It was once she had come that the disappointment came into it, when I had to get up and go home in the middle of the night. And even when I got home and masturbated to relieve my frustration, it wasn't satisfying any more.
Oh I still got a trill out of making love to her, but I found it increasingly difficult to feel anything deeper. And yet this is when she started to act as if she might have stronger feelings for me. This is when she started to do the things I had wanted her to all along. And this is when I could no longer believe that she meant them. Or rather, that they meant the same things to her as they did to me.
I don't mean that she suddenly blurted out that she loved me. I mean that she started to talk to me, and phone me, and behave as if she had an interest in me other than as a biological vibrator. She started to express an interest in doing things with me, in sharing at least some part of her life with me. Though, looking back, I never did get to meet any of her friends or relations.
So it was with all these thoughts revolving around in my head that I waited for her that Friday night. And once again when she arrived they all fled from my conscious thought. She was beautiful, and I loved her. And nothing else mattered.
She was wearing black shoes and heavy black silk tights. With a straight, dark blue skirt that stopped a few inches above her knees. She had a lighter blue blouse, with the top two buttons open and a light blue jumper draped over her shoulders. Her black hair was tied back in a pony tail and she had dark eye shadow that made the sparkle in her eyes shine right out.
Once again her beauty took my breath away and my mouth went dry just looking at her. I wanted to put my arms around her and crush her to me. I wanted my fingers to touch her and my tongue to taste her. My hormones raced and I felt an erection building.
"Hi," was all I could say.
"Hi," she smiled back.
She started a conversation and I responded automatically. I don't know what we talked about. All I can remember is that we went to a pub for a drink first and then went to the lighthouse cinema to see a French film called the Hairdresser's Husband. All through the film I sat with my arm around her shoulder, running my fingers through her hair and brushing against her cheek, and her neck, and her shoulder, and her breast. We were both very aroused by the time we started back to her flat. And even though the cold night air served to cool us down a bit, once she'd got me home it didn't take us long to warm up again.
When I first started going out with Alexandra, and making love to her, I didn't take off my jeans or underpants because, at least on the first few occasions, I felt that she would be shocked, or offended, or would panic. Even then I think I knew she was pretending that we weren't having sex. Anyway she didn't seem at all keen to get her hands on me.
Then as our relationship progressed and she began to take off more of her clothing, she never did get entirely naked with me, I began to strip completely. And she defiantly knew that I was getting aroused and that this was a sexual act we were performing. But she still ignored me from the waist down. She'd kiss and neck, and her hands would roam my torso, but they'd never go below my hips.
A couple of times I took her hand and deliberately put in on my erection. I'd squeezed her fingers closed around it and give her a couple of thrusts, as a gentle hint to what she should be doing. But a few moments after I'd taken my hand away she'd move her's back up my body.
So I was forced to accept that she wasn't going to do anything down there. The couple of occasions that I tried, as gently as I could, to push her in that direction I just ended up even more frustrated than before. So I stopped taking my jeans off. It didn't seem to bother her, she'd still strip down to just a T-shirt or blouse and I could make love to her in a fashion she'd accept.
That night, as usual, I made love to her and she sighed in contentment and cuddled up to me for a few minutes. She was lying across me wearing just her blouse. My right hand was tangled in her hair and my left cupped her breast. I floated in that sea of contentment I always got when she came, where I could pretend that she really did love me.
She sat up and I let my hands fall away from her, the spell broken, thinking that she'd say it was time for me to leave now. But instead she started to unfasten my jeans.
I looked up at her puzzled.
She smiled down at me, "I think it's time you got some now. Don't you?"
I didn't say anything. I didn't know what to say. A thought flared, was I supposed to express profound gratitude! But she was pulling down my jeans and underpants and a trill ran through my body. I could tell by the way she touched me that she was inexperienced, that I was maybe the first guy she'd done this to. Though I still didn't know precisely what she was going to do. And why she'd suddenly picked this time to start doing it.
She rubbed the palm of her hand against my testicles, gently pressing and squeezing them. Then she brushed the fingers of her other hand along the length of my half soft penis, back and forth, back and forth, just barely touching it as it stiffened and stood up. She swallowed noisily and I looked up at her.
And found myself enthralled by the look of utter wonderment, mixed with complete concentration, on her face. As her hands worked, I looked up at her face. Her eyes were fixed, unblinking, at what her hands were doing. I don't think she could quite believe what was happening.
Her tongue flicked about her lips, disappearing inside as she swallowed, then the tip just breaking through her lips as she continued to tease me.
By this stage I was quite hard and the fingers of both her hands were on my erection. As she ran one set along the top, she brushed the other down the underside. Then back up and back down, one hand reaching the base just as the other reached the top. The sensation of her dry fingers barely touching the tip was making sparks fly.
She wasn't really touching me tightly enough to masturbate me, but I'd been so aroused by making love to her, not just tonight, but over months, that it wasn't taking much to make my juices flow. I could feel my balls tighten already, as an orgasm built. She continued to stroke me, seemingly oblivious to anything but her fingers on my erection.
I closed my eyes and moaned, tilting my head back as began to come. My balls tightened and the fire started to squeeze its way out. Then she stopped and took her hand away. I lay there for a few moments, breathing heavily, waiting for her to continue. She didn't. Slowly I opened my eyes to see why she'd stopped.
"Well," she smiled down at me. "I think that's enough. Don't you?"
I couldn't say anything
She stood up and went into the bathroom, closing both doors behind her.
I looked down at my straining erection. And at the tiny bead of pre-come excretion at its tip.
"Fuck," I whispered. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."
But there was no real anger in my voice. I was to bewildered to be angry. I was too stunned to feel anything.
I reached down to stroke my wilting erection, but my orgasm had dissipated by then and I wasn't in the mood to start again.
The sound of running water came from the bathroom. I presume she was washing her hands. Then a few minutes of silence before the toilet was flushed.
She was smiling when she came back in and knelt on the floor beside me. She put her arm around my shoulders and I automatically put my arm around her waist. I didn't know what to say or what to do. Did she know what she was doing to me? Because if she did know what she had done then she definitely couldn't love me. But I couldn't figure out what she thought she was doing to me.
Did she really think that I enjoyed what she did? Was it supposed to be like a kiss on the lips is the next best thing to French kissing, at least when you're fifteen. Or was she so ignorant of sex that she didn't know that boys are supposed to ejaculate when they orgasm. Maybe she thought that I'd moaned because I'd come, rather than because I was about to. Or perhaps it really was because "bringing forth the seed when there is no chance of conception" is a sin and stopping just short was saving her immortal soul from eternal damnation.
By this stage she was running her fingers through the hair on my stomach. She really liked the fact that I had hair on my body. She didn't act as if she'd done something wrong, she didn't expect me to be frustrated and angry. What the fuck did she think? And why the fuck wouldn't she tell me.
In my most paranoid moments I knew she was doing all this to me deliberately. Was she punishing me for falling in love with her? Did she have such low self-esteem that anybody who liked her must be as awful as she was?
Was she deliberately trying to frustrate and unbalance me as some sort of test to see if I really loved her? Or did she just not understand what she was doing to me?
And I meant that last question in every sense, both physically and emotionally, and even spiritually.
But once again when I tried to talk to her about it I couldn't. There and then all those questions burned too brightly in my head. I couldn't focus on any one of them and I couldn't articulate them as well as I can now. And when I saw her away from that room where all of our "love making" happened it all seemed so distant. Over the intervening days all the frustration would be burned away by my desire, fanning it and fuelling it, so that the next time I saw her I wanted to possess her so badly that nothing else mattered.
So when she phoned me the next Thursday I was delighted to accept her invitation to go out with her again on Friday.
Though I was exceedingly nervous as I waited for her to show. Strange as it may sound I had gotten used to her not returning the complement when I made love to her. I expected it. And I could accept it, at least as long as I could explain it as her being shy and inexperienced. But now that she seemed to be trying to respond to me more fully it was confusing.
I didn't understand why she would want to make love to me now, if she didn't want to before. I didn't even know if she was trying to make me come. Did she think that she was giving me pleasure? Didn't she realize that I wanted to be with her despite the way she treated me, not because of it? Didn't she realize that what she had done to me was worst than being ignored?
In the beginning I'd worked it out logically. I wanted to make love to her, so I made love to her. She didn't want to make love to me, so she didn't. I believe in freedom of the individual. I wasn't about to make her do anything she didn't want to. I hadn't made love to her in order to emotionally blackmail her into making love back to me. I could wait until either she grew to love me or I stopped loving her.
But logic doesn't work with emotion. I realize now that my master plan was working. She was falling in love with me. She was learning to trust me, because I had tried so hard to prove that I did love her and that she could trust me. But by this time I was no longer sure that she was worth the effort. It seems at terrible thing to say, but I had put so much effort into the relationship and she had put in so little. And I hadn't gotten what I really wanted, and wasn't convinced that she could give me what I needed.
However it wasn't so clear to me at the time. I was still convinced that I loved her. Maybe it was just that I wanted so badly to love someone. That I needed that type of intimacy. And I thought that it would solve all my problems. To have someone to support and encourage me, to tell me that what I was doing was worth the effort it took, that I hadn't made the biggest mistake in my life by giving up my job to concentrate on my writing.
I know now that I would have grown to despise anyone who would have treated me like that. What I needed was someone to give me a kick up the backside and tell me to get on with my life. I know now that falling in love won't solve all your problems for you, that it just gives you an extra hand over the trickiest ones.
But at that time I still had my sights set on her, even though underneath I knew it was a self-destructive addiction. So when she phoned the next week to arrange another date I jumped at the chance to see her again. Jumped at the chance to convince her of my love and make her mine for ever. Like a moth to a candle flame.
I could barely wait for Friday night to come along and then I had to wait for her to turn up. There was a great pressure building up inside me, I was brimming over with things I wanted to tell her, things that would show her how I really felt for her, things that would convince her that I was in love with her. That would make her open up to me. That would make her mine.
But once she arrived they all dried up. Every time I started to say something it seemed so weak and insubstantial. Everything was a cliché. Nothing sounded right. And so the conversation never got beyond polite trivialities.
I kept saying to myself that now wasn't the correct time. Wait a more minutes till the conversation is a little more relaxed. Wait until after we'd seen the film. Wait until after we'd had a drink. Wait until after we'd had coffee in Bewley's.
But when we came out of Bewley's, and I'd turned to walk home with her, she stopped and put her hand on my arm.
"I can't invite you back tonight, Kevin," she looked down.
"Oh. Why not?" I asked.
"My sister's come to stay with me for a few weeks," she explained. "And obviously I can't bring you back at this time of night."
"Obviously," I agreed.
She looked at me to see if I was being sarcastic, but I just smiled sweetly at her.
"You see," Alexandra explained. "She was living with her boyfriend. But now he's her ex-boyfriend. So she's had to move out."
"Oh," I nodded.
"But she's only going to be staying for a couple of weeks," she assured.
"OK," I said. "Do you fancy doing anything else over the weekend?"
"Well," she hesitated. Then looked up at me, "I'll give you a call tomorrow, Kevin."
"Oh, OK," I said, and went home knowing that she meant that she didn't want to see me.
So it was a bit of a shock when she did phone the next day.
The date started off as usual. I turned up early and had to wait for her to arrive. And she breezed along fifteen minutes late, without seemingly a care in the world. We went for a drink as usual, but I can't remember what we talked about. My emotions were a mess. On the one hand I was over the moon that she was taking a more active interest in wanting to see me. But on the other I was scared shitless that she was going to up and disappear on me again, without any warning and without any explanation.
Maybe my memory has been revised by subsequent events but the thrill of seeing her wasn't as intense as it had been previously. And I clearly remember that I didn't have an erection when we left the cinema, despite having had my arm around her for over an hour.
As we were walking back up O'Connell St. I had a mischievous impulse. "I thought you didn't like Science Fiction films," I said.
"I don't," she replied. "Not usually."
"But you liked that one," I smiled.
"That wasn't an SF film," she said.
"Yes it was," I looked across at her.
"No," she thought for a moment. "That was more a fairy tale."
"Well, yes," I conceded. "But that doesn't stop it being Science Fiction as well."
"Oh yeah," she smiled skeptically.
"Yes," I replied. "SF is a wide field. You can have SF love stories, SF adventure stories, and even literature that's also Science Fiction."
"OK, Kevin," she didn't sound convinced.
"You just think that you don't like SF films," I explained. "So if you like a film, by definition, it can't be an SF film, else you wouldn't have liked it."
"That's silly," she looked away.
"I agree," I smiled.
We continued down O'Connell St. for a few minutes then, just as we reached Cleary's department store, she stopped. I looked around at her.
"This is where I get my bus from," she gestured at the row of bus stops.
And I realized that I wasn't being invited back to her place that night either.
"Oh," I said.
"You don't have to wait, Kevin," she smiled. "There are buses coming along all the time. I won't have to wait long for one."
I stood there for a few moments while I figured out that she wanted me to leave.
"Oh." I shrugged, "OK" And stepped close to put my arms around her and kiss her good night.
She gave me a quick peck on the lips and stepped back.
I dropped my arms and turned to go. "See'ya," I spoke over my shoulder.
"See you at the club," she called after me.
"Yeah," I answered back, knowing that she had said that so many times and not shown up. But then, I told myself, that was the old Alexandra, this is the new Alexandra. The one that appears to show some regard for my feelings.
But I was wrong; she had decided to do her disappearing act again.


Chapter 8
---------

She didn't turn up at the club and she didn't phone the next Thursday or Friday. So on Saturday I phoned her. She wasn't in. I left a message but she didn't phone back. All day I waited. And once again all the buried anxieties bubbled up with in me. All the thoughts that she's had an accident and is lying dead in hospital somewhere and nobody knows to contact me. All the anger and frustration at the fact that I didn't know what she was doing.
And I have to admit all the anger and bitterness that she was out somewhere enjoying herself while I was here sitting beside the phone waiting on the off chance that she'd phone. I know I could have gone out. I know I didn't have to sit in and wait for her. But I couldn't make myself. I wanted to see her so badly that I couldn't make myself miss the chance that she might phone. And yet, even thought I blamed her, I knew that I was doing it to myself.
I finally admitted to myself that I couldn't go on like this. A few weeks of bliss, a few weeks of agony . Trying to switch on and off my emotions when she appeared and disappeared from my life. Trying to convince myself that she really did like me, that I wasn't a fool to give her so much and get so little in return. That one day she turn around and tell me that she loved me. One day she'd treat me with a little respect.
Every time I'd tried to broach the subject I'd failed to push it home. I'd always chickened out because I'd not wanted to hear that she didn't love me. While it was in doubt I could convince myself, pretend to myself, that she loved me. But once I gotten her to tell me straight, and if the answer was no, then I'd be fucked.
I was scared shitless that she didn't love me. That I'd invested all this emotional capital in someone who just didn't give a shit. But yet wasn't she acting like someone who didn't give a shit. Wasn't I just throwing good love after bad. Wasn't it time to cut my losses? Wouldn't I be better off without her?
But then I'd have to admit that I wasn't the irresistible catch that my male ego was convinced I was. Admit that my manly charms had failed to woo her. I'll resist the temptation to include a sentence that claims she must be gay. But I do have to admit that I failed to have as much of an impact on her life as she'd had on mine. The fact that I'm writing this proves just how deeply she'd affected me.
It was my own fault for wrapping my life around her when I'd barely knew her. Like I said at the beginning of this novel it was my self-destructive impulse to fall head over heels in love with complete strangers that was to blame. I'm sure the psychologists have a name for this type of compulsive behavior, but I don't know what it is. All I know is that it would take only a little more self pity to turn it into suicidal tendencies.
So there it was. I'd finally come face to face with the thought that I'd break it off with her. That she wouldn't be the centre of my world for the rest of my life. That I'd be able to go without her. I needed to know once and for all what she felt about me. And I was willing to contemplate the thought that she didn't love me. That there was no future for us. I was willing to bring our relationship to a make or break situation. I was going to have some resolution to all this uncertainty and insecurity. I'd finally have an answer.
But first of course I'd have to wait for her to get in touch with me again.
I didn't have to wait too long this time. She was only missing for two weeks before she turned up at the camera club again. I was standing upstairs sipping a cup of coffee after the meeting when she walked in. My heart almost stopped dead.
She stood in the door for a second and smiled at me. Then she walked over to talk, "So how have you been."
I forced myself to swallow. "Fine," I replied, my heart now racing.
"You haven't phoned me," she said.
"Yes I did," I snapped. "You never phoned me."
"Oh," she looked down.
"Listen," I calmed my voice. "We have to talk."
"Oh," she looked up again. "OK," she gestured at the coffee pot. "Just let me get some coffee first."
I wanted to end it now. I wanted a short sharp ending. I wanted to be finished with her once and for all. But all I could say was, "OK"
Somebody came up to me and started talking about the lecture we'd had that night. I responded automatically, not being able to concentrate on anything except that Alexandra had gotten her coffee and come back to stand beside me. Very close beside me, her free hand brushing against my leg, my balls beginning to tighten.
I could smell her perfume and her hair brushed against my shoulder as she turned to talk to someone else. I walked away and joined a conversation on the other side of the room. A few minutes later Alexandra was beside me again, this time rubbing her arm against mine and once again standing very close. Every time I looked at her our eyes met and she smiled.
She was giving me all these "Come on" signals and I knew that she wasn't going to have sex with me. I knew that if I made love to her that I'd end up even more frustrated that when I'd started out.
And yet, I thought to myself. If what I had said to her had struck a chord. If she has finally decided to acknowledge her love for me, if she now understands what making love to her means to me, wouldn't it be foolish to throw it all away? Wouldn’t it be foolish to ruin it by dumping her just when she's ready to really love me in return?
I thought, I've got to get out of here. I've got to get her alone so we can talk about this. I've got to know if she's ready to love me back.
But what it really boiled down to is that I was unable to make myself end the relationship. I was unable to control my emotions long enough to tell her it was over. I was unable to stop my dreams that one day she'd love me back.
I walked over to the counter and put my empty coffee cup down. She followed and put her's beside mine.
"I think it's time to go," I looked at her.
"Yes," she nodded. "Come on back to my place. We can talk there."
When we stepped outside the cold night air seemed to clear my head and when she put her hand in mine there was no acute physical reaction on the part of my involuntary muscle system.
We didn't say much as we walked around to her flat. I was nervous about what would happen, about what I'd say. I knew one way or another that all my doubts would be resolved, at least that's what I thought at the time. I knew that it was make or break time for our relationship. I just didn't know which it would be.
When we got into her flat I hung my coat on the back of the door beside her's. Sitting on an armchair and I automatically took off my shoes and stockings. While she started to tidy up in the kitchen alcove.
"Do you want some coffee?" she called over her shoulder.
"No," I replied. "I won't get any sleep tonight if I do."
She put a few cups and a couple of plates away in the cupboard above the sink. Then she walked back out into the middle of the room. "Listen," she said. "I know I've been a naughty girl, not phoning and going away and everything."
I didn't know what to say. "Naughty girl"? "Going away"? Did she want me to spank her? Did she think I wanted her to ask my permission before going away for the weekend?
"It's not that," I said. I wanted to explain that she didn't need to ask me before going away. I just wanted her to tell me, to let me know so I wouldn't be sitting around waiting for her to phone me. So I wouldn't be disappointed when she didn't. So I didn't feel as if I'd been dumped.
But more than that, was it so much to ask that she tell me what she felt for me? That she'd talk to me. That she'd treat me with some respect and not take me for granted.
I wanted to tell her all this. But when I opened my mouth nothing would come out. After all those months of frustration it had all clogged up inside me and I couldn't tell her. Now, the first time she'd seemed interested in listening to me, I couldn't find the words to explain.
There was a few moments of silence while I struggled with my feelings and the words I needed to explain them. While she stood there looking down at me. Eventually I ended up just shaking my head.
She looked me in the eyes, slowly sat down on the floor, pulled off her sweatshirt and leaned back against the bed. She was wearing a silk cami-top over her bra. Looking up at me she smiled invitingly. And I was on the floor beside her, with my arms around her before I knew what had happened. The feel of the silk on her skin and the taste of her lips on mine was divine. Then her tongue was on my ear and I was sucking the joint of her shoulder and neck.
I said to myself, I shouldn't be doing this. Yet her skin was hot under my fingers as I unhooked her bra. I told myself that I'd come here to talk to her, as I slipped the straps off her shoulders and arms and pulled her bra from under her cami-top before tossing it onto the bed. I thought, now would be a good time to stop and tell her that I'm not happy with the relationship, as I put one hand to the back of her head, the other to her breast and kissed and squeezed and hugged her.
Her arms wrapped around me and pulled me close. Then both my arms where around her and our bodies were pressed tightly together. She tilted her head up and lay back on the floor.
I lay on top of her and she wrapped her legs around me. As we kissed my mind went into over drive. I thought, here we are in a parody of the missionary position. I knew if we where naked she'd never have lain like that. I thought, but for a few layers of cloth.... That she was bringing me so close just to deny me....
I sat up suddenly.
She looked up at me, but my left hand continued to stroke her crotch and she giggled. She was available. I wanted her. I couldn't resist. With my other hand I started to untie her shoes. First one, and her sock, then the other and her feet where naked. I ran my hands along her legs, up and down the insides of her thighs, feeling her muscles through the denim. Her breath came faster and I ran both hands up to open her jeans.
Denim on silk, on silk as I stroked outside. Then silk on silk on flesh as I slipped my hands inside her jeans. Then silk on hair as I slipped them between her cami-top and her panties. Then straight flesh as I slipped them inside that. Then hard nipples surrounded by firm breasts as I leaned forward and ran my hands up the length of her body.
She gasped. Then my lips where on hers and my tongue probed deep. I rested my weight on my elbows and rubbed the bulge of my erection against her silk panties. She squirmed underneath me and her hands where inside my jumper pulling my T-shirt out of my jeans. Her hands kneaded their way up my back pushing both my jumper and T-shirt before them. I leant on one elbow as she pulled my other arm free. Then reversed the process. Then she pulled them over my head and threw them away. I pushed down and sucked a breast into my mouth. She arched her body under me and her hands where stroking my body again.
I snaked my hands back down her body and slipped them inside her panties. I pushed both them and her jeans down off her bottom. Then I zig-zaged my lips and tongue and nose down her body as I pushed my hands onto her the back of her legs. I stopped when I reached her pubic hair. I could smell she was hot and damp. My mouth watered. But I forced myself to sit up.
Slowly I pulled her jeans and panties off her legs. Caressing her firm muscles as I did so. She sat up, keeping her legs together and to one side, and put her arms around my neck. She smiled at me before we started kissing again.
Then all my memories fade into an ecstatic blur of sensations. There was warm silk scrunched in my fist. Her tongue probing deep into my mouth. Her hair pressed against her ear as I sucked. Her breast dangling over my mouth as I licked her nipple. The feel of her skin under my fingers. Her hot breath on my ear, and my shoulder, and my nipple. The weight of her as she rolled on top. The weight of me on her as I continued the roll. The constant rush of hormones as we made love.
Then my memory snaps back into focus.
She was on top. We where kissing. My hands where running up and down her back, feeling the silk against her warm skin. She began to rub her body against mine. She pressed her vagina against the bulge in my jeans and started to masturbate herself. I froze. Something inside me snapped and all my passion evaporated. I let my hands drop to the floor. She continued to kiss me and rub her body against mine for a few moments. Then she noticed I'd stopped responding. She sat up and took a deep breath. Looking down at me she smiled.
I don't know if I smiled back. A sequence of thoughts burned in my head. It’s one thing to let somebody make love to you and not care if they come. it's another stage of unacceptable to let someone make you come and to deliberately stop them from coming in return. But it was the straw that broke the camel's back to deliberately deny someone their orgasm and yet to make sure you yourself came. I blinked and looked down at her.
She was curled up across my stomach, with her head resting against her left arm and the fingers of her right hand slowly circling my left nipple. I couldn't read the expression on her face.
I put my right arm behind my head and reached down to run the finger tips of my left hand through her pubic hair. She looked up at me and smiled contentedly. I tried to push my hand between her legs, but she squeezed them tight together to stop me.
I waited a few minutes for my thoughts to clear then said, "Listen, Alexandra. About the sex..."
"No, Kevin," she interrupted.
"What?" I asked.
"I'm not going to have sex with you," she sat up.
"Hold on a moment!" I was astonished.
"No," she stood up. "I'm not going to discuss it."
She stepped over me on her way to the wardrobe. I grabbed her thigh.
"Don't do this to me, Alexandra," I pleaded.
She didn't say anything, just pulled her leg away from me. I let her go. She went to the wardrobe and took out her silk dressing grown.
I sat up and started to get dressed. She watched from beside the wardrobe as I put on my T-shirt and jumper. Then I walked over to sit on her bed and pulled on my shoes and stockings. I could feel her looking at me, but I didn't look back. We didn't say anything until I was putting on my coat.
"So," I looked down. "This is the end then?"
"Well..." she paused. "I guess so."
I looked at her and she looked away. "Why, Alexandra?" I asked.
"Why what?" she looked back to me.
"Why did you treat me the way you did?" I leaned against the door. "Why did you do the things you did to me?"
"What do you mean?" she started to smile, but stopped when she saw the look on my face.
"I mean..." no matter which way I looked at it all came down to the fact that I'd make love to her and make her come and she'd not let me come. I knew that there was more to the relationship. I knew that the sex was just a reflection of the other problems that we were having. I knew that I had never properly explained how I felt about her to her. I'd tried and I'd tried, but I could never find a way that she'd accept. So when it came to the crunch all I could think about was sex. I cleared my throat, "I mean that you have no problem with me making love to you and making me come, but that for some unknown reason I'm not allowed come. I mean that you give the impression that you'll only go out with me when you have nothing better to do. I mean that you treat me with total and utter contempt."
She looked down, but didn't say anything.
"When I make love to you it means that I love you," I started to explain. "When I hold your hand walking down the street it's because I want to be close to you. The more physically intimate we are the more it means that I love you."
I paused, but she still didn't have anything to say. "I've told you that I love you so many times. And I've said it in words as well as actions. You've never once told me what I mean to you."
There saw silence for a few moments then she said, "You see that whenever I've had a boyfriend before we've always gone back to his place..."
I waited for a few moments, then asked, "You mean that if you'd come back to my place you'd have had sex with me?"
"No, Kevin," she turned and walked away.
I just wanted her to once say something to me, to give me some concrete fact, to tell me what she felt. Even if she didn't love me. Especially if she didn't love me.
"I had a boyfriend when I went to collage in Dundalk," she spoke so low it was almost a whisper. "I went out with him for over two years and during that time I had other boyfriends as well."
I thought, is she trying to tell me that she wants some sort of open relationship? If so why didn't she just tell me? And what has it got to do with having sex with me?
"I mean," she continued. "I went to France on holiday and came back with a French boyfriend. He even stayed with me for a bit. And this other guy knew about him and didn't mind."
I shrugged, "Did you have sex with him?"
"Oh! Kevin!" she stomped her foot and glared at me.
"I'm sorry," I held up my hands. "It's none of my business."
We didn't speak for another few moments. Then I said, "I just don't understand why you'd let me make love to you and yet wouldn't make love back to me." I took a step towards her, "I mean, if you like me enough to let make love to you why don't you want to make love back to me?"
"I told you..." she stopped herself and looked down. "I mean it’s..." She dropped her hands to her sides. "You don't understand," she shook her head."
I nearly cried with frustration. "Of course I don't understand! I've never understood. That's what this whole conversation is about. If I understood I wouldn't be asking you to explain it to me!" I brought my hands up and clenched my fists, "Just this once will you explain it to me. Just this once let me understand."
I looked at her, but she was looking at the floor. We were both silent again. Finally I tried one last time.
"I fell in love with you," I spoke softly. "And I wanted to share my life with you. I desired you. I never made any secret that I loved having sex with you. Or that I thought that having sex with you would bring us closer together. That I thought if I gave enough to you that one day you'd turn around and love me back. That one day you'd want to share your life with me."
I looked down. She said nothing. "I guess I was wrong," I shrugged.
"I'm older than you," she whispered into the silence. "Not by much. But I'm older than you. Does that make a difference?"
I wanted to say, "What the fuck has that got to do with anything?", but there were so many thoughts swimming around inside my head that I couldn't say anything.
The silence stretched on. I didn't know what to say. I'd told her how I felt and she'd just seemed to have dismissed it out of hand. She just wouldn't accept that I felt the way I did. And I couldn't see any way of getting through to her, any way of making her believe me. I'd have thought that all the shit I'd been through over the last few months would have been proof enough, that's the only reason I'd put up with it, but no, even that hadn't convince her.
Finally I said, "I guess I'd better go now."
"OK," she walked towards me, but stopped just short of touching me.
Suddenly I wanted her again. I wanted to make love to her so badly. I wanted to feel her and taste her, to lose myself in the sensual pleasure of everything we'd ever done together.
"Let’s make love one last time," I stepped closer to her.
"No," she shook her head and looked down.
I put my arms around her, hugged her and she hugged me back. I pulled back to slip my hands inside her robe and she pushed me further away.
"Come on," I whispered, my voice going horse. I really, really wanted to make love to her properly to make up for not making her come earlier.
"No," she repeated.
So I stepped away, feeling defeated, and walked to the door. She followed me. I unlocked and opened the door to her flat and stepped outside. She took hold of the door to close it after me.
"So this is goodbye, then," I stood awkwardly for a moment.
She said, "Yes."
Then I stepped closer and put my arms around her neck. We kissed briefly. As she ended the kiss, I slipped my hand inside her robe and gave her breast one last squeeze, before stepping away once more. I turned away from her and walked up the stairs. I heard her closing and locking her door behind me.
As I walked up and out I felt such an overwhelming sense of relieve, literally as if a great weight had been lifted from my shoulders. There was a bounce in my step that I'd not noticed for quite a while. Just like the first night I'd walked home from Alexandra's place. And this time I didn't notice the distance either. I felt as if I was walking on air, that finally I'd resolved all the problems that I'd been having with Alexandra. All the doubts and uncertainties and worries would be over. All the loose ends that I couldn't tidy up had been severed once and for all. I knew all my troubles with her were at an end.
How wrong can you be?


Chapter 9
---------

Having reviewed my relationship with Alexandra in order to compile this account and having discussed what I have related and will be relating to you with other people, there is perhaps one question I should try to answer at this point; why did I want to continue my relationship with Alexandra? Why did I chase after her when it was obvious that she wasn't going to treat me with any sort of respect? The only answer I can make is that I was in love with her. A lot of people are going to say that it wasn't love, that it was lust. That I just lusted after her body. And maybe they're right.
I know that at the beginning I knew nothing about her. That I just projected an image onto her and that I fell in love with that image and not with her. That's what falling in love at first sight is. Isn't it?
I also discovered that there is a psychological condition were people develop a compulsive/obsessive complex about someone, were they project an image of their perfect partner onto someone else and chase after them, even though the other person is in real life nothing like that image and quite often is not in the least bit interested in returning that "love". Sometimes I think that is what happened to me.
But as time went by I think I got to know Alexandra, the real her. I know I got to understand her far better than she ever understood me. And I discovered a person who was quite shy and insecure. I felt very protective of her and wanted to help her grow and mature, to become a stronger, more self-reliant person. I wanted very much not to hurt her, to be as gentle as I could with her. To hold her tight and wrap her in cotton wool so she wouldn't be hurt.
Now I know that is not the way to help someone grow. That to isolate and over protect someone only serves to stunt their growth and make then even less self-reliant. But at the time I just didn't want to cause her pain. I just couldn't stand the thought of her suffering.
Is that love? I don't know.
And the situation was not helped by my own insecurities, my own immaturity, my own inexperience. I didn't want to demand things from her. I wanted her to give what she felt she could give. What she was able to give. I didn't want to push her into doing anything. I didn't want to push her away from me.
I didn't want to force the issue of sex, because I didn't want to alienate her. By this time I was convinced that she was a virgin. At the very least I knew she hadn't had much experience with men. She didn't know what to do with my body, she didn't know what to do in order to make love to me. Oh she was good at kissing and necking, but once the clothes started coming of she was lost. If she wasn't a virgin then it had obviously been a case of a guy "doing it to her", nobody had taught her how to take an active role in the proceedings.
But I had been a virgin myself. I was no macho stud. I wasn't used to sweeping girls off their feet and leaving them breathless after a night of passion. I wasn't sure how to do it, even if it had occurred to me to try. I thought then, and still think to this day, that even if she didn't love me she must have at least liked me and trusted me to have gotten so intimate with me. For her to let herself be so vulnerable she must have trusted me. Yet in all other aspects of our relationship she seemed to refuse to trust me. At times she acted as if she despised me. And I hurt so badly.
But it wasn't just the sex. I've since discovered that sex is rarely the problem, mostly it's just a reflection of the relationship. If the relationship is good then the sex will be good. If you have an open, honest relationship were you can both talk to each other then you have no trouble sharing yourself sexually with someone. You can not lie to someone when you make love to them, but it's ever so easy to fool yourself. You cannot make love to someone you don't love without it showing, but you can pretend that they love you.
The fact is that we had what can only be described as a sever communications problem. We used the same words, but we didn't speak the same language. When I made love to her I was giving her the greatest pleasure I could give. It meant that I trusted and loved her. It was a statement of commitment to her. To love her and protect her. To share my life with her. To support her in everything she did. But to her what we had was a very casual relationship. When I made love to her it was just good clean fun, a cheap trill on a Saturday night, nothing more.
She didn't trust me. She didn't love me. She didn't want to share her life with me. And she definitely didn't want me to try to share mine with her. She didn't even consider what we did to be sex. You see she was a good Irish Catholic girl. And good Irish Catholic girls don't have sex before they get married, therefore what we did couldn't have been sex. After all I never penetrated her vagina with my penis, had I?
At least that's what they teach us in school. They show us their crude block diagrams of the cross section of the male and female reproductive organs and tell us that women have periods and men get erections. That sex is when a man pushes his erection into a woman's vagina and ejaculates sperm into her. And that then it's god's will if she gets pregnant or not. They never mention making love. Apart from using "making love" as a euphemism for having sex.
And that's all that sex was to her. We hadn't done that so we hadn't had sex. So she didn't have to feel guilty about sinning. She didn't have to worry about the shame of getting pregnant outside marriage. She didn't owe me anything, because after all it was just good clean fun, not sex. For sex you need trust and commitment and love. Fun doesn't require any of that.
I'd wanted to have an honest, open relationship with her. Open in the sense that we could say and do anything to each other, not open in the sense of having other sexual partners. I'm much too possessive for that. I had deliberately tried not to seduce her, because I think of seduction as tricking someone into having sex with you. Of pretending to fulfill their fantasies in order to get what you want out of them. And I hadn't wanted her to love her fantasies; I'd wanted her to love me.
But I now realize that I had in fact seduced her. That first night when I'd slipped my fingers inside her panties and turned the "heavy petting" into sex. At the time it seemed so obvious that was what I should do. But looking back I think that it marked the first crack that turned into the gulf of misunderstanding that grew between us. She thought it was just good clean fun and I thought it was serious sex.
Or rather I wanted serious sex so badly, sex as a symbol of a serious committed relationship, that is. And all she wanted was a casual relationship, with this new added bonus of orgasms without sex, an extra trill while skirting the line between what was sin and what was safe.
I began to feel guilty about having tricked her and more importantly ashamed for having tricked myself. All the time I was congratulating myself on how honest I was being, I was doing exactly what I was accusing her of doing; while telling her that I wanted her love freely given, I was trying to use sex as a means of entrapping her. Every time I touched her I was saying "You're mine".
Every time we made love another link in the chain was forged. But the chain wasn't binding her to me; it was binding me to her. I wanted to give her everything I had. While she wanted none of it and seemed oblivious that she could have it. I was getting more and more hooked on her, while she remained adamant that the relationship was just casual.
I realize now that I still felt guilty about not making her come on that final night. That it had in a sense been the ultimate betrayal that I'd accused her of so many times, though I' d never said it to her face. To arouse her passion and to deny her an orgasm was a betrayal of the trust I'd tried to build between us by being honest in my intentions, even when she'd appeared to be lying to me at every stage and at every level. By denying her on that final night I had finally sunk to her level.
Isn't it amazing how the techniques of repression affect one. Here was I feeling guilt over not doing something that the Catholic Church would consider a sin, when the Church would have me feel guilt over having done it, or for even wanting to do it. I felt guilt, because I've been thought that I should feel guilt. And even when I've, not so much reject the Church’s teaching as, formulated my own moral code that doesn't include using guilt to try to coheres obedience, I still end up feeling guilty for not having lived up to my own moral code.
The emotions that I've been conditioned to feel go deeper than the intellectual observance of any particular code of law.
I've never actually had anybody tell me specifically that masturbating a girl is a sin. But I presume it is, as masturbating for men, or boys, is a sin. Although the reasons given to me when I asked why (I always was a difficult student) wouldn't apply to a girl. It was something about "bringing forth the seed" without there being a chance of fertilization taking place. But leaving aside the Catholic Churches general ignorance of female sexuality, it has probably never have occurred to the powers that be that women can masturbate and working on the principal that if you get pleasure from it then it must be a sin. I'll assume that what I did with Alexandra was a sin. But I half regret that I never did get around to asking her if she'd confessed it. And I'll always wonder what the priests reaction would have been if she had.
But aside from all this deep thinking on the nature of love and sin and sexuality I discovered what my real feelings for her were. That try as much as I could I couldn't make her out to be the villain. That I really believe she was as much a victim as I was.
My first bitter reaction was to hurt her as much as I thought she'd hurt me and in the same way to. I wanted to worm my way into a position where she completely trusted me and then totally betray her trust. I felt that was what she had done to me. I wanted to believe that was what she had done to me. I tried as hard as I could to convince myself that was what she had done to me. But I couldn't.
I couldn't worm my way into her confidence, and I wouldn't have been able to deliberately hurt her like that even if I could've. But more importantly I couldn't believe that she'd deliberately done it to me. I couldn't believe that she was such a fucked up little bitch, such an evil person, that she had set out to systematically torture me, and degrade me and humiliate me.
I knew that I wanted to believe that she had victimized me so that I wouldn't have to take any of the responsibility. Then I could justifiably feel self pity. Then I wouldn't have to accept that I'd set myself up as much as she'd set me up. Then I would never have to consider that she had been set up and betrayed just as much as I'd been.
I realize now That she had wanted her prince in shining armor to come galloping into her life and sweep her up and away to a fairytale ending, just as much as I'd expected her to make me happy. That she had wanted to trust and love me as much as I'd wanted to trust and love her. But that she couldn't pretend to herself that I was her prince. I didn't fit into the image of her perfect lover. And that ultimately she didn't fit my picture of my perfect lover.
I finally had to stop dreaming and face up to the fact that I'd been making a fool of myself. I couldn't lie to myself any longer. I couldn't pretend that she was someone she wasn't and couldn't expect her to behave as I wanted her to behave.
I thought now was the time to clear the air, now was the time to tell her that there was no hard feelings. To explain that we had both struck out. That we had both tried for something that the other couldn't give. We both needed to give different things to each other and get different things back. That we had shared some good times together, but that ultimately we were incompatible with each other.
So I phoned and she wasn't in, so I left a message, but she never called back. And I waited for her to show up at the club, but she never came. I called again and again, but she didn't return any of them. I eventually stopped, knowing that she believed that I was still chasing after her, that I still wanted to renew our doomed relationship.
And so I never got a chance to tell her that I was still fond of her, that I wished her well and that I wanted us to still be friends.
I never got a chance to resolve all that ill feeling between us. It was left festering and made the scars take longer to heal.
I never got a chance to tell her that at some level I would always love her, but that we could never make it together. I never got a chance to say goodbye.


Chapter 10
----------

A month later I woke up and realized that I'd spent the last few weeks of my life, since my break up with Alexandra, mopping around doing nothing with my life. At first I felt such relief that I'd ended it with her, but later on more and more I'd been unable to get her out of my mind. I think I was half hoping that she'd come running back to me with tears streaming down her face begging for forgiveness, though I knew in reality that wasn't going to happen.
I looked at myself in the mirror and said something along the lines of, "Fuck me if I'm going to spend the rest of my life waiting for that bitch to come running back to me." I looked at the sunshine outside, "I've tried to make it work with her and she's made it perfectly clear that she's not interested in me." I took a deep breath, "There are millions of girls in the world, most of them more attractive than her." Though looking back I think that last statement might have been a bit over optimistic.
Anyway, I had a shower and got dressed. I even shaved, and over lunch decided to find someone else to share my life with, or at the very least to console myself with. I was going to find a nice sympathetic young woman, who'd feel soft and warm in my arms.
I went into town and wondered around the shops trying to find something I wanted to buy. I wasn't looking for anything in particular, it was just that I felt somewhat depressed and there's nothing for lifting my spirits than spending a month's disposable income in one afternoon. I start feeling near the edge of safety knowing I have no money left to spend. The trouble with credit cards is that it tends to be next month's disposable income that I spend!
But that day I just wasn't in the mood. Maybe I wasn't depressed enough. Or maybe I was more depressed than I thought I was. Even the computer games in the Virgin Megastore couldn't tempt me. And that's normally a sure fire way of getting me to depart with my money.
I guess I was feeling on edge already. It must of been the full moon or something, because I just couldn't get interested enough in anything to want to buy it. Nothing flared my interest. Or rather my mind was only on one thing, finding someone to take my mind off Alexandra.
I ended up in the Gallery of Photography. They were showing an exhibition by some guy called Tony Ryan, who I'd never heard of before. Apparently he'd spent six months living with some working class families in Dublin and had produced thirty, or so, 3 by 5 foot glossy color prints documenting their lives.
One critic had described them as "overblown snapshots of uninteresting family life", and had used the word "patronizing" frequently in his review. I won't say what I thought of them, as the artist might sue me for liable. But let's just say that the critic wasn't far wrong.
However I stopped and looked at each one, partly so I could make my own judgment of them, and partly as I'd discovered early on in my career that galleries are a very good place to meet interesting people (even better than supermarket and launderettes). And to maximize your chances of meeting someone you have to spent some time there, rather than just walking in, glancing at some of the exhibits and walking out again.
Half way along the wall there was a little table with a comments book on it. I very seldom write or read those comments, but as I walked in I noticed an exceeding attractive girl, with long blond hair tied back in a French plait writing in it. So as I passed I stopped to look. The last entry was "Jasmine Smith: Pathetic".
The photographs didn't hold my interest for very long either. But as I walked out I saw the same girl browsing in the little book shop they have just inside the entrance. So I decided to do some browsing of my own.
However I couldn't keep my interest on the books either. I kept looking up to look at her, though she always had her nose in a book when I did so. I had started at the opposite end of a rack to her and we both slowly worked our way towards the centre, getting closer and closer to each other. Finally we were standing beside each other. I could feel her presence, though now that we were so close I couldn't bring myself to look at her.
She put the book she'd been looking at back on the shelve and started to turn away.
"Excuse me," I spoke before I knew what had happened. "But are you Jasmine Smith."
"Yes," she looked puzzled.
"It's just that I was reading the comments book," I quickly explained. "I saw you writing in it and I assumed that you'd be the last entry and I'd like to agree with you that the exhibition is pathetic."
"Thanks," she smiled. "What did you write in it."
"Oh," I shrugged. "Nothing, I never do."
"You just read them," she said. "And never bother to write anything?"
"Well," I admitted. "I usually don't read them either."
"But you made an exception in my case," she smiled.
"Well, yes," I said, beginning to wonder if I'd done the right thing in talking to her.
"Then you can make an exception and write something as well," she started to walk towards it. "Come on," she didn't look back to see if I was following.
But I was. I didn't much choice but to follow her. She picked up the pen and, turning to me as I stopped beside her, handed it to me.
"Off you go," she said.
"But why?" I asked.
"I just think it's unfair that people should read them without adding any of their own," she said.
"OK" I shrugged and bent down to add a comment. I didn't give it much thought then but I've just realized that ever since I always write comments in the comments books.
Nobody else had written anything in the book since Jasmine's entry, so I wrote, "Kevin Stanley: I agree, Jasmine".
She looked over my shoulder as I wrote. "Kevin," she said. "That's a nice name."
"So is Jasmine," I replied and immediately thought, that's a stupid thing to say.
We looked at each other for a moment. Then I looked away not able to think of anything to say.
"Do you fancy a drink?" she asked. "I know a very good wine bar just around the corner."
I swallowed hard, and tried to keep my voice casual. "OK," I replied, my knees starting to shake a little.
I can't remember the name of the bar. I haven't been in the Temple Bar area of Dublin for months, and I'm not about to interrupt my writing of this novel to go and find out what it's called. However I do remember that it was beside a Barbers in which I once got a very bad haircut. I could have made up a name and avoided writing this paragraph. But I decided to include it to up the number of words in this novel, because I have been told that most international best-sellers have at least One Hundred Thousand words in them.
Anyway it was a small poky place with a couple of tables outside and about half a dozen tables and a narrow bar packed inside. Jasmine and I sat a small table at the back. It was dark, but there was enough light that we could still see each other clearly. Jasmine picked up the wine list and quickly scanned it.
"Do you know much about wine?" she looked up from it.
"I know that I like Muscatel and Cote de Rhone and a few other names," I shrugged. I was going to add "And that Spanish wine tastes like piss", but decided that she might like it, so I'd better not. "But I couldn't name a single vineyard," I added.
"Split a bottle of Cote de Rhone with you," she offered.
"OK," I smiled back.
The waitress came over and took our order.
There were a couple of moments of silence. Then I said, "So, do you come here often then."
She laughed softly. "If you only knew the number of times that line has actually been tried on me by morons," she shook her head, "you wouldn't try to make a joke about it."
"I have an offbeat sense of humor," I half explained, half apologized . "So if I insult you I'm probable trying to be funny."
"Yeah, I remember," she smiled.
"You remember?" I had a sudden sinking feeling, does she know me from somewhere?
"You really don't remember, do you?" her smile broadened.
"Eh, probably," I didn't remember her at all. "I just need a bit of prompting."
"We did a programming course together," she said.
"Ah," it began to come back to me now. "In Rathmines."
"No, in liberty hall," her smile faded.
"Shit!" suddenly I remembered her. "Jasmine Smith. You used to always hang around with Mary Brown and Emma Cocks."
"Yes," she nodded. "That's right."
"You used to have short hair," I said.
"Yes," she ran her hand across the top of her head. " Really tight. It looked dreadful."
"No it didn't," I replied. "But it made you look completely different."
"Well I really wanted to look 'Hard' back then," she smiled.
Then I began to laugh. It was a sudden release of nervous energy that I couldn't control.
She looked at me. "What is it?" she half smiled.
I couldn't answer her, I was laughing too much.
"What's wrong?" she was unsure how to react to my sudden fit.
I took a deep breath. "It's OK," I held up my hand. "It's just that..." And I started to laugh again. I had been steeling myself to impress this beautiful stranger, to sweep her off her feet. And then I find that she already knows me, that all the adrenalin pumping through my veins wasn't needed. Well I just couldn't stop myself from laughing.
"What?" she leant forward smiling, even though she didn't know why.
"It's just that I didn't remember you," I started to explain. "That's not the funny bit. That's just me being a fool again." I took a deep breath and stopped laughing. "But I thought that I was being some sort of macho stud by chatting up this beautiful woman. A complete stranger, like." I laughed again, "And then to find that you knew me already." She didn't see the humor, I shrugged "Well it was just... so... typical."
"I see," she sat back and relaxed. "You were never much of a macho stud."
"Thanks a lot!" I faked indignation.
"Oh. No," she put her fingers to her lips. "I didn't mean it like that." She looked down, "I meant I liked you because you weren't a macho..." she shrugged, "chauvinistic... pig." The last word was barely whispered.
"Well, thank you," I replied. "That's one of the nicest things anybody has ever said to me."
She looked up and we laughed.
The waitress came back with the wine and a couple of glasses. She put a glass in front of each of us and poured a taste of wine into mine. I smiled at Jasmine and gestured at the glass. "You ordered," I said.
She reached over and took the glass.
"Oh. I'm sorry," the waitress was embarrassed.
Jasmine sip the wine, said, "That's fine," and took the bottle from the waitress. Who quickly retreated behind the bar.
Jasmine poured some wine for me and filled her own glass. "So, what have you been doing for the last six years?"
"Oh I got a job when I finished the course," I smiled ruefully. "With a company which went bankrupt four months after I joined."
She smiled. "Yeah, Irish software companies do that a lot."
"Well," I continued. "I went to London and worked for a couple of places over there. I ended up in a merchant bank. Decided I didn't want to become the type of person I was working with. So came home to become an unemployed writer."
"Wow," she smiled. "Six years in one breath."
I laughed.
"And a complete jump in lifestyle," she said, "from a hard working software genius to an 'unemployed writer'."
"Yeah," I nodded.
"Just one thing, Kevin," she asked. "Exactly what is an unemployed writer?"
We smiled at each other. "It means that I gave up my job to devote all my time to writing. But as I haven't published anything I have no income, so I'm penniless and unemployed," I shrugged.
"So what do you write?" she sipped her wine.
"Well I've written a few short stories. And I finished a SF novel last year. Which nobody wanted to publish and which when I read it now really stinks," I smiled. "And I've been working for the last few months on another novel, which is light years ahead of anything I've written before."
"What's the current novel about?" she leant forward.
My smile widened. "It's about a guy who falls in love with this girl, who doesn't fall in love with him," I said. "Then another girl falls in love with him. And he starts going with her to seek some solace and comfort." I filled my voice with irony, "And to ease the pain of his broken heart."
She laughed with me.
"Autobiographical, is it?" she asked.
"Well," I waved my hand. "It's vaguely based on one or two things that happened to me in the dim and distant past. And," I added, "lots of things which might have happened to me if I'd done the type of stupid things the 'Hero' of my novel does."
"Oh," her eyebrows arched. "What type of stupid things does he do?"
"Well," I smiled. "He mistakes lust for love, and physical intimacy with... " I rolled my hands as I searched for the words, "...a deeper, more meaning full communication." I shrugged again, "He makes the mistake of thinking that because this girl has sex with him it means that she loves him." I leaned forward, "Which maybe she does, but she expresses it in a form that he can't understand. And he expresses his love for her in a form which she can't understand or accept as being valid."
"Boy!" she gently shook her head. "That sounds like one hell of a 'heavy weight' novel, full of angst and deep introspective passages."
I nodded, "Yeah, there's a lot of that in it. What you might call 'heavy reading'. But," I smiled, "It's interspersed with lots of steamy sex scenes to keep the reader interested."
"Steamy sex scenes," she sipped her drink. "That must make for interesting research."
I sat back and laughed.
"Speaking of research," I looked across at her. "I have an interesting question you might be able to help me with."
"Oh yeah," she smiled back. "This sounds serious. But go ahead anyway."
I took a deep breath and asked, "How important is it for a woman to have an orgasm when she has sex?"
"Why do you want to know that?" she seemed more amused than shocked.
"Oh, I just want to know so that I can make more believable female characters in my novels," I really wanted an indication of how important it had been to Alexandra. She had never openly admitted to me that she had come. And the only time I'd ever mentioned it directly to her she had slapped my face.
"Well, I can't speak for all women," She toyed with her wine glass. "But I suppose that it really depends on the man. Or rather on how the women feels about the man." She looked up at me, "And of course how experienced she is. If she expects the earth to move every time or if she's used to little warm feelings."
"Little warm feelings?" I smiled at her.
She shrugged and looked around the restaurant. "Well that's how it sometimes feels to me."
The was a lull in the whole Bar and we where both lost in our own thoughts for a moment. I mentally kicked myself for thinking of Alexandra when I was trying to forget about her.
"So tell me then," Jasmine looked across at me. "What does it feel like for a man when a woman fakes her orgasm?"
I smiled at her, "Well if she does it good enough he'll never know. Will he?"
"And if she's no good at it," she smiled back.
In my most paranoid moments I'd often thought that Alexandra had really faked her orgasms, but could never understand why she would. Especially when she supposedly hadn't even considered that we were having sex. But if she had faked them, she was good at it, or at least good enough to fool me.
"If any girl I've made love to was faking it then she was good enough to fool me," I shrugged my half truth. "So I don't really know."
We were both leaning closer to each other across the table, secure in our intimate conversation in the subdued atmosphere.
"But the best thing about making love to a girl, for me anyway, is making her come," I remembered the feeling of elation I used to feel as Alexandra tensed in my arms. "Especially if I'm using my fingers or even better my tongue." I was lost in my memories of Alexandra coming for a moment.
Then I looked up at Jasmine. She was smiling at me.
"You mean that you don't like coming yourself?" she teased.
I smiled back. "I mean that my own orgasm would only get in the way of my appreciation of her's," then I realized that wasn't right either. "I mean," I added. "When you both come together it does make it better. Both from the physical point of view and intellectually to know that she is coming as well. But," I searched for the words to explain just what I meant. "When you make somebody come... When I give head to somebody it's a completely different feeling, to actually know without doubt that you've really hit the right spot, to have her come when you're so intimate with her." I sat back and caught my breath. "Well it's just great."
She thought for a moment. "You mean you like to be able to enjoy the ego trip of making her come."
"Well," I replied. "Don't you like the ego trip of a guy coming when you swallow his prick?"
"Touché,” she leant back and laughed.
We were both silent for a moment. Then a thought occurred to me.
"I notice that you didn't have to ask how important it is for a guy to come when he's making love." I gave her a sly smile.
She grinned back. "I've never heard of a guy not coming when he had sex."
"Well, I've never made love to a woman without her coming, But that doesn't mean that I don't think it doesn't happen." I shrugged, "OK so sometimes the earth didn't move. But she always had an orgasm."
She smiled broadly, "Well you obviously know how to do it properly."
"Well thank you," I nodded to her. "But flattery aside, you seem to think that the man always comes. Were as I..." I stopped and backtracked quickly. "...I know that it's quite possible for a man to make love to a woman and not come."
She nodded thoughtfully, "Well it's physically possible." Then she looked up, "But what would think of a man who thought only of his own pleasure and didn't bother if the woman came or not?"
"Well I'd say he was a selfish little bastard." I smiled, "With the emphasis on the little."
She laughed softly. "Well, that is what I'd think of a woman who'd let a man make love to her and wouldn't return the complement."
The conversation moved on and all thought of Alexandra left my head, without any effort on my part. Suddenly I was enjoying the company of a beautiful woman with no thought of any perverted power games, or feelings that I was being used or I was using her. We were just enjoying ourselves.
Jasmine and I did a lot of laughing over the next few hours, as we joked about the times we had together while learning how to program computers. Then we told each other about the various jobs we'd had and the people we'd worked with. And I began to wonder how I could have forgotten her. Or rather, as we were never very close friends, how I could have overlooked her in the first place.
When she invited me back to her place I accepted, with no thought that I might end up spending the night sleeping with her. Though looking back I can't see how I could have overlooked that either.
She lived in a small, old terrace house in Rathmines, just down from the canal. And, the thought flared in my mind, just five minutes’ walk from Alexandra's flat.
"This looks quite nice," I said as she ushered me inside and opened the door from the small hallway into the sitting room.
"Thanks," she smiled. "But you should have seen it before, or even while, I was decorating."
"Was it bad," I looked around the room as she pulled shut the curtains. It was decorated in whites and creams and rich browns, I couldn't imagine it stripped bare waiting for wallpaper and paint.
"It was empty for years before I moved in and it has taken me two and a half years to get it to this sate," she switched on a standard lamp beside the sofa and switched off the main light.
"Is there much left to do?" I asked.
"No, most of its finished by now," she took off her coat and held her arm to me. "Can I take your coat?"
"Sure," I took it off and handed it to her.
"Make yourself at home, while I see to these," she went back out into the hall.
I sat on the sofa and automatically started to take my shoes off, I usually lounge about in my bare feet and it shows that I'm feeling relaxed when my feet are naked.
Jasmine came back carrying a bottle of wine and a couple of glasses. She smiled as she sat beside me. "Clean feet," she smiled down at them.
"Well," I replied. "I only took a shower this afternoon."
"Good, I hate smelly people," she handed me a glass and started to pour. "Say when."
"When what," I joked.
"When I've poured enough into the glass," she continued to pour.
"Can't you tell that by the size of the glass," I smiled.
"Not everybody's so greedy that they want a full glass," she stopped pouring, but she'd filled my glass.
"Thank you," I squeezed her shoulder lightly. "But I do have to admit that I tend towards being a little greedy."
She was pouring wine into her own glass.
"What I need," I looked at her. "Is someone who'll teach me good manners?"
She looked up at me and we held each other’s gaze for a second. Then we both looked away.
"So," she put the bottle on the coffee table in front of us. "Here's to you finding someone who'll polish your manners for you."
We clicked glasses.
"Cheers," I sipped my drink.
"Cheers," she replied, then sat back on the sofa.
I sipped my drink, but couldn't think of anything to say.
"So," she put her glass down on the coffee table, her shoulder brushing against mine as she sat back. "How close do I have to sit to you before you'll put your arm around me?"
I smiled, "Well I suppose you're close enough now." I slipped my arm around her shoulders and rubbed my nose against her ear.
She half turned to face me and put her hand to my cheek. "Hmm," she ran her fingers along my jaw. "You've a nice strong jaw line."
"You smell delicious," I brushed my lips against her's and rubbed noses.
We kissed. At first just using our lips and taking short pecks at each other. Then I used the tip of my tongue and her lips parted and sucked it inside. And her hand was at the back of my head pulling me closer, her other hand had somehow squeezed between me and the back of the sofa to reach around and hug me. My hand tightened taking hold of her hair.
But my other hand held my glass, still half full of wine. I tried to ease my way towards the coffee table to put it down without spilling it.
Jasmine sat back a little.
"I sorry," I gestured at the glass. "I didn't want to get this all over you."
"That's OK, Kevin," she smiled. "If you don't want to ruin my sweatshirt I'll take it off." She did pulled up up over her head and off her arms to reveal that she had nothing on underneath.
I hadn't noticed that she wasn't wearing a bra, but I could feel a tension in my loins at the thought. My eyes locked on her breasts and I'm sure my tongue was hanging out.
"Come on," she said, taking hold of my hand and standing up.
I followed as she led me out of the room and up the stairs, turning out the lights as she went, and into her bedroom. She sat on the bed and smiled up at me.
I sat beside her and put my arm around her shoulder. We kissed, our arms embracing each other. Then suddenly I felt very awkward. I remembered the last time I'd done this with Alexandra and I froze.
Jasmine looked puzzled.
"Listen..." I started to talk but didn't know what I wanted to say. "It's just that..."
"Shush,” she whispered, putting her finger to my lips. "It doesn't matter now." She took my hand and put it to her breast, "Just relax and don't worry about anything." She squeezed my hand against herself. "OK" she said.
I nodded, but I wasn't really listening to her words. My eyes were entrapped by the sight of my hand on her breast and the sensation of her warm skin under my fingers was rapidly filling my brain. I leant down and brushed my lips across the top of her breast, then a little further down to suck her nipple.
She lay back on the bed. I followed her down, keeping her breast in my mouth. She slid her hand down my body and grasped my erection through the denim of my jeans. I pushed her breast out of my mouth, then ran my tongue down and across and up to her other nipple to suck that breast in. She bent her head down to lick my ear.
I brought my hand across from her hip, and unbuttoning her jeans, slipped my hand inside. She sucked my ear into her mouth. I put my hand to her crotch, feeling the heat from her vagina through her damp panties. She brought her hand to the other side of my head and clasped a handful of my hair. I pushed her jeans down. She lifted her hips to let them slide onto her thighs. I brought my hand back up to stroke her. She wiggled under me, squeezing my head between her tongue and her hand.
I could feel she was very aroused, so I slipped my hand into her panties and ran my finger along her slit. She sighed. I slipped my finger inside, running the length of my finger against her clitoris. Her breath came hot against my ear. I rocked my finger in and out, then slipped another inside.
She moaned, her vagina tightening around my fingers. I thrust my fingers in deeper, pressing my thumb against her clitoris. Her body tensed against mine and I lifted my head from her breast to look at her face. She opened her mouth and we kissed, her tongue responding aggressively.
I thrust into her and she responded, her body rocking against mine in time. Our tongues wrapped around each other. Her arms where around my shoulders, hugging me tightly, pulling down each time I thrust inside her. My mouth slipped from hers and I buried my face against the pillow, as her breath came hot against my ear.
She moaned, her body tensing as she did so. I continued to work my hand. Then she moaned again, longer this time. And again, deeper. And again, her back arching. And again, her body lifting against mine. Then she convulsed, her whole body as hard as iron. My fingers squeezed inside, but I still rubbed my thumb.
Then she relaxed, going completely and utterly limp under me. I took my hand away and pushed myself up to look at her. Her mouth was open as her breathing slowed, but her eyes were closed.
"Oh, God," she smiled. "You sure know what to do with those fingers of yours."
She opened her eyes and I smiled at her. "Any time I can be of service."
She laughed softly, then hugged me hard. We kissed lightly and her hands rubbed up and down my back.
"Roll over," she kissed me.
"Why?" I kissed back.
We kissed again.
"Guess," she smiled as she brought her hands underneath me to push me over.
I rolled onto my back and rested my shoulders against the headboard. She sat up beside me.
"I won't be needing these now," she said as she slipped her hands inside her panties. She knelt up, pushing them and her jeans down. And then sat down with her legs across me to pull them off and toss them onto the floor.
"Nice legs," I said.
"Nice?" she smiled, running her hands down her thighs. "They're brilliant. My best feature." She took hold of my hand and press it palm first against her thigh, "Here, feel that." She rubbed it along her skin. "Soft, humm?"
"Very," I agreed .
She sat across my legs. Taking my other hand and pressing it against her other thigh, she ran them down and inside and back up to brush my fingertips against her pubic hair. Then out around and down again. She slipped her hands down my arms and across to unbutton my jeans. I continued to stroke her thighs as she pulled my jeans open.
"Hey," she said. "I think he's going to sleep again."
"Humm," I'd felt my erection had softened as soon as she'd come.
"I'll have to waken him up again," she leant forward and kissed my penis through my underpants.
I could feel my balls tighten immediately.
"Humm," she whispered. "Still a bit sleepy."
She knelt up and started to pull my jeans down. I lifted my hips to let them slip down. She pulled them off and tossed them on top of hers.
"They can get to know each other," she leant down to speak to my penis. "While I get to know you."
She slipped her hands inside my underpants, hooking her thumbs in the legs and pushing her fingers up to pull the waistband down.
"Humm," she looked up at my face. "Your pubic hair is a lot darker." She smiled, "You don't dye you hair, do you?"
"No," I smiled back, slightly bemused.
"Good, I like piebalds," she looked down again and slipped my underpants off. She looked back up at my penis, but it still lay limp across my abdomen, slightly enlarged, but far from stiff.
She ran her fingers across the sole of my foot. I squirmed at the tickles.
Smiling she said, "Tender soles. But the skin at your heels and the balls of your feet is rough." She looked up at me, "Do you often walk around in bare feet?"
"Only around the house," I replied. "I always put shoes and stockings on when I go out."
"Sensible lad," she looked down at my feet again as she continued to stroke them. "That's why you've got such good arches."
I squeezed my toes as she stroked my soles again. She slipped her fingers up to push against them.
"Humm, strong," she pushed again and I let them open. "Strong and long." She glanced up at my penis again, but looked back down at my feet quickly. She ran her finger along the toes on my right foot and I closed them around it. She pulled gently, but not hard enough to free her finger. "Hmmm," she smiled. then lent down and kissed my toes. I relaxed my grip and she sucked each toe into her mouth, one at a time. She glanced up, then did the same with my other foot.
Then her hands caressed my ankles, then my shins and calves. She bent my right leg, running her hands up and down it. "Nice, strong and hard muscles," she whispered. "I like hairy legs," she lent close and brushed her lips gently along my shin, while caressing my calf with both hands. She pushed my leg down, knee still bent and repeated the process with my left leg.
Then she slipped her fingers inside the bend my knees, her fingers pressed between calf and thigh. She slowly kissed and licked and sucked my knees, first my right, then my left. Next she worked her way up my thighs, switching between them, again and again.
It was only when she reached the top that I realized that my penis was hard again. Smiling she lightly kissed each testicle. Then licked under them and sucked them into her mouth. She held them there for a long moment. Her eyes closed as she caressed them with her tongue.
Then she opened her mouth and sat up slightly, her eyes locked on my erection.
"I think they're full enough now," her voice was horse.
My mouth was dry. I swallowed, but didn't speak.
She tore her eyes away to look up into mine. Then keeping her arms and legs to either side of me she crawled up to kiss me. The tip of my penis just brushing against her stomach as our lips met.
We kiss, using just our lips. I opened my mouth to use my tongue but she straightened to to kneel astride me, moist vagina poised over my erection.
Slowly she lowered herself. She didn't use her hands to guide me inside. She didn't need to, I entered her effortlessly. As she sank down I sat up, reaching around her to hug her close. She put her arms around my neck and gasped as she pushed herself all the way home.
She wrapped her legs around my hips. And I could feel myself thrusting up into her. I could feel her pressing down all around me. A moan escaped from my lips as my penis seemed to catch fire. She arched her back, pressing her body against mine. Her fingers dug into my shoulders. I breathed her breath. She started to rock back and forward and the fire spread to my balls. I started to trust in time with her and she smiled.
Then she lay back on the bed, bringing me down on top of her. I pushed my legs out behind us and she squeezed even tighter with hers. I rested my weight on my elbows as I thrust into her. She wiggled and rocked back in time. I pushed deep into her and she squeezed me ever so tightly.
The fire in my loins got hotter and hotter. The tension got harder and harder. The sound of our moans, the feel of our bodies, the trust and counter trust merged into background haze as my orgasm built. I pushed and pushed and pushed. It burned and burned, harder and harder, tighter and tighter, until it snapped and I flowed into her. A burning fire that stretched into infinity, thrusting and thrusting, squirting and squirting, until I was empty and exhausted, and collapsed on top of her.
I lay there as our breathing slowed. Our sweat cooling as it flowed together. My heartbeat slowed and she stretched her legs down and relaxed. I started to cry. I don't know why, but I cried.
"What's the matter?" she whispered as she stroked the tears from my face.
But I couldn't speak. This huge knot of emotion had just welled up inside me.
She pulled my face to her shoulder and held me close. "It's all right, Kevin," she cooed. "It's alright."
And I fell asleep, my tears mingling with our sweat, feeling safe in her arms.


Chapter 11
----------

I woke up alone, with the sun streaming in the window and bed clothes knotted around my legs. It was just as I was untangling myself that Jasmine came into the room. She was wearing a pair of blue silk pajamas and carrying a tray. Her blond hair was brushed and tied back in a pony tail again. She put the tray down on the bed, and I saw that it carried toast and marmalade, coffee and orange juice and scrambled eggs and smoked salmon. My mouth watered.
"Breakfast in bed," she smiled, "is all part of the service."
I smiled back and reached for a glass of orange juice. "Thanks," I said and gulped it down.
We munched in silence for a while.
Then she said, "I don't make a habit of this, Kevin."
I looked up at her but she was looking down at her eggs.
"Neither do I Jasmine," I replied. "In fact," I sat back against the head board. "This is the first time I've ever had breakfast in bed with a beautiful woman."
She looked up and smiled at me. "I would have thought that you'd have had a lot of offers."
"Well I've had my share," I shrugged. "But I haven't taken up very many." I reached for another slice of toast. "I guess it must be my repressed Catholic upbringing, but I've always thought that sex was something special that unites two people and cements the bonds of love and trust between them."
Jasmine had stopped eating.
"I've never considered lust to be a good enough reason to have sex with someone," I said and then looked away.
"You're looking for something serious, then?" she said.
"I know that I could get very used to having you in my life," I looked back up to her. "And very used to being in your life."
"I used to really fancy you, Kevin," she spoke very softly. "I still do so I guess it could be love." She shrugged, "But you never seemed to even notice me back then."
"I was a fool then," I replied and we looked into each other's eyes. "But I've grown up since and now I realize what I've been missing all these years."
"So what do you want now, Kevin," she asked.
"I want someone to share my life with and to grow old and have kids with," I said.
"So do I," she replied.
I leaned forward and put my hand to her cheek. "Do you think that we might be able to make it together?" I whispered.
She looked into my eyes. "Oh yes, Kevin." And we were in each other’s arms and we didn't care where the breakfast things spilt. We just crushed each other in our embrace for a long, timeless moment.
Then a thought flared in the back of my mind. "Does this mean that you've spent the last four years waiting for me?" I asked.
"What!" she sat back.
"It was just a thought," I smiled, but she didn't smile back.
"Typical man," she flared. "Thinking that women have nothing better to do than sit around waiting for one of you to come into our lives and make us complete."
"Well," I looked down. "I've been waiting for someone to come into my life and make me complete." And I had found her. And she hadn't wanted me.
"Oh," the anger slipped from her voice. She leaned towards me and put her hand to the side of my neck. She kissed my cheek. "I think I might have been waiting," she said softly.
I put my arms around her and we hugged.
Then her lips where on mine and her tongue was in my mouth. And we kissed long and deep.
Her lips separated from mine and her tongue licked under my chin. I let my head roll back and she licked down across my throat. Her teeth pressed either side of my Adam's apple. She pulled my skin back and forth, took smaller and bigger bites, sucked and licked.
She raised her head and asked, "Do you like this as much as I do?"
"What?" I looked down.
"Having your throat, worked on," she kissed it lightly.
"You like having your throat chewed?" I asked, putting my hand on her neck.
"Yes," she smiled back.
I sat up and hooking my fingers behind her neck pushed my thumb against her throat. She fell back against my leg. I gently squeezed and released and squeezed my hand again.
"You ever make it with a vampire?" I asked.
She smiled. "No," she swallowed and I could feel her throat work as I gently held it.
I pulled her up and bent my head down to run my nose into her soft skin. I could feel the fast pulse in her jugular. I moved my thumb away and pinched some skin with my lips. Her breath hissed close to my ear. I moved my hand to the back of her head and ran my other down to cup her breast. I could feel the pulse in her neck on my lips and the pounding of her heart under my hand.
Opening my mouth I took as big a bite as I could. I sucked as much of her throat into my mouth as I could get. Then I ran my hand down her body and slipped my fingers into her vagina. I started to bite and suck and rub in time with each other. She put her hand to the back of my head and pressed my teeth even harder into her neck. While she ran her other hand down my body and gripped hard on my erection.
I worked on her for a timeless eternity, until she shuddered. I sat up a little and smiled down at her.
She returned the smile, then pushed me up and over onto my back. Straddling me, she crushed my hips between her tights, guiding me inside with one hand as she sank down, completely.
My arms where around her, one hand up to hook the opposite shoulder from behind, the other down to grasp her buttock. I tried to buck my hips. But she was a dead weight. A dead weight with my erection trapped gloriously inside her.
She started to move her hips, a rolling undulation. She gasped and I moaned as the ripples moved up my penis. She started a rhythm and I followed. We fell into a sea of sensual ecstasy and drowned in the depths of each other.
So once again I found myself caught up in an intense relationship at short notice. And this time the feelings seemed to be mutual. Or to be more truthful the situation was reversed. Jasmine was obviously head-over-heels in love with me. But I was still caught up on Alexandra. Ironic, no?
Yet maybe it was because I couldn't fit Jasmine into the "object of my love" box in my mind that I could relate to her properly. I wasn't constantly expecting her to behave in certain ways and being disappointed when she didn't. I wasn't expecting and so I didn't look for signs that she mightn't love me. and so I didn't find any. I was still hung up on the fact that Alexandra didn't love me, so all my insecurities were fully occupied by that and they didn't have any time to work their way into my relationship with Jasmine.
Even though I didn't categorize Jasmine as being the object of my love she fulfilled the criteria I wanted better that anybody else ever has. I found myself responding to her without having to force myself. And without having to explain away what she did in order to convince myself that she did love me. Maybe it was simply that she actually did love me and maybe I'd loved her a lot longer than I thought.
Over the next few months our relationship developed and deepened. We had so much in common, from politics and religion to how we liked to relax and enjoy ourselves. Oh in the small hours of the night when I woke up and couldn't get to sleep thoughts of Alexandra would come and plague me. But come the morning I could push all thought of her to the back of my mind again and once again focus on Jasmine.
Jasmine and I did so many things together. Not only going out on dates to the theatre and cinema, but being introduced to each other’s friends and relations. I thought her the basics of photography and she taught me how to play tennis. She even got me to help redecorate the spare bedroom. It got to the stage that I spent half my time living there.
Our relationship had gotten serious without me noticing or, more importantly, worrying about it. But I didn't think of moving in with her until Jasmine suggested it to me. It was a Saturday afternoon and we'd just got back from a shopping trip down town.
She flopped down on the sofa, while I fixed a couple of drinks for us.
"You know," she said as I handed her glass. "You've been sleeping here every weekend for the last six months."
I sipped my drink and nodded.
"And you've been shopping and cooking," she smiled. "And even doing some laundry."
"Yes?" I smiled back
She paused for a moment the asked, "So why the hell don't you just move in with me?"
"Because you haven't asked me," I replied.
"Well I'm asking now," she said.
"Well I think it's a great idea," I put my arm around her. "If you're sure?"
"I'm sure," she slipped her arms around me.
"Are you sure you're sure?" I pulled her closer.
"I'm very sure I'm sure," she tilted her head up towards mine and we kissed.
Then we kissed some more. Then we cuddled. Then we started to undress each other. Then we made love, long into the night.
I could write a whole book on the joys and tribulations of settling down to a life of domestic bliss with the woman you love, but it's not really within the scope of this narrative. You may feel that I'm wrong to dwell so much on the negative aspects of my relationship with Alexandra and to ignore the brilliant relationship I'm having with Jasmine, but I feel that there is more to be learnt from the mistakes we make than from the successes we have.
Anyway Jasmine has absolutely no intention of letting me fictionalize the intimate details of our personal lives and distributing them for all the world to read. Maybe if you tell all your friends that this is a really fantastic book and that they should go out and buy a copy for themselves I can persuade her to change her mind.
Anyway that first night that we lived together we celebrated in style. Smoked salmon, lobster, champagne and oysters for starters and a long, slow massage and love making session for after. Then we curled up together and let the oil and sweat soak into the sheets.
I fell into one of those heavy sleeps, where you get all sorts of weird dreams. I could feel Jasmine snuggling against me, but I couldn't stop myself from drifting deeper. And then dreaming.
In the dream there was a heavy, enclosing atmosphere. I was in a London tube station. I could feel the hot stuffy air closing in all around me. The oppressive, narrow little tunnels and platforms that they have, so that the system is permanently over crowded. And in order to change trains you have to walk up flights of stairs and along tunnels and down and around in a confusing three dimensional maze.
Alexandra was with me. We were walking along a narrow connecting tunnel and then we when down a flight of stairs and on to a platform. We stood at one end of the platform near to the tunnel where the train would come from. I think we were talking, but I can't remember what we said. I remember being uptight and anxious about her being there and not knowing why.
Then there was a rumble of an approaching train. And a blast of stale air was forced out of the mouth of the tunnel and the rumble built up to an overwhelming roar. Then a Piccadilly line train zoomed out of the tunnel and screeched to a halt. And there were crowds on the platform forcing their way on and off the train.
Alexandra and I stood alone in the surging crowd and I realized that we were here to say goodbye to each other. But I didn't want to say goodbye. And I think I might have been crying. Then Alexandra turned and walked off. She didn't get on the train she walked off the platform by an exit beside the train tunnel. I turned and walked along through the crowd as the train pulled away and disappeared.
I followed the crowd along the platform. Then I was reading the signs, trying to figure out which tunnel I should walk along to get to where I was going. It was difficult because of all the people pushing and shoving. And I felt like I did when I first came to London, not knowing which lines to get or which stations to go to. And it was all terribly confusing.
Then I was riding the escalator up out of the station. But the weird thing was that I had no shoes on. I could feel the hard metal under my feet, cold even though I had socks on. The groves in the step pressing into the soles of my feet. And as I neared the top and the air got lighter, I became increasingly frightened of not stepping off on time and catching my toes in the workings of the escalator.
The most unusual thing about the last sequence is that I was wearing stockings without any shoes on. I never do that. I either walk around bare foot, or possibly in sandals with no stockings, or with shoes and stockings on. But I never walk around wearing just stockings. And while when I was a kid I used to be frightened of getting caught in escalators they are so common now that I haven't thought about it in years.
Needless to say before I reached the top and had to jump off I woke up. I found my face pressed against Jasmine's ear, with my mouth full of her hair. I propped myself up on my elbow and looked down at her in the dim light. She turned her head towards me in her sleep. Her lips slightly parted, her breathing calm and even.
And I thought, she's so beautiful. How can I be dreaming of Alexandra, even if it was just to say goodbye, while lying next to someone who is as beautiful on the inside as she is on the outside. How could I betray Jasmine, even in my dreams?
She sighed and I bent down and kissed her lips.
"I think I really love you," I whispered and stroked her cheek.
"Hmmm," she murmured and rolled towards me.
I brushed the hair from her ear and kissed her there. Her arm fell across my ribs. I took her ear into my mouth and worked my tongue and lips all over it. Her shallow breath began to grow stronger against my neck. I brushed my lips along the side of her neck, rubbing the palm of my hand up and down the side of her body. She swallowed, then opened her lips a little more. I ran my tongue gently over them. I moved down and took her throat in my mouth. I could feel her pulse under my teeth as I softly bit down using a steady pressure that wouldn't break her skin. My hand slipped between her legs and I put my length of my finger against her.
She rolled over onto her back, arms and legs slightly spread. I moved my mouth onto her breast. Her pubic hair brushed against my wrist as I started to make small circular motions with my hand. She slowly moistened and opened as I continued to gently arouse her. Her heart beat and breathing speeded up and my erection grew.
Her arms came up and squeezed me tight and my finger slipped inside her.
"Hmmm, yes," she said and bend forward to kiss my ear.
I looked up at her and said, "So you are awake."
"I am now," she smiled.
And we kissed, our tongues probing deep as I slipped between her legs and got on top of her. I brought my arms up to rest on my elbows. She ran her hand down to guide my erection inside her and I started to trust into her, her body undulating under me as my climax built inside me. Then she squeezed tight, her thighs clamping my hips, her fingers pressing into my back. And I came, a short sharp orgasm that penetrated right to my soul.
She squeezed one last time and sighed, "Oh, yeah!"
I nuzzled her shoulder as she relaxed under me.
"I was dreaming that you were making love to me?" she murmured.
"Maybe you're still dreaming," I whispered back, withdrawing from her and lying on my side.
"Good," she sighed. "I love these types of dreams." She rolled onto her side to face me.
"What type's that?" I slipped my hand down her body to her bottom.
"The type where you're lying naked next to me," she smiled.
I squeezed my fingers, "You want to go again?"
"Hmm?" she wiggled against me, rubbing her hip across my penis. "I might," she smiled. "But you don't seem to."
I smiled back. "You can't judge what my intentions are solely by the state of my erection," I explained. "He doesn't control me, I control him."
Her smiled broadened, "Oh yes?"
"Yes," I assured. "Even if he's completely exhausted that doesn't stop me from making love to you. My fingers are always stiff and my tongue always capable of a lick or two."
"A lick or two?" she raised herself up onto her elbow and cupped my head in her hand. "I don't really know what you mean by that," a mischievous smile flickered about her lips as she leant down to kiss my collar bone.
I pulled her shoulder towards me. "Lie face down," I said. "I want to be on top."
"Face down?" she asked.
"Yeah, come on." I pulled my arm from under her and gently pushed her down.
She complied and I rolled on top of her, pushing my legs between her's to part them. Then I pushed my hands under her hips and ran them up to her breasts. I started to rub my whole body against her, squeezing her between my arms and my chest and making swimming motions with my shoulders.
"Hmm," she whispered. "It's not fair, I can't touch you."
"I don't think you could get much more of your body to touch me at any one time," I spoke to her shoulder as I rubbed my ear across her head.
"I mean with my hands," she replied as she reached behind her to grab one of my buttocks with each hand.
I smiled, but didn't say anything about her proving herself wrong. I just concentrated on building up a steady rhythm.
Her legs squeezed mine and I pressed back to keep them wide apart. The action of my body was causing my penis to rub against her and we were both becoming aroused. I continued to rub it against her as I became stiffer and she dilated and moistened. I was rubbing my shaft along the length of her, pressing her lips apart.
She started to moan. At first randomly, then as the rhythm built they came in time with my strokes. First every five or six then more and more frequently as I delivered longer and more powerful thrusts. Then without conscious thought I was pumping into her. As I pushed in she squeezed tight and exhaled loudly. Again and again, getting faster and harder each time.
I squeezed harder with my hands as well, pulling her tighter and tighter to me, as I pushed inside her harder and harder. She squeezed back, her hands clamped tightly to my buttocks. So that as I pulled back each time her shoulders were pulled up and as I pushed back down her body arched under me.
As the rhythm built her breaths merged into longer and longer moans. And the tension build higher and higher. Then the pressure exploded and she shuddered from head to toe. Every muscle in her body convulsed. I'd never felt such a total orgasm before.
Then every muscle in her body relaxed and I snuggled down on top of her. She let out a long sigh and I could see the corner of her mouth curl up in a smile.
"Thanks," she whispered.
I lay on top of her. My face buried in a nest of her hair. Each of my hands sandwiched tightly between the mattress and one of her breasts. My legs caught between her's. My penis already gone soft, with just the tip of my foreskin still caught in her lips. I'd never felt such total and utter contentment before.


Chapter 12
----------

Needless to say that contentment didn't last. I kept dreaming about Alex. I tried not to, but did you ever try to make yourself not to dream about something. it's probably the surest way of ending up dreaming about it. She really bugged me. She'd gotten under my skin and try as I might I couldn't seem to get away from her.
I tried not to let my affliction with Alexandra spoil my relationship with Jasmine, but I don't think I succeeded. I think Jasmine knew that there was something bothering me and then one Saturday at breakfast I found out for sure.
"Who's Alex?" Jasmine asked as put her empty coffee cup down.
"Alex?" I looked up from the paper to her.
"You talk in your sleep," she sat back in her chair and pushed her cereal bowl away from her. "And you always mention a girl called Alex."
"What do I say about her," I smiled.
Jasmine kept a straight face. "That she's gorgeous. and she tastes nice. And that she has very suckable breasts."
"Oh," I looked down at the paper again.
Jasmine's voice softened. "Is she an ex-girlfriend?"
"Yes," I nodded.
"Is she an ex-lover?" she asked.
"Yes," I replied.
After a pause Jasmine asked, "Was she special?"
"She was special to me," I said. "But I wasn't all that special to her."
There was silence for a moment.
"Do you still love her," she spoke very softly.
"Hardly," I looked up at her, but she was looking away. "She's a fucked up little bitch that treated me with total and utter contempt."
"That doesn't stop you from loving her," she said.
"Jasmine," my heart was pounding. "I love you."
She said nothing.
I leant across the table to touch her, but she was too far away.
"I really do love you," I said.
She looked at me.
I stood and walked around to her side of the table. Her eyes never left me. I knelt beside her and took hold of her hand.
"I really do love you," I squeezed her hand. "You've got to believe me. I really do."
"Oh, I know you do," she put her arm around me and buried her head in my shoulder. "I know you do."
I hoped that would be the end of it, but as we finished lunch later that afternoon Jasmine brought up the subject again.
"I know a girl called Alex in the Tennis Club," Jasmine said. "About three inches shorter than me, long black hair, stunning green eyes."
I recognized her description. "Alex Murphy," I said.
"Alexandra Murphy," Jasmine nodded.
I didn't say anything, just looked down at my empty plate.
There was silence for a few moments then she said, "So she's your Ex-girlfriend."
"Yes," I admitted.
"Well I suppose that will please some of the other girls at the club," she mused.
"Why?" I looked up.
"There's a vicious rumor going around that she's gay," Jasmine said.
I gulped.
Jasmine smiled, "You seem surprised."
"Well..." I didn't know what to say it might explain a lot, but would open up a whole load of other questions. "Maybe that's why I could never understand her," I looked at Jasmine. "I might have been asking myself all the wrong questions."
"It never occurred to you before?" she asked.
"Well," I smiled. "My macho male ego always thinks that any girl who doesn't fall instantly in love with me must be gay," I shrugged, "Else how could she not find me attractive."
Jasmine laughed.
"But seriously," I continued. "No, it had never occurred to me."
"No I don't think she's gay either," Jasmine started to clear away the dishes.
"Oh. Why?" I helped her.
"Well," she smiled. "She's never made a pass at me." She kissed my cheek as I laughed, then started to stack the dishes in the sink.
Over the next few weeks Jasmine managed to get me to tell her the whole story of my relationship with Alexandra. At first I was reluctant to talk about. It was as much that I was unwilling to admit to myself what had happened as it was that I didn't want to tell her. But as I started to open up to her and explain what had happened it became clearer to me as well. And as I began to understand what had happened I became less uptight about it.
And because Jasmine was there to listen, not judging and not laughing because I'd made a fool of myself, made it easier. In fact I think it made us a lot closer than we had been. I opened up to her in a way that I'd never done with anybody before. And she opened up to me. As the Americans would say it was a very positive growth experience.
The most important parts where the conversations, more like monologues, where I finally pieced together what I had really felt for Alexandra. And once I'd come to terms with my feelings for her I could get on with my life and start loving Jasmine in the way that she deserved.
We where curled up in bed that night when Jasmine brought up the subject of Alexandra again.
"So what did it feel like to snuggle up with Alex like this?" she whispered.
I snorted. "We never slept together," I squeezed my arm around her.
"What?" Jasmine looked up at my face. "I thought you'd had sex."
"Oh, we had sex," I said. "But once we were finished she always kicked me out."
"Oh," she said.
"At least, I think we had sex," I continued.
"What's that mean, Kevin," she smiled. "Either you did or you didn't."
"Well," I explained. "I made love to her, but she never made love to me."
"You mean that she just lay on her back and let you pump away?" Jasmine asked.
"Oh, no. She was on top most of the time." I smiled, "You know how I like to lie on my back."
"Well, yes," she continued with her probing. "But if she was on top doing all the work, why do you say she didn't make love to you?"
"Well..." I paused, then realized that I had nothing to be ashamed of. "I never got to come."
"What?" she raised herself on her elbow to look at my face.
"I never got to orgasm," I said.
She paused for a moment while the thought sank in. Then asked, "How come?"
I looked at her for a moment, then realized that I had nothing to fear from telling her the truth. "I never got to penetrate her." I couldn't make out the expression on Jasmine's face in the dim light. "With my penis, I mean. I make her come with my fingers and tongue," my voice nearly broke. "But she never really showed any real interest in returning the compliment."
"Didn't you ask her?" she said.
"Oh, yes," I sighed. "I asked her if she'd give me head and she thought the idea was ridiculous. And when I asked her if she wanted to have sex with me she always say no. But every time we got back to her place after a date I'd always end up making love to her."
Jasmine was silent.
So I continued, "I remember one time having this really weird conversation where she refused to admit that we where having sex." I shrugged, "I suppose that's what it boils down to, if we weren't having sex then she didn't have to make me come. she didn't feel that she owed me anything.
"That must have been terrible," Jasmine voice was so soft I could barely hear it.
"Not really." I said. "The worst part was the uncertainty," I slipped my hand down to stroke her breast. "Not knowing what she felt for me. Not being able to figure it out and not being able to get her to tell me." I shook my head, "I was left in a limbo with all my emotions flying about, unable to get a grip on the situation."
As Jasmine slipped her leg across my hips she brushed against my penis and I realized that I had an erection. As she sank down on top of me I realized that she was aroused as well. And by the time we'd finished it was the early hours of the morning and we fell asleep in each other's arms.
The following day we were rushed off our feet buying and installing a new set of kitchen presses and it wasn't until we'd settled down in bed that we started to talk about me and Alex again.
"I still don't understand why she did what she did." I sighed. "What I mean is that it all comes back to why she let me make love to her, when she wouldn't make love back to me."
"I think she was trying to give you just enough to keep you coming back for more," Jasmine reached up to pull my arm around her shoulder and squeezed it.
"So you think she was just toying with me?" I liked the feel of my arm around her and her hand on mine.
"No," she said. "I think she might really loved you."
"What!" I was dumbfounded. "That's not how you act when you love someone." And yet some part of me really wanted to believe that she had.
"It is if you're scared of being hurt again," she said.
I tensed, a feeling of dread coming into my heart at the thought that I could have caused Alexandra pain by loving her.
She looked up at me, "What's the matter?"
"You're saying that she thought if I knew that she loved me that I'd use it to take advantage of her," I didn't look at her.
She whispered, "Yes."
"But she still loved me and wanted me," I said.
"Yes," she nodded.
"But she couldn't admit it to me, because that would give me some sort of power over her?" I asked.
"And she couldn't admit it to herself," Jasmine explained. "Because then she'd have to open up and trust you and then you could... well use her and hurt her."
"So instead of me fucking her," I said. "She made sure she fucked me first."
Jasmine paused a moment, then answered, "Well, yes. I suppose so." She prodded my ribs to make me look down at her, "Though I wouldn't have put it in quite that way." She kissed me.
"And you're not afraid of me using and hurting you," I returned her kiss.
"Of course not," she smiled. "I've got you completely under control."
"Oh, yeah?" I smiled back.
"Oh, yes," she ran her hand down to my growing erection.
"You think that can control me?" I asked.
"Maybe not," she glanced into my eyes. "But this can." And she moved down, put her head between my legs and sucked me completely into her mouth.
Later that week we talked about Alexandra and me again. And I explained how Alexandra had said that she hadn't thought that we were having sex when I made love to her.
"She was so full of bullshit," I explained. "Every time I tried to talk to her all she came out with was bullshit."
"Well maybe she didn't think it was sex," Jasmine said.
"Come off it. Nobody knows that little about sex," I said. "How could she not have known what we were doing?"
Jasmine thought for a minute. "Listen Kevin, would it have made any difference if you'd got to come?"
I opened my mouth to say "Yes", but Jasmine interrupted.
"What I mean is," she turned around to face me. "You believed that you were doing something special, and she believed was that it was just good clean fun. Right?"
"Yes," I nodded. Now that she had turned to look at me my fingers touched the skin at the back of her neck.
"It doesn't matter what physical acts you performed, to her it was just fun and to you it meant commitment," she continued. "No matter what you would have she would still have kicked you out when you were finished. And you would still have gone home frustrated and lonely."
The memories of walking home alone no longer hurt as much as they did.
"So get over your hang up over making love to her," Jasmine put her arms around my neck. "You acted in good faith and she betrayed you. You owe her nothing."
At the word "betrayed" I looked up at her face.
She kissed my chin. "I believe that making love is special for you. I know how difficult it is for you to open up." She smiled, "I mean, it's taken this long for you to open up and tell me what's being tumbling around in your mind since we've been together."
I smiled back, "Yeah, well I didn't want it to come between us."
"No fucked up little bitch is going to come between us," she whispered. "She's a fool to have treated you like that. She's a fool to have let you go." Jasmine shook her head, "And she's a fool to have even missed out on the best bit of sex."
"Which is," I asked as she tightened her arms and pulled me closer.
"You know that already," she licked her lips and brought them close to mine. "It's making the other person come."
We kissed.
"Oh, yeah?" I teased. "So you like making me come then?"
"Yeah," she whispered in between kisses. "But not as much as you like making me come."
We laughed, and giggled, and kissed, and made love.
A few days later we were lying in each other's arms late at night when the subject of Alexandra came up again.
"It got easier once I decided that I didn't love her anymore," I said. "But I still wanted her. I still ached to hold her." Then I felt my arm around Jasmine. I squeezed her, "Maybe I just ached to hold somebody." I kissed the top of her head, "And now that I've found you I no longer ache."
She squeezed me back.
"So when did you decide that you didn't love her?" she whispered, her lips brushing against my nipples.
I sighed and thought for a bit. "I guess I knew I didn't love her when I couldn't cry myself to sleep after we broke up," I said. "I remember lying awake at night, turning over and over, punching my pillow, with the tears building up inside, but nothing coming out."
Jasmine hugged me close.
"It felt..." I stopped, amazed. "You know, I don't know how it felt." I looked down at Jasmine's face, "I remember doing it. I remember lying awake with the one thought going around and around in my head; 'Why did she let me make love to her if she didn't love me, and if she loved me then why didn't she make love back?'." I swallowed, "But I can't remember the actual feelings I had at the time."
"That's OK, Kevin," she whispered.
"But I still wanted her," I said. "I still wanted to share my life with that bitch."
Jasmine kissed me.
"It seems so unbelievable now," I shook my head. "It's so completely absurd."
I held her tight in my arms as she ran her tongue round and round my nipple. But my mind was still caught up with thoughts of Alexandra, or rather my feelings for Alexandra.
"At the time I thought that it didn't matter what she felt for me," I said. "That all I could deal with was my feelings for her." I sighed, "But now I realize that I did care about how she felt." I looked at Jasmine, "I mean how much self-respect could I have knowing that I was making a fool of myself over some fucked up little bitch who didn't give a shit about me."
Jasmine stroked my neck and stretched up to nibble my ear.
"That was the ultimate betrayal," I said. "That I meant nothing to her."
Jasmine rolled on top of me and squeezed her thighs against my hips.
My hands went around her hips and caressed her buttocks. "Every time we made love she betrayed me, every time I made her come and she wouldn't return the complement." I smiled, "Oh, not because I wanted the cheep trill of an orgasm from her. But because she thought so little of me that she didn't want to give me pleasure. She didn't want to make love to me." I whispered, "All she wanted from me was to be a biological vibrator."
"Speaking of a vibrator," she kissed my nipples. "I could see why a girl might need one with you around."
"Huh?" I realized that I had an erection.
"Well you just ooze sexuality," she rocked from side to side, pushing against the length of my penis.
"Really," I brought my hands around to her breasts.
"I could see how a girl could lose control," she slid up and down.
I could hardly listen to what she was saying.
"She'd definitely need satisfaction after kissing you," she raised herself up and sank back down, pushing me deep inside her.
The fire took control of me. And grabbing her I started to pump into her. She thrust and squeezed back as our mutual orgasm consumed us. We peaked immediately and without pause started again. Then again and again as our passion burned itself out, until at last we lay still.
I lay back, exhausted, as she came to rest on top of me.
She straightened her legs, bringing them to rest between mine, and spread her arms so her full weight came to rest on me. I could feel her breath on my ear as she lay her head to rest on the pillow beside mine.
"You know that I really love you, Jasmine," I whispered.
"Yeah," she answered. "I know that you do."
"You're just too good to be true," I nuzzled her shoulder and gave a quick squeeze with my arms.
She chuckled. "Really?" she whispered.
"It's a pity that you're only a figment of my imagination," I murmured as I drifted off to sleep.
"Shush," she brushed her hand through my hair. "Wake up tomorrow and see if the dream has come true."


Chapter 13
----------

Back when I broke up with Alexandra, or she broke up with me, I had this fantasy of her coming back to me and telling me just how big a mistake she'd made and that it was all just a big misunderstanding and that she'd discovered that she really loves me after all, and I, in my fantasy, would reply with a long list detailing just how badly she had treated me, before slamming the door in her face.
It was the one thing that I fell asleep dreaming about most, after having tossed and turned for a few hours feeling sorry for myself because I'd lost Alexandra. It was the one thing that I thought would have made my life complete. As is the way of the world, now that I no longer wanted it I was about to get it.
Jasmine threw a birthday party and invited a whole bunch of people. Mostly her friends, but a few that I knew as well. It was all set to be a great night. In fact it started out excellently. I had a few beers, talked and joked with seemingly everybody. I felt I was going to have a great time, even through I'd only known a few people to start with.
I'd had about four or five beers when Alexandra arrived. Of course Jasmine hadn't told me she was coming, or even that Alexandra had been invited, all she'd said was that bunch of people from the Tennis club were coming. So it came as a bit of a shock when Alexandra walked in closely followed by a couple of other girls. And by the look on her face it was as much a shock for her as it was for me.
Jasmine appeared from nowhere and, grabbing my elbow, guided me over to meet her.
"Hi, Alex," Jasmine smiled. "Glad you could make it."
"Hi, Jasmine," Alexandra replied lamely, her eyes locked on me.
"Oh. I believe that you both know each other," she took us both by the elbow and pulled us a step closer together.
"Hi, Alexandra," I said. "Long time no see."
"Hi," she replied. Then pulling herself together she turned and introduced her friends. "This is Mary and Sinead." And she looked back at me, "This is Kevin."
"Hi," I managed to look away from Alexandra and smile at them.
"Hi," they said in unison.
"Why don't you help yourself to drinks," Jasmine waved at the heavily loaded table.
"Thanks," they spoke in unison again and move towards the table.
Alexandra and I looked at each other for a moment longer. Then I felt Jasmine leave. I said something like, "See you later" and hurried out into the hall. I caught hold of Jasmine's elbow and turned her to face me.
"Why did you invite her without telling me she was coming?" I hissed.
"I wanted to get you two together," she smiled. "And I didn't think that you would turn up if you knew she was going to be here."
She was probably right, but I didn't want to admit it. "I'm not avoiding her!" I said. "She's avoiding me."
"Well I didn't tell her you'd be here," she said. "She didn't even know that I knew you until tonight."
"Why do you want to get us together?" I didn't understand Jasmine. I'd have thought that she would want me to avoid.
"Because you have unfinished business together," she sipped her drink.
"What do you mean?" I tried to keep my voice low.
"You can't run away from her," she put her hand on my arm. "The scars won't heal unless you confront her."
I snorted. "I've tried confronting her," I said. "But she would never talk to me."
Jasmine looked down for a moment. "Well now you have another chance to try."
I looked suspiciously at her, "Is this some kind of game?" I shook my head, "Because if it is..."
"I'm not playing games with you, Kevin," she looked around at her guests. "I can't really explain now. But you have got to decide if you really love her or not."
"I've already decided that!" I took hold of her arm as she started to move away. "That's why I'm with you."
She smiled at me and gently removed my hand. "Talk to her and see what you mean to each other now. That's all I want." She put her hand to my cheek, "Believe me I don't want to share you with her. But you have to get her out of your system." She took her hand away and straightened up. "Now I've got to circulate. Enjoy yourself."
"Thanks," I called after her.
A couple of minutes later I was sitting on the settee in the front room having another beer. Alexandra came over and sat beside me.
"Hi," she smiled at me. "How have you been?"
"Fine," I smiled back. "And how are you."
"Oh, OK can’t complain," she looked around for a moment. And when I said nothing asked, "So you live here now?"
"Yes," I smiled at the joke I always make. "Jasmine charges a rent I can afford."
"That's nice," she looked away again.
"Look, what do you want from me?" I was beginning to experience a resurgence of emotions that I'd been suppressing for months. But I still can't figure what they were. Was it love or hate, anger and bitterness? I really don't know.
"I just want to talk to you," she shifted uncomfortably on the settee.
"Well you never wanted to talk to me before," I think the bitterness had worked its way to the top.
"What?" Alexandra couldn't believe it.
Whether she couldn't believe what I said or that I had actually said I don't know.
"All you ever want to do was go out and have a 'good time'," I crushed my empty beer can. "And I mean that in every sense of the word."
"That's not true," she almost whined. "I wanted to be loved just as much as you ever did."
"Don't give me that bullshit," I interrupted. "Your 'little Miss. sweet and innocence' routine won't work on me anymore."
She sat up straight, "And what's that supposed to mean?"
"It's supposed to mean that I have nothing to apologize to you for. I'm the offended party. I'm the person who was fucked about, who was used and abused and betrayed."
She said nothing as I leaned forward and took another can of beer from the coffee table.
"I'm the person who was hurt again and again," I said. "And who again and again tried to patch up the relationship. Who tried again and again to talk to you, to explain what you were doing to me, to ask you to stop and treat me with some respect."
There was silence for a moment then she asked, ever so softly, "And what respect did you ever show me."
"What respect did you let me?" I replied without thinking.
She said nothing, just sipped her drink.
"The respect I showed you was in treating you like a human being," I started to explain, but knew that she wouldn't understand. "In trying to talk to you as an equal. Trying to explain what you meant to me, how I felt about you, what I wanted from the relationship." I stopped to take stock of my thoughts, but just came up with the same old recriminations. "I didn't use you. I didn't take advantage of your feelings from me to prop up my flagging ego. I didn't reject you. I tried so hard to get close to you, to love you, just to hold you even."
There was silence for a moment.
"You never even let me do that did you. Just to hold you and be with you, to feel you in my arms." I looked at her, "But you don't understand what that meant to me. How important you were to me. How much I wanted you to love me."
"Now that's bullshit, if I ever heard it!" her hands gripped her glass tightly.
I felt devastated. There I was, having once again opened my heart to her, explained how I felt and it had gone straight past her. She would never understand.
"All you were ever interested in was having sex with me!", she realized she'd raised her voice and looked around to see if anyone had noticed. Then she looked back at me, "Night after night you tried to seduce me. Again and again you tried."
I took a deep breath. After all I'd done not to seduce her, not to force her to have sex with me. In my mind I had gone from the fear of raping her to the guilt and recriminations that would follow "getting carried away in the heat of the moment" again and again. And there she was accusing me of the thing I most didn't want to do. The one thing I had never done.
I looked at her and could see the anger that still bubbled in her eyes. Maybe, I thought. Maybe she just said it because she's angry. Or maybe she really believes it.
"Yes I wanted to have sex with you," I said, keeping my voice steady and calm. "But I told you what that meant to me. I told you," and I knew even as I said that she'd never believe it, "that it meant that I loved you."
I knew then that she couldn't believe that I could love her and want to have sex with her. It comes from the early training that "If he respects you he won't force himself on you. If he really loves you he'll wait until you're married to have sex with you." Anybody who won't wait until you're married just wants to fuck you and only says that he loves you in order to have "his evil way with you". There was nothing that I could do to convince her that my passion came from my love for her. Nothing.
I sipped my beer and she sipped her drink. But I decided to have a go anyway.
"You don't understand the strain I was under. There I was getting excited, getting my passions aroused, for want of a better description. And I was supposed to control it. I was supposed to hold it all inside and not rape you. And I did it." I smiled a thin smile, "Oh you'll never know just how close you came to being raped. Just how thin my control was at times. And there's not a court in the land that would convict me of rape if I had.
"You got your kicks out of frustrating and humiliating me. Out of deliberately getting me sexually excited and then denying me my orgasm. Denying me what you dam well made sure you got every time. You made sure you came and made doubly sure that I didn't. How long did you thing I could put up with that?"
I looked up at her and she looked me straight in the eye.
"You did what you did because you wanted you to," she said. "You did it because you thought I'd eventually succumb to your desires and have sex with you."
I wanted to say to her that I'd never made any secret of my desire for her. That I'd never lied, nor tried to trick her. That I had wanted to make love to her because I'd loved her and getting my own pleasure was less important than giving her her's. That I was not ashamed of my feelings. That I wasn't guilty about wanting her. That every time I made love to her I was saying "I love you." That the more pleasure that I tried to give meant that I loved her more and more. That the physical love making was just a symbol of the real and deeply felt love I had for her. But that, no matter how hard I wanted to, I couldn't keep giving myself to someone who couldn't tell me that she felt the same. Who couldn't act as if she loved me. I wanted to stress that my feelings were normal, legitimate feelings, that they were nothing to be ashamed of. To tell her that loads of people felt what I felt. I wanted to tell her and explain everything. But I couldn't even try.
"That's right," I looked away. "And when I no longer wanted to make love to you and get nothing back I stopped. And then you stopped even pretending to be interested in having a relationship with me."
I toyed with the pull ring on the can of beer, but didn't open it. I thought that I should get up and leave, but didn't. I thought I should say something else, but didn't know what.
So I just sat there, playing with the can of beer and looking at the carpet. And Alexandra sat beside me probable trying to decide to leave or to think of something to say and coming up with nothing either.
Then once again my fascination with clichés and stereotypes came to my rescue. A phase she'd just used stood out in my mind.
"So you thought that I was trying to make you 'succumb to my desires'?" I looked at her.
She shrugged and looked away.
"And what about your desires?" I asked.
She looked back to me. "What?"
"What about your desire for me?" I asked. "You invited me back to your place. You wanted to get physically intimate with me. You knew, at least after the first couple of sessions, that I'd make you come. You wanted to have your 'good time' or your 'cheap trill' or whatever you'd describe it as. I didn't force my way into your flat and rape you. You wanted me there."
She said nothing.
"Was it some kind of test?" I smiled. "Did I not give enough? Was I not man enough for you? Was I supposed to force myself on you, even though every time I asked you said "no"? Did you want me to rape you?"
"That is disgusting, Kevin," her voice was ice cold. "How could you say such a thing?"
I looked away. "One part of me thinks that you really don't know what you did to me. Another says that I got just what I deserved," I shrugged. "And yet another says that you are a shit faced little pervert who gets her kicks out of humiliating and degrading men." I looked at her, "Which is the truth?"
She said nothing and I went back to toying with the can of beer.
"Listen, we both said some things that we really didn't mean," she smiled at me.
I shrugged.
"I still want to be your friend," she said.
I slowly shook my head, "We can't be friends, ."
"What did I ever do to you that was so bad?" she started to shout. Then noticed that people were looking at us and stopped.
I opened my mouth to answer, but couldn't think of anything to say. After all I'd said already, what could I say?
There was silence for a moment. I can't remember if there was much background conversation from the other people in the room, but I think we had definitely become the centre of attention.
"Did I really treat you so badly?" she smiled at me.
I nearly exploded on the spot. "Do the words cruel and heartless mean anything to you?" I said it as bitterly as I felt it.
"Don't be silly," she sipped her drink.
"Silly," I considered the word. "Silly?"
I looked at her and she looked away.
"Silly means stupid. Doesn't it?" I paused a moment. "Well I guess falling in love with you was the stupidest thing I've ever done in my life."
She looked up at me.
"So I guess I was being silly," I shrugged.
She said nothing as I opened the can of beer. I took a gulp from the can and swallowed it noisily. We sat there for a few minutes, saying nothing but unwilling to leave.
Alexandra tried another gambit, "You've just got a distorted memory of the whole affair."
"Oh I remember it well," I was very angry now. "I remember that all I wanted was an easy lay. I remember that all I wanted was to go out and have a good time. I remember that every time you mentioned love I changed the subject. Every time you mentioned being closer together I mentioned breaking up. Every time you mentioned marriage I talked about divorce."
I could see the pressure building up inside her. But I was on a roll and wasn't going to stop. "I admit that all I was interested in was fucking you. That as soon as I came I couldn't get rid of you fast enough. Once I finished fucking you, once I'd got what I wanted, I couldn't kick you out of my flat quickly enough.
"I remember getting a great kick thinking of you walking home alone in the early hours of the night," I was going over the top, but months of frustration couldn't be turned off that easily. "And I remember the ego trip I was on when you kept coming back for more. When you kept coming back and telling me that you loved me and I kept rubbing your face in the shit."
She opened her mouth to try to answer me, but I was shouting at her now. "I'd despair for weeks on end, ignoring your telephone calls and not returning your messages. And when I came back you'd profess your love for me and tell me how much you'd missed me. Just like the complete and utter asshole that I treated you as."
I had to pause to take a breath and she jumped in. "It wasn't like that," she was totally frustrated and close to tears.
"I know it wasn't like that, ," I just didn't give a shit how she felt. "I was there. Remember? I was on the end of all your..." I tried to find a word, and came up with, "BULLSHIT!" After all the months I'd rehearsed it and called her everything from a "Fuck-faced little cunt" to a "Prick teasing pervert, who gets her kicks out of humiliating and degrading other people" all I could come up with when the time came was "Bullshit". Now that was humiliating.
"I didn't treat you like that," there were tears running down her face.
My anger had been vented, but there was still a lot of bitterness left. "Oh... just go and fuck yourself."
I stood up and walked out. There wasn't a sound in the room. Twenty five people stood around looking shocked and embarrassed. And I felt that once again I'd made a fool of myself over .
In the kitchen I found Jasmine and a few other people tucking into the food.
"Is everything alright?" she asked, an Au d'oeuvre in one hand and a glass of wine in the other. "It seems to have gone awfully quite in there."
I headed for the fridge. "I need another beer," I avoided looking at anyone.
"Don't you think you've had enough?" she ate the o d'oeuvre in one bite.
I stopped, the door of the fridge half open and spent a moment cooling down. I felt like getting really pissed.
"Yeah, your right," I closed the fridge door and walked over to the drinks. "A vodka'd be better."
As I poured myself a generous helping I could feel Jasmine looking at me. I raised the glass to my lips and she came over to me.
"What happened?" she asked.
"We argued," I replied. "What did you expect?"
"You didn't talk about your differences?" she took the glass from my hands and sipped.
"It's impossible to talk to her,” I said. But I couldn't help smiling at the face Jasmine made at sipping neat vodka.
"Sometimes I think I don't understand you," she handed the drink back to me.
I took a large sip.
"But it doesn't last long," she continued.
I looked at her for a moment. "Is this about Alexandra or the vodka?" I asked.
She smiled and started to move away. "I must circulate," she replied.
I watched her go, bemused, but reassured. And I hadn't even known that I needed reassurance. I put the drink down and headed for the bathroom. Strangely enough when I got there it was free. As I washed my hands I decided to call it a night. I just couldn't face the remainder of the party.
Crossing the landing at the top of the stairs I heard a couple of people in the hall below.
"Trust Jasmine to lay on some juicy entertainment," a woman said.
"Yes," another replied as they closed the door. "But wasn't he her latest boyfriend."
"Is that all my life is to you?" I asked the empty air. "Just a juicy piece of entertainment?" But I was too pissed off to bother getting bitter. I felt I'd already had enough of that to last a life time.
So I walked on to the bedroom, opened the door and found a couple of tangled bodies on the bed.
When I'm drunk I get aggressive. And when I'm tired I get aggressive. But when I'm drunk and tired I just can't be bothered.
I switched on the lights and they froze.
"Hey!" a man's head untangled itself and looked in my direction. "What do you think you're doing?"
"I'm kicking you out of my bed so I can get to sleep," I put an edge in my voice, but I really didn't want the hassle.
"Oh," he got embarrassed. "Right."
They moved apart and started to readjust their clothing.
"Sorry," the woman's face was red, embarrassment, heat of the moment or too much blusher? Who knows?
She pulled up her tights and panties and straightened her dress. The man zipped up his fly, pulled up his tie and stuck his shirt inside his trousers. The woman found one shoe and started to panic when she couldn't see the other. The man put on his jacket and started towards the door, but stopped when he saw that the woman wasn't coming with him.
I walked over to the bottom of the bed and picked up her other shoe. I said nothing as I handed it to her.
"Sorry," she went a deeper shade of red. She quickly slipped it on and almost ran out of the room. The man wasn't far behind.
I sat on the bed and stared at nothing. The noise of the party continued all around. I could feel the silence of the bedroom press down on me. But I couldn't face seeing anyone.
Then there was a soft knock on the door. I looked up, but didn't answer. The knock came again. If I said nothing I was sure that whoever it was would leave.
"Are you in there?" Alexandra's whisper came through the door. She tried the handle. I'd not locked the door and she slowly pushed it open and stepped inside.
I looked at her.
We said nothing for a moment.
I looked away. "What do you want, Alexandra?”
"I don't know," she paused. "But I can't leave you like this."
"Why not?" I could feel tears beginning to build in my eyes. "It's too late to make me believe that you have any feelings for me now."
"But I have feelings for you," she stepped closer.
"No, Alexandra," I shook my head. "I wanted you to want me. I wanted you..." I ran out of words.
"Do you really love me?" her voice was a horse whisper.
I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. I looked at her in disbelieve. After all I'd said and done she could still ask that question.
"No, Alexandra," I looked away again. "After what you did to me, how could I?"
Silence for a moment. Then, "I think I really love you." and she was gone.
I sat, looking at the closed door for a few minutes. Had I heard her right? Did she actually say that? What did she mean it? And why had she left?
My tears started to flow then. I don't know why I cried. I don't know for how long. I just lay on the bed and buried my head in the pillow. The party noise was a background haze behind the ringing in my ears and the sing in my eyes. It gradually got quieter. And as the music was switched off I fell into a frustrated and restless sleep.


Chapter 14
----------

I woke up in Jasmine's arms, with a hangover.
I moaned.
"Oh, sleeping beauty awakes," Jasmine replied.
Ignoring her sarcasm I rolled onto my back. She followed me to lie on her side, with her right arm under my head and her left arm and leg over me. I could feel her pubic hair brush against my hip and I felt myself stirring.
"What time is it?" I asked.
"Just over an hour and a half till I have to leave," she nuzzled the top of my head.
"An hour and a half," I echoed, feeling the dryness in my mouth. I knew what she wanted, and what I wanted too. "Just let me get a drink of water," I started to get up.
Jasmine reached over me, stopping me from getting out of bed, and took a mug from the bedside table, "Try this."
I took it from her, smiling, "You're so thoughtful, Jasmine." I took a gulp. "Must be why I love you." At the mention of the word “love” a picture of Alexandra flashed in my mind.
Jasmine watched me in silence as I knocked back the water in a couple of mouthfuls.
Putting the mug back on the table I asked, "So did I get drunk and make a fool of myself again?"
Jasmine reached between my legs, pressing the palm of her hand against my penis and massaging my testicles with her fingers. "I'm horny," she said. "I haven't got any since yesterday afternoon." She lent close so I could feel her breath against my ear, "If you don't service me soon I'll have to go elsewhere to get what I need."
She was beginning to get a reaction from her physical manipulations and I knew she was adding some mental ones to quicken and deepen the response.
I reached over to her. "So you're dying from want of satisfaction, are you?" I pushed my fingers along the length of her slit and hooked the tips into her vagina.
She gasped.
I pushed further inside her and pressed hard on her clitoris with my thumb.
She squeezed back hard in response. "Hey! not so rough," she hissed.
"I'm sorry," I eased the pressure and kissed her softly. "Just a flash of jealousy and possessiveness," I nuzzled her neck.
She spread her legs wider and I continued my probing at a gentler pace. We lay down, she on her back, I on my side, as we continued to rub each other. She matched the rhythm of her hand on me with mine on her.
Soon I rolled on top of her. She wrapped her legs around me and moved her hands to squeeze my bottom. I pushed mine under her shoulders and lifted her towards me. We spent the next three-quarters of an hour lazily rocking back and forward together. It's a delicious way to get rid of a hangover.
After breakfast, as we sat and finished our coffee, Jasmine dropped a bombshell. She banged her cup onto her saucer. I looked up from the paper at the sharp noise.
"You know for the last month, ever since my birthday party," she said, "you've been getting drunk all the time."
It was the truth so I said nothing.
"Is there something wrong, Kevin?" she asked.
"Not really," I shrugged.
She continued to probe, "Is it something to do with Alex?"
"I..." I really couldn't tell, "…think so. But I don't really know what."
"Has she been on your mind?" she asked
"Yes," I admitted.
"And you feel guilty about thinking of her," Jasmine concluded.
"Shit! Jasmine," I felt angry that it was so bad that she'd noticed, but also relieved that she had. "She fucked me about, something really bad." I looked at Jasmine, "I don't want that bitch to come between us."
She stood up and came around the table to hug me. "Neither do I, Kevin," she whispered in my ear. "Neither do I."
A couple of days later she explained her solution to me, again after breakfast.
"I'm going to have a dinner party, Kevin," she announced.
I had just started to clear away the dishes. "A dinner party?" I looked at her.
"Yes." She nodded and smiled, "I've already invited a couple of people. And you can invite Paul and his new girlfriend."
"Geraldine," I supplied the name of his girlfriend."
"Yes," she handed me her dishes, "Paul and Geraldine. They'll make up the numbers nicely."
"I'm sure they'll be glad to know they're invited to make up the numbers," I started to stack the dishes in the sink.
"It was a joke," she stood beside me.
"I know it was a joke," I gave her a hug.
She looked away. "There's something else," she said.
"Oh," I looked at her. "What?"
"Alex will be coming," she seemed nervous at my reaction.
"Alexandra?" I said. "I didn't think she'd ever want to see me again." I got suspicious, "You did mention that I'd be here." Then another thought struck me.
But Jasmine read my mind and interrupted, "Yes, you will be there." She smiled, "At least I hope you will, because I told Alex you would be."
I ran some water into the sink. "And how did she react when you told her?" I squirted in some washing up liquid and started to wash the dishes.
"She didn't say much," she took her jacket from the back of a chair and put it on. "But I think she is interested in seeing you again."
"And what do you think of that," I didn't look at her.
She sighed. "I think she's as interested in you as you are in her," she said.
I looked at her. "Is that good or bad?" I smiled.
She stepped close to me. "We'll see," she smiled back and kissed me. "See you tonight." She headed for the front door.
"Have a nice day!" I called after her.
"I will," she closed the front door behind her and I was alone in the house.
Alone with my thoughts of Alexandra. Shit! Why did the bitch have to resurface, just as I was beginning to forget all about her? And why did Jasmine seem to want us to be together again? No, that wasn't true. I was sure Jasmine wanted me for herself. But why did she keep dragging Alexandra back into our lives?
I mulled these thoughts over and over in my head for the next week, as the dinner party crept closer and closer.
On the night of the dinner Jasmine came home early. I'd been preparing the food all day. The lasagna was ready to be put in the oven, as were the potatoes for baking. The salad was tossed and dressed and the eggs were cooling in anticipation of the mayonnaise.
As she came into the living room and dropped her jacket onto a chair, I came out of the kitchen, whipping my hands in a towel. I looked at her and she look back. An overwhelming urge to possess her came over me. I dropped the towel and pulled my t-shirt off. She pulled her skirt down and started to unbutton her blouse as she came towards me. We met in the middle of the room half naked and hungry for each other.
We ended up on the sofa. I was completely naked. Jasmine still had on her blouse and stockings. I had my left arm around her and my right on her stomach. She was leaning against me, her head on my shoulder. We both watched the fire blaze as the afterglow of our love making died away.
"So why are you so keen for me to see Alexandra again?" I whispered in her ear.
She didn't say anything for a moment, then moved around to half face me. "Because you talk about her in your sleep," she kissed me on the cheek.
"I do?" I brushed her lips with mine.
She nodded.
"What do I say about her?" I looked down and moved my hand from her stomach to her breast.
"You talk about her breasts," she put her arm around my neck.
"I like breasts," I ran my thumb across her nipple. "I love yours."
"And you talk about her hair," she smiled.
"Her hair?" I put my left hand to the back of her head.
Her smile widened, "Her body hair."
"Yeah," I remembered her body. "I've often wondered if that's why she was so insecure about getting naked with me."
"I think she probably wanted to remain a virgin," she kissed my shoulder.
I said nothing for a moment. "And it bothers you that I dream about her?"
She ran her hand across my chest. "Do you like body hair?"
I shrugged, "It doesn't bother me either way."
She smiled skeptically.
"No I mean it," I spread my fingers across her breast. "It's all a part of being an individual. Each person's body is different." I kissed her on the lips, "I like different things."
"Mmmm," she smiled.
"I mean," I looked down at my hand on her breast. "You've got nicer nipples."
"Huh?" she looked down as well.
"You've got pink nipples," I explained. "She had brown. I prefer pink, but that didn't bother me much. They both taste the same."
"What?" she looked back up at me.
"What I mean is that yours taste of you and her's taste of her," I noticed that I was showing signs of arousal. "That you taste nice when I'm making love to you."
She snuggled a little closer, "Why taste?"
"Because usually I have my glasses off," I started to massage her breast. "And usually have my eyes closed." I smiled, "And when you use your mouth you taste the things you're licking and sucking."
She ran her hand down my body and lightly caressed the tip of my erection. "And do we taste the same all over." She looked down at my lap.
"You have a lighter fresher taste," I nuzzled her ear. "She had a heaver taste." I ran my hand down her body and discovered she was as aroused as I was.
I smiled at her and she smiled back as she moved over to sit across me.
"So once again," I whispered hoarsely as she sank down. "You've used the sordid details of my past love life as an aphrodisiac."
She smiled as I pushed into her. "It worked, didn't it."
Paul and Geraldine were the first of our guests to arrive. I'd never met Geraldine before and she took my breath away as Paul introduced her.
She was a few inches shorter than me and was wearing a green polo-neck jumper, with as short, black skirt with black tights and shoes. Her blond hair was cut short and parted on the left, but its boyish cut only served to emphasize her femininity.
"Nice to meet you, Kevin," she smiled. "I've heard so much about you."
"I've been looking forward to meeting you to," I replied as I took her coat.
Jasmine came out from the kitchen and ushered her into the living room.
As I took Paul's coat I nudged him, "Nice one, Paul." I added a hint of mock jealousy to my voice.
"Look who's talking," he smiled and turned to follow the women through.
The next to arrive were Sam and Samantha. A couple Jasmine knew from her old tennis club. They were both about the same height, the same color blond hair and when anybody said "Sam" they both looked around. He had blue eyes, but she had green. They were almost like twins, in that their movements complemented each other. Childhood sweethearts that still loved each other. They were beautiful people and spent the whole night disagreeing with each other. But in the nicest possible way.
Then Alexandra arrived and my adrenalin started to pound. She brought with her the proverbial tall, dark and handsome stranger. She introduced him as Bill. And I almost laughed. It seemed such an ordinary name for such a sophisticated looking fellow.
I didn't have much chance to speak to any of them, as Jasmine is a hopeless cook and I was doing all the cooking. So while she poured them drinks and engaged them conversation I hurried around the kitchen putting all the last minute touches to the food.
The dinner went as smooth as anybody could wish. The conversation ebbed and flowed from subject to subject, from heated discussion to mutual agreement. It wasn't until coffee that anything happened.
I had taken the dirty dishes and gone back into the kitchen for the coffee. As I stacked the dishes beside the sink Alexandra walked in.
"Washing up," She smiled. "I'd never have expected it of you."
"That doesn't surprise me," I meant that she never took the time to get to know me so how could she know enough not to be surprised by anything I did.
"What does that mean?" the smile disappeared from her face.
"Oh, nothing," I didn't want to start another argument with her.
She looked down, "Don't you want to talk to me?"
"I'm just surprised that you want to talk to me," I'd said it before I realized what I was saying. But it felt good any way.
"I'd always talk to you," she replied.
"Yeah," I admitted. "But not about what I wanted to talk about."
"Now what does that mean?" she smiled.
I shrugged. "That we have always had a communications problem," I suggested. "Otherwise why would you have had to ask me what I meant twice in the last minute?"
"I didn't..." she stopped, took a deep breath, then started again. "You don't explain yourself properly."
"Maybe," I conceded. "But you never asked me to explain myself. Even when I knew that you had misunderstood what I had said I didn't try to explain because you showed absolutely no interest in understanding me."
She opened her mouth to reply, but I continued, "You never once asked me what I meant, what I was trying to say. You never once wanted to understand me."
She took half a step towards me. Raised her hand, her mouth still open, then stopped and swallowed.
"Why didn't you say this before?" she finally asked.
"Because every time I talked about us being together, you talked about us breaking up," I didn't like the way this conversation was going.
She looked down, "I guess I just didn't believe what you said you felt for me." She looked up, "But I believe you now, Kevin."
I looked at her for a moment, then sighed, "Now that I no longer love you, you believe that I do." I looked down, "But when I did love you, you wouldn't accept it."
"I couldn't, Kevin," she said. "I just wasn't ready for that type of love."
"Well..." I shrugged. "It's too late now, Alexandra. I'm living with Jasmine."
"Yes, but do you love her?" she took a step towards me.
I looked up at her with hate in my eyes, "Of course I fucking love her. I wouldn't fucking tell her that I did if I didn't."
She stopped, unsure what to do or say next.
I said nothing as I calmed down. I knew she'd hit a nerve by the intensity of my reaction. But I didn't want her to know.
"Listen Alexandra," I said a minute or so later. "Let's just accept that we're incompatible. You can't be honest with me and you can't accept that I'm honest with you. If I tell you something it's because I believe that it's true." I shook my head, "it's not the same for you."
"So do I," she stated. "I didn't lie to you!"
I smiled slightly, "No, Alexandra, you lied to yourself. And if you can't be honest with yourself, how can I expect you to be honest with me?"
"I don't lie to myself," she said. But I could see a flicker of doubt in her eyes.
"You can't be honest with yourself, so you can't accept that I'm honest with myself," I explained. "Or by extension with you." I leant forward, "It's not just lying to somebody. it's expressing your true feelings." I clenched my fists, "What you really feel. What you really want."
She looked down again, "What if you didn't know what they were?"
"Then you could have at least listened to what I said," I explained. "And believed me."
"Why didn't you just explain what you meant then?" she looked up at me.
"If you tell a lie to someone and they don't believe you, you can always tell another lie, and maybe they'll believe that," I looked down. "But when you tell the truth to someone and they don't believe you," I shrugged, "Well then you're fucked."
"What do you mean?" she was getting upset.
"Like when I told you that I loved you and you said 'Don't be silly, Kevin'," I remember the hurt even now, the whole bottom of my world suddenly falling out. "What was I supposed to say? Was I supposed to say 'no I was lying. All I really want to do is fuck you'? Was I supposed to beg you to believe me?" I really was desperate to understand. "I mean, what did I ever do to you to make you hate me so?"
"I don't hate you, Kevin," her mascara was beginning to run.
I snorted. "Well you sure have a funny way of showing that you love me."
There was silence for a moment then she whispered softly, "I think I really do love you."
My heart jumped and once again I felt as if the bottom had fallen out of my world. I gripped the edge of the sink and took a deep breath. Then I took another.
Jasmine walked in and the tension snapped.
"So what are you two love birds up to in here? Bill is beginning to get suspicious." She smiled at us.
"I have to go to the bathroom," Alexandra ran out into the hall and up the stairs.
Jasmine looked at me for a few moments, then asked, "Are you alright, Kevin?"
"Yeah," I nodded, my heart beat returning to normal. "I just need a glass of water." I picked up a glass from the draining board and ran the cold water.
"Are you sure?" she stepped closer.
"Yeah," I filled the glass and turned off the water. "Just give me a minute."
"OK," she looked at me for another moment, then she went back into the dining room.
I drained the glass, filled it and drained it again. Then taking a couple of deep breaths went back into the dining room with the coffee.
I don't suppose that I was much of a conversationalist for the rest of the evening. But nobody seemed to mind. I just sat back and let the flow of conversation wash over me, all the time tearing my eyes from Alexandra, yet always finding myself looking at her again.
Sam and Samantha were the first to leave, as they had to relieve their babysitter. Then Paul and Geraldine had to go, as he had an early start in the morning. Jasmine went to escort them out, Bill was in the bathroom, which left me and Alexandra alone again.
We looked at each other for a few moments as the sound of Jasmine helping Paul and Geraldine on with their coats filtered in from the hall. I couldn't remember what the conversation we had been having had been, so I couldn't continue it with Alexandra. And I couldn't think of anything else to talk about.
"I want to see you again," Alexandra broke the silence.
Jasmine opened the front door and Paul and Geraldine's voices faded as they went out.
"What about Bill?" I asked.
"He's just a friend," she smiled. "There's nothing between us."
As Jasmine closed the front door I heard Bill come down the stairs.
"I don't know, Alexandra," I couldn't look at her.
She stood and took a step towards me. Then Bill and Jasmine walked in.
"It's time we were leaving, as well," Bill announced.
"Yes," Alexandra turned to Jasmine. "It was a lovely evening." Then back to me, "And to you as well, Kevin. I didn't know you were so domesticated."
We all smiled at each other. Then Jasmine and I ushered them out, but I felt no relief.
Jasmine put her arms around me as I closed the door behind them. "Let's leave the washing up till tomorrow," she whispered.
"Yes," I turned and snuggled closer to her.
She held me for a long time without saying anything. Then I took a deep breath and straightened up. "Come on," I looked into her eyes for a moment. Then I took her hand and led her up stairs.
We didn't say anything as we took our turns in the bathroom. Then as I lay in bed watching her undress I let her know what was on my mind.
"Alexandra asked to see me again," I said.
Jasmine stopped unbuttoning her blouse, then continued and draped it across the back of her chair before asking, "And do you want to see her?"
"I don't think that it would be a good idea," I replied.
"Why not?" she took off her bra.
"Because I think we'd end up having sex with each other," I looked away.
She didn't say anything for a moment. "You want to have sex with her?"
"She's an attractive woman, Jasmine," I explained. "On a more base level I want to have sex with every women I find attractive." I looked at her and smiled, "Of course I don't do anything about it, being a civilized man in control of my base desires."
She smiled back and unzipped her skirt.
"But then there's all these left over emotions knocking around my head for her," I added.
She folded her skirt and put it across the arm of the chair. "So you'd end up giving in to temptation with her?"
"I don't know," I sighed. "But I used to want it so badly and now she wants it as well. What do you think?"
She put her left foot up on the chair and rolled down her stocking. Then repeated the action with her right leg. She rested her elbow on her knee then turned to look at me with just her bikini briefs on. "You know," she said thoughtfully. "I don't believe that I'm the least bit jealous of her."
She took her foot down and pulled her briefs off. "But there is just one thing," she came to the bed and pulled back the covers.
"I want to share my bed with you," she kissed me lightly as she climbed in beside me. "But I'm not going to share it with her as well."
"What does that mean?" I rolled onto my back and ran my hands along her as she settled beside me.
"It means go and meet with her," She ran her thigh up my legs and across my abdomen. "Find out any way you can what you still mean to each other."
I snorted, knowing that I never meant very much to Alexandra. Yet almost immediately another part of me said that I did, and another remembered what she had meant to me.
"OK find out what she means to you then," she reached across me and toyed with my nipple. "Find out if you really love her. Because I don't want to share you with her."
I hugged her close. "You know that given the choice I'd always pick you over her."
"Yes," she whispered as she began to rock her body against mine. "But you'd always wonder if you'd made the best choice. I don't want that edge of uncertainty under our relationship."
"I've made my choice, Jasmine," I could feel my erection growing against the inside of her thigh.
"Now prove to yourself that you made the right one," she moved her body down and rubbed against it. "Let her show you what she has to offer."
I didn't have much choice in anything at that particular moment. Just go with the flow, Kevin, I said to myself. If you can't control them, then just lie back and enjoy the manipulations.


Chapter 15
----------

And that's how on the Friday of the following week I ended up going out for dinner with Alexandra. It hadn't been so bad phoning her to arrange it. She'd actually been in when I called and there were no awkward moments, no heated exchange of views or accusations of betrayal. It was just : "Yes, I want to go out with you." "A meal? That sounds lovely." "Friday night's OK" "Outside Eason's at seven thirty." "Great talking to you again." "And the same to you. Goodbye." and the phone was hung up.
So once again I found myself standing in O'Connell St. on a Friday night, waiting for Alexandra to show up. Wondering if she'd even show. But I needn't have worried. She was even on time. Just as the clock chimed the half hour she came around the corner from Abbey St.
She was wearing a blue silk blouse and a long black skirt. Her hair was tied back in a pony tail. And she'd a bag over her left shoulder and a jacket folded across her arm. As she came up to me and smiled I had to resist an impulse to put my arms around her and hug her. She looked so beautiful that I very nearly couldn't make myself stop.
"Hi," she said.
"Hi," I replied.
We looked at each other for a few seconds.
"Emm," I smiled to break the tension. "I thought we might go for a meal."
"That sounds nice," she smiled back. "How about a Chinese?"
"That's just what I was going to suggest," I said. "I thought maybe the Ming Court, down the bottom of Dame St.”
"I've never been there," she replied. "Is it good."
"It's brilliant," I assured her. "I've been there several times and it has always been good."
We started to walk and I felt like putting my arm around her or holding her hand. The desire to touch her just kept building. I knew that I'd have to give into it sooner or later, so I decided to get it over with.
She was going straight down O'Connell St. to cross at O'Connell Bridge. So I put my hand to her shoulder and half turned to go up Abbey St. "Let's go up this way," I tried to ignore the feeling of her silk blouse against her skin. "and we can turn up Liffey St. and cross at the Halfpenny bridge."
"OK" she turned to follow my lead and I had to make a conscious effort of will to take my hand from her shoulder.
We walked for a while in silence. The I asked, "So did you have a good week in work?"
"Oh, don't talk about it, Kevin," she rolled her eyes upwards. "My boss was in a foul mood. Not just today, but the whole blasted week. Nothing I did was good enough for him! He's such a bastard."
"Yeah," I laughed. "But did he sign your pay cheque."
She snorted, "That's the only dam reason I'm going in on Monday, I tell you."
"So what was he bugged about?" I asked.
"Oh, there's this big property deal he's involved with that looks as if it's going down the drain and he's going to lose an absolute fortune if it does." She smiled, "Serve him right if he does, the greedy little sod."
"A ha!," I exclaimed. "So you really love your boss, then."
She smiled up at me. "He's not too bad, as long as you can keep out of his way until five O'clock."
"Well as long as you enjoy your work so much," I smiled and looked away.
"Speaking of work," she looked up at me. "How's the writing coming along."
"Oh it's great," I replied. "I've got over thirty thousand words written."
"Really," she nodded. "And how many chapters is that."
"Well," I explained. "There are nineteen chapters in the novel. And I've finished four of them. In fact I'm just about to finish chapter seventeen."
"Thirty thousand words in four chapters," she shook her head. "That's a lot." She looked up at me again, "And if there's nineteen chapters in the whole novel that's..."
"Oh no," I interrupted. "It doesn't work like that. The biggest chapter has only six and a half thousand words in it. Most of it is in unfinished chapters."
"Unfinished chapters," she smiled. "Like the unfinished symphony?"
"Well," I smiled back. "I intend to live long enough to finish them, and quite a few more novels as well!"
She thought for a moment, "So if you're just about to finish chapter seventeen, how come you only have four complete?"
"That's because I don't write sequentially," I saw a question forming on her face and tried to explain. "What I mean is that I write it scene by scene, but all the scenes don't match up while I'm writing."
She smiled broadly, "Do they match up when you've finished?"
"Well," I smiled back. "That's where the art comes into it." I found my hand was in her's and couldn't think how it got there. "As I was going to explain," I continued. "What happens is that I get... I don't know, like a vision in my head of say two characters walking along the road, hand in hand talking to each other. And then from that I realize that later that same day, say when they're making love to each other, one of them remembers something that the other said when they were walking along hand in hand and I skip to that part of the story and write that conversation."
"Is there lots of love making in this novel," she asked.
"Oh, a little," I replied. "Like every chapter."
"Is this the novel you said you where putting me in?" she asked.
"That's right," I smiled. “I make you out to be this mean, viscous little bitch."
"Only a little bitch?" she smiled back.
"Well actually," I conceded. "Quite a bitch."
"I want to be the super bitch of all time," she said.
"But then nobody will know that it is you in my novel," I replied.
She looked up at me, "Oh don't worry, Kevin. Lots of people think I'm a bitch."
"Yeah," I agreed smiling. "But I didn't use your real name."
"Why not?" she demanded.
"Because you'd sue my balls off," I replied.
"No I wouldn't," she said. "I want to be famous." She looked up at me. "That is," she added, "if it turns out to be a best seller."
"Oh don't worry about that," I assured her. "I have every intention that it will." I smiled, "I mean why else would I put in all those sex scenes."
"And am I any good at it?" she smiled up at me.
"You blow his fucking mind, Alexandra!" I looked deep into her eyes.
She smiled back. Then her face became mischievous and she squeezed my hand, "Yeah, but do I blow anything else?"
I laughed and squeezed back, accepting her challenge. "Eventually, maybe you do, Alexandra!" I replied. "I haven't written that part yet."
We'd arrived at the restaurant. I opened the door for her. As she walked by she looked at me out of the corner of her and said, "Maybe you'll get some inspiration tonight!"
I laughed as I followed her inside.
A waiter sprang on us immediately, "Table for two, Sir?"
"Err, yes," I replied.
As we followed him to the back of the restaurant Alexandra looked over her shoulder and winked at me.
I stepped close to her, putting my hand on her shoulder and asked, "What was that for?"
"You just sounded so masterful, Kevin," she smiled back.
"Yeah," I replied drily. "That's me all over."
We sat down and took the menus from the waiter. As I scanned the starters I realized I was starving. We didn't say much until the waiter returned and took our orders.
As we waited for our food we chatted about this and that, while munching our way through a plate full of prawn crackers. Mostly we talked about films we'd both seen, or gave graphic descriptions about how good the films that the other had missed were. We seemed to have liked all the same films, but for completely different reasons.
Then the soup arrived and my conversation dwindled as I began to eat. Even though most of my attention was on my food I could still feel Alexandra's presence across the table as if a great heat was radiating from her. I was beginning to consciously feel attracted to her again. I kept looking up at her, just in time to see her glance away from me.
As soon as we'd knocked back the soup we started in on a conversation about food. About how the food here was good. About other good restaurants we'd been to, and restaurants to avoid. Then we realized that we'd never had a meal out together before and the conversation dried up.
Then the main course arrived and our lack of conversation was covered. The food was so delicious that it we were nearly finished the meal before we got down to the nitty gritty conversation.
"So Alexandra, what do you want from me?" I scooped up some noodles and sucked them into my mouth.
"I'm sorry?" Alexandra tilted her head in question.
I chewed quickly and swallowed. "After this long break in our relationship, what do you expect to get from talking to me now?"
She thought for a moment, then asked, "What did you hope to get from chasing after me when we broke up?"
I toyed with the idea of telling her that is was me who broke up with her, but it would only have started an argument. Then decided to be truthful, "Forgiveness."
"What?" she didn't know if she was supposed to smile or not. "Is that a joke?" she decided to smile.
"No," I took a deep breath. "I felt guilty about the way I thought I'd used you. And I didn't trust my own feelings enough to believe that I'd made the right decision in breaking up with you." I shrugged, "And I still loved you."
This time she did smile, "Which one was it?"
I smiled back, "All of them." I waved my hand beside my head, "All mixed up inside, with a whole load of other things, all sloshing into each other."
She ate a mouthful of her dinner and I ate some of mine.
When she'd finished chewing she asked, "Why guilty?"
I swallowed. "Because I thought I'd used you and I didn't think the fact that you'd used me balanced it out," I pinched another scoop full of noodles in my chopsticks. "Then I decided that you'd used me more than I'd used you and I wanted revenge," I ate the noodles.
She sat back and watched me chew.
"Do you still want to marry me?" she asked softly and looked away.
I smiled and swallowed. "No."
"Why not?" She quickly added, "I mean what made you change your mind."
I shrugged again, "You said no." I thought for a moment. "But more importantly you didn't take my proposal seriously."
"For someone who tries to be so funny you seem to want to be taken very seriously," she observed.
"The jokes are just a defense mechanism," I replied. "Underneath everybody wants to be taken seriously."
"And do you think you took me seriously?" she smiled.
"I would have given anything," I answered, “done anything for you."
"You would have given anything to have sex with me," she said.
"I did have sex with you, Alexandra," it was my turn to smile. "And you were the worst lay I've ever had."
Her eyes boiled.
"But then," I shrugged. "I've only ever had sex with a few people, so it's not really a valid comparison."
She fought to control her anger.
"Maybe those people were better than average," I added as an explanation.
"It takes two to tango," she looked at me.
I nodded. "That's what I keep reassuring myself with. And that maybe you're just not a responsive as... say Jasmine. Maybe I gave you just as good orgasms as I give her, but you just kept it all inside." I shrugged.
"And that's another reason I tried to get together with you," I spoke before she could reply. "My macho ego wouldn't accept that my powers at making love hadn't totally subdued you."
She thought for a moment. "Is that why you made love to me? To subdue me?"
"Partly it was about procession," I admitted. "About conquering you on some level." I smiled at the memories. "And when you where lying helpless in my arms you where all mine."
"So all you wanted was to conquer me!" she snapped. "What happened to all this sharing and equality crap?"
"Isn't conquering the other person what love is all about?" I asked. "Isn't that what all the songs say. I want to be your baby. I want you to be mine, together, forever, for all time."
"Bullshit! All you wanted was another conquest," she dropped her knife and fork onto her plate.
"You've had a lot more boyfriends than I've had girlfriends," I kept my voice level. "You tell me how you're supposed to keep score. I've always been in love when I've dated."
"Ha!" she glared at me.
I scooped up another mouthful of noodles and didn't reply. I'd eaten another few mouthfuls before she spoke to me.
"I'm sorry," she almost whispered. "I know that you wanted more than a one night stand."
"I wanted to marry you," I looked up at her. "To share my life with you. To have kids and grow old with you."
I looked at her for a moment. She looked down at her plate. Then I slowly finished my meal in silence.
"You only ever wanted one thing, Alexandra," I placed my chopsticks on the plate and pushed it away from me.
"Oh Yeah," She looked up. "And what was that?"
I shrugged, "To go out and have a good time."
"And what's wrong with that," she snapped. "Not every relationship has to lead to marriage."
"Yeah, but you were having all the fun and I was getting all the frustration," I replied.
She looked angry, but didn't say anything.
"I know, I know," I looked down. "It was my own fault for falling in love with you." I half smiled, "I should have been more considerate."
"And what does that mean?" she growled.
I sighed. "It was supposed to be another joke. You know, to break the tension."
"You never told many jokes," she cooled down a bit.
"Yes I did," I replied. "You just never noticed."
There was silence for a moment.
Then I asked, "Did you ever stop to consider what it was like for me?"
She looked up at me.
"Did you never consider that I might be telling the truth when I said that I loved you?" I looked away. "Did you never think what it must have felt like to me?"
"I don't understand," she spoke softly again.
"I mean," I swallowed. "What would you think of a man whose only interest in you was to have sex with you? A guy who would never talk to you, never share anything with you, and who barely listened when you talked to him."
I looked at her and she looked away. "What would you think of a guy who thought only of his own pleasure?"
No that was wrong, I thought. "And what would you think of a guy who deliberately made sure that you didn't get any pleasure out of it? Who restricted the acts he'd let you perform to those which wouldn't make you come."
I looked down again. "Would you want to love him? Would you want to be used and abused by him? Would you want to share your life with him? Would you want to be used and abused for the rest of your life?"
I looked back up at her.
She shook her head, "Well of course not!"
"And would you still go out with him?" I asked.
"No," she was beginning to realize that something was big was coming.
"Would you still want to dream about him at night? Would you still miss him when he wasn't around? Would your heart still miss a beat every time he walked in a room?" they all came out, one on top of the other.
"No," she barely spoke.
"Well neither do I, Alexandra," I kept my tone as neutral as I could. "I'm not a masochist. I don't enjoy the pain you cause me. I don't want to love you." My voice began to break up, "I never wanted to love you. But I was never given the choice. You can't choose who you're going to fall in love with." I looked away again, "If I could it certainly wouldn't be you."
There was silence for quite a while.
"In my life I have one principal that I stick to no matter what," I looked across at her. "And that's to be honest. Honest with myself. To look into my heart and discover what I really want, what I really feel. Not to let other people tell me what I should do. How I should be living my life.
"All around us we have people telling us what to do. From advertisers telling us our life isn't complete without whatever it is they are trying to sell. To religions telling us how we should feel and making us guilty about what we do feel.
"I didn't want to fall in love with you. But once I did I tried to make the most of a bad situation. I tried to be honest with you. I tried to tell you how I felt. Tried to explain what I wanted from you and what I wanted to give you. But you wouldn't listen.
"Yeah maybe you didn't love me. So why didn't you tell me when I told you that I loved you? So maybe you don't trust me. But in my book it takes a lot of trust to let someone make love to you. You trusted me enough to take me back to your place and have sex with me on our first date."
She took a sharp breath.
"Listen what I'm trying to say is," what was I trying to say. "Is... That the one think I needed, above anything else, was honesty. I needed you to be honest with me." I took a deep breath. "I was always honest with you. I never lied to you."
"Are you trying to tell me I'm a liar?" she interrupted.
I knew that that was too strong. "Well no..." I said. "The way I'd put it was that every time I tried to be intimate with you, I mean emotionally and intellectually... well... you just sprouted bullshit."
She said nothing.
"It's not that you deliberately lied to me," I knew that she was just about to get up and walk out on me. "It's that you lied to yourself. You believed your own bullshit. You really didn't think that you were treating me badly, that you were just using me. You really thought that you were treating me OK and that I was demanding more that I should."
I looked down, "And that just makes it worse. That makes it really sad."
She said nothing for a moment. Then cleared her throat and asked, "Why is it sad?"
I looked up, half expecting her to have left, half expecting her to attack me.
She looked back, calmly.
"It's sad that honesty is something that you can't accept," I said. "I was honest with you and you saw only bullshit. To you what I said couldn't be the truth. When I said that I loved you it meant that I didn't, because if I really loved you I wouldn't be able to tell you. To you everything is backwards, everything is distorted. You haven't come to terms with what you are, you can't be honest with yourself and so you can't accept honesty from other people.
"You live in a world full of bullshit. And it contaminates everything you see and touch." I ran out of steam, thinking maybe I'd gone too far. Then I shrugged, "Like I said you can't give the one thing I need, honesty."
There was silence between us for quite a while. We were a pool of stillness in the background hum of the restaurant. I looked at her and she looked at me. We both looked elsewhere.
Alexandra cleared her throat.
I looked at her.
She looked down at the table as she spoke. "Something very bad happened to me when I was young," she paused to compose herself.
I interrupted, "I don't want to know, Alexandra."
She looked up at me.
I shook my head, "I don't want to know." I looked away. "I don't know if you've been raped or abused as a child, or hurt really badly by the first person you ever loved, or if you never really got over your parents’ divorce, or whatever." I swallowed, "But I do know that something happened that really fucked you up. You hurt inside and I could feel that hurt every time I tried to get close to you. Every time I tried to talk to you, to touch you inside, when the shutters came down and you pushed me away."
The words just flowed out from me. "But you are still responsible for your own actions, you are still to blame for what you did to me. For the pain you caused. The pain you feel doesn't absolve you. If you feel pain then you are responsible for that pain. If you've fed and nurtured it to keep you going through the long dark nights. Then you are responsible for it. If you haven't done anything to ease or remove it then you are to blame."
I didn't think that she understood, and I knew that I couldn't explain it any better.
I took a deep breath and looked at her again. "So Alexandra, I don't want to know your deep dark secret. Because I don't give a shit." I shrugged, "Because it doesn't explain or justify anything you've done."
We sat in silence for a few minutes. Not looking at each other. Then the waiter came to clear the table. "Would you like to see the desert menu?" he asked.
"Yes, sure," I replied. And he popped the little card into my hand.
I looked across at Alexandra. "The orange sorbet in lovely here," I said. "That's what I'll be having."
She shrugged. And when the waiter came back I ordered two.
We waited in silence, but the deserts weren't long in coming. I tucked into mine with relish. I love sorbet and the icy taste in my mouth picked up my spirits a little.
I looked across at Alexandra and saw that she didn't seem very interested in her's. I smiled at her. She looked away.
"Listen, Alexandra," I said softly. "We're behaving like little children. Let's just put the past behind us. We can't go back and change it. It's finished OK?"
She toyed with her desert. "OK, Kevin," she coincided. "It's a bit too late now to go back and have a fairy tale romance, I suppose."
I'd have liked to say that we should forget the past and act as if it had never happened, but I knew that I could never forget what she had done to me. And I don't think that she could forget that easily either. But that could just have been my ego talking.
So I finished my desert in silence, but with a feeling of dissatisfaction. I didn't think that we had really gotten to the bottom of it. I didn't think that we had resolved all our problems with each other. There had been a lot missed by both of us. And I felt that the evening was drawing to a close without any satisfactory conclusion.


Chapter 16
----------

"So," her voice was a horse whisper. "Do you want to come back to my place and have sex with me?" she looked across at me.
I looked up shocked. Then I recovered my composure. "Why?" I asked, putting an edge in my voice.
She smiled, almost giggled, "What do you mean?"
"I mean, what's the point, Alexandra?" I looked at her.
She looked up at my face. "I don't understand."
I sighed and let the edge drop. "The last time I asked you to make love to me, to give me an orgasm, you asked me what was the point." I remembered that night when I tried so futilely to make contact with her one last time. I decided to add a bit of humor, "I mean, you never asked what was the point in me making you come."
She didn't get the joke. "What the fuck is that supposed to mean."
I sighed. "It doesn't mean anything, Alexandra. It's a joke."
"I never asked you to 'make love' to me, Kevin," she said. "You just did it to me because you wanted me to suck your prick."
I looked down, realizing that she still didn't understand. "I made love to you because I wanted you to come. I wanted to give you pleasure." I looked up, "OK so maybe it was just an ego boost for me to make you come. And yeah I enjoyed it. I wouldn't have done it if I didn't." I shook my head, "But I didn't do it so you'd feel that you owed me something. I didn't do it just to get some cheap trill back. I did it to you because I loved you."
She looked down and said nothing.
I tried to explain once again. "I gave my love to you freely and openly, without reservation. I made love to you to show you how much I loved you. And I wanted you to love me. That's not greed that's human nature."
She didn't respond.
"I made love to you because I loved you. And I wanted you to make love to me, because I wanted you to love me." I ran out of words, "There's nothing more I can say, Alexandra." I shrugged, "If you don't understand now, you'll never understand."
"It's difficult for me, Kevin." She stopped and smiled, "But then you don't want to know anything about that."
"No I don't," I replied dryly.
"Let's just say," she spoke slowly and deliberately. "No promises and no demands." She looked into my eyes, "That I want to make love to you. That I want to have sex with you. That I love you. And that you don't even have to accept that I do. And you don't have to love me back." Her eyes pleaded with me, "I just want to show you how much I love you." She looked down, "Like you tried to show me."
I didn't know what to say. I wanted to fuck her so badly. And yet I wanted to remain loyal to Jasmine. But hadn't I already betrayed Jasmine by the way I felt, the way I couldn't get Alexandra out of my mind, the way she still had a hold on me? And wouldn't I be betraying myself, wouldn't she have won some sort of victory over me if I let her make love to me now? But isn't that what I wanted all along, for her to want to make love to me? And wouldn't I be the real winner by finally having "my evil way" with her?
Yet wasn't the fact that she wanted to make love to me the important thing? Not whether or not we actually did it. I'd wanted her to feel the love for me that I felt for her. But now I loved Jasmine and I no longer wanted her to love me. Oh I still loved her, but if she didn't love me I could forget about her, like I almost had. Now that she'd told me that she loved me how would I ever manage to let her go?
But the waiter arrived with the bill and I was spared having to work through all that and coming up with an answer. I took out my plastic and barely glancing at the bill handed it back to him.
Alexandra took note. "Hold on, Kevin," she said. "I'm not letting you pay for this meal."
I smiled back, "Well I was hoping that you'd give me your half in cash. I don't have enough so I have to use my card."
"Oh," she nodded and took her purse out of her bag. "That's alright." She counted out and handed me the cash.
"Thanks," I pocketed it and we looked at each other, waiting for me to come up with an answer.
"Well," I admitted. "You've certainly caught me completely by surprise, Alexandra. I'd never have expected you to ask that." I shrugged, "I mean you always said no whenever I asked you." I leant forward, "OK. I accept that you didn't call what we did do sex. So I presume that what you are saying is that you want spent the night with me, to give yourself fully into the act rather that holding back like you did." I snorted, at myself more than anything else, "What I'm saying is that you're going to let me come. Give me an orgasm like?"
She hesitated. "Well yes, Kevin," she said. "That's what sex is all about, isn't it?"
I laughed. "If you had asked me that before I met you I'd have agreed. But now," I shrugged, "I'm not so sure."
She leant forward to touch my arm. "Let's forget about that, Kevin," she said. "I want to get as close to you as I can." She looked into my eyes, "I want to be processed totally by you."
I looked back into her dark, green eyes and had an instant hard on.
Then the waiter came back and I signed the counterfoil and took my card back. As I put it away I looked at Alexandra. She was still looking longingly at me.
"Listen, Alexandra," I said. "I just don't know what you want from me."
"I want to know that you love me, Kevin," she squeezed my arm.
"I never said that I didn't love you, Alexandra," I looked down. "I've always loved you."
She was silent for a moment, then she asked, "And do you tell Jasmine that you love her, as well?"
"Of course I do," I smiled.
"And which time are you telling the truth?" her voice had lost some of the anger. "Which time do you mean it?"
I looked at her, puzzled. "I mean it both times." I shook my head, "I wouldn't say it if I didn't mean it."
"So you're telling me that you love us both?" her voice had changed from anger to incredulity.
I shrugged, "Well yes." But somehow I didn't feel convinced.
Once again she was demonstrating her knack of totally undermining my self-confidence. I had come to her with my feelings all worked out and explained. And once again she was reacting in a way I hadn't expected and was asking questions I'd never thought of.
"How can you love two people at once?" she demanded.
"Quite easily," I smiled back. I was going to tell her that I loved my mother and father and brothers and sisters, but the look on her face stopped me. "I fall in love easily," I added as an explanation.
"You fall in love easily and you fall out of love easily," she said.
That wasn't true. "I've loved you for over two years now," I explained. "And I only started my love affair with Jasmine when you broke off our relationship."
I looked away from her again, "I've loved you since the very first time that I saw you. I've never stopped loving you. And I never will."
"You just started loving her instead!" she hissed.
"You didn't want me! What was I supposed to? Commit suicide!" I replied.
We glared at each other.
"Listen," I looked away. "I think about you all the time, even when I'm with her." I snorted, "Hell I seem to spend half my time talking to her about you. It’s a wonder that she hasn't dumped me because of it." No wonder, I thought. Jasmine really loves me.
"Well I don't see how you can love two girls at once," she said. "I mean really, properly love them."
There was silence for a moment.
"I think you love one of us and only lust after the other," she explained.
I looked at her and saw that she was serious. I decided that I'd have to accept that. She would never believe that I could love two people at once. But I could live with lust. I have nothing against lust. I believe that it's a healthy enough emotion, in moderation.
"Well I admit that there are differences in my feelings for each of you. But I can't tell which one is love and which one is lust." I shrugged, "I guess you'll just have to decide that for yourself."
She leant across the table, smiled as she put her arms around my neck, closed her eyes and kissed me.
I didn't know how to react.
She pulled away and smiled broadly at me. "I don't remember you as being shy in public," she teased.
It was time for one of those spilt second decisions. Something clicked inside me and I just didn't care anymore, I mean I stopped worrying and started to act. O.K lets be brutality honest about it, my hormones took over.
I reached behind her head and with both hands pulled her to me, pushed my tongue into her mouth and kiss her as passionately as I could.
She responded and it was a good five minutes before we came up for air. And we noticed that we were getting a lot of attention from the people at adjoining tables.
We both knew that we were going back to her place, but I still didn't trust my judgment of her completely.
"Are you going to invite me back for coffee?" I asked.
"No," she smiled. "I'm going to drag you back. And we wouldn't be having coffee."
She stood up and half dragged me to my feet and out onto the street. We ended up walking up Georges Street with my arm around her shoulder and her arm around my waist, our hips and ribs, bumping and rubbing against each other.
When we reached the entrance to her flat we kissed long and hard before we disengaged so she could search through her bag for her keys and let us in.
As soon as we were inside she kicked off her shoes and threw her coat onto the bed. I just had time to take off my own coat, before her arms where around me again and her tongue was in my mouth.
I hugged her close and she squeezed back, our tongues rolling around each other. It felt so bloody good to hold her again.
Then I ran my hands down her back and started to squeeze and massage her bottom. She wiggled against me and I could feel my erection pressing against her. She obviously felt it to, because she stepped back and looked down at it. My hands came up to her hips as hers dropped onto my biceps.
"So..." she whispered, still looking down at me.
I smiled and brought my hands up to gently squeeze her breasts. She sighed and I started to unbutton her blouse. She watched my hands as I worked my way down and pulled it out from under her skirt. I ran my hands along her arms and unbuttoned first her left cuff, then her right. I slipped my hands inside her blouse and ran them up her sides, brushing her breasts as I slipped my fingers into the tops of her sleeves and pushed the blouse from her shoulders. Then I ran my hands down her arms and let the blouse drop to the floor.
She was wearing a black lace bra underneath. I ran my fingers around its edges and gently brushed them across the cups. I traced the straps under her arms and around and across her shoulders. Then I slipped my finders inside to touch her nipples and gently rubbed back and forth across them.
She let out a deep sigh.
I slipped my hands out and reached around to unhook the bra. As I watched her breasts drop free I pulled the straps from her shoulders and let the bra drop onto the floor. I ran my hands back down her shoulders and under her arms to come up and cup her breasts. Gently I leant down and kissed each nipple. First left then right, then left again.
Her hands came up to run her fingers through my hair.
"So does this bitchy villain in your novel have big tits then?" she whispered.
I smiled without taking my eyes off her breasts. "Oh they're about so big," I cupped my hands around her left breast.
"You should have given her big ones," she ran her hands across my head.
"No," I replied as I leant forward. "I don't like them too big." And I licked her nipple.
"I thought all men liked big tits," she sighed.
"That's like saying all women like big pricks," I replied in between sucks.
"We do," she giggled.
I moved up to look her in the face, "Well I'm sorry to disappoint you." I kissed her lips.
"Oh, no. You don't," she seemed surprised. "You're huge."
I smiled back, "Flatter." And clamped my mouth to her's, pushing my tongue inside, to shut her up.
She ran her hands up and down my body, wiggling from side to side to brush her nipples across my chest.
I ran my hands down her back and pushed my fingers under the waist band of her skirt. Then I ran them around and unfastened it. As I pushed it down she leant back, clasping her hands behind my neck to slow her descent and bring me down to lie on top of her. I leant forward and found my lips on her nipple again. Her legs came up around my waist. And as I caressed her breasts she licked and sucked my ears. I was in heaven again.
I started to work my way down her body. Moving from side to side, kissing and nibbling. I pushed my hands under her skirt and started to pull her panties down. she lifted her body up and I knelt up between her legs as I pulled her skirt and panties free.
Then she lay completely naked in front of me, her legs to either side, her hands behind her head. A smile on her face as she watched me looking at her. She was so beautifully proportioned, with high conical breasts, the muscles defined on her arms, narrow waist and strong hips and thighs. And her long, black hair sprayed across half her face and her shoulder, just reaching the nipple of her left breast.
But my eyes were drawn to her vagina. She had thick curly hair, but her lips were open and moist. I leant down and sniffed. Then gently licked. And before I knew what had happened my mouth was clamped tight, as I sucked and probed and licked for all I was worth.
"No! no," she pushed me away.
I looked up confused.
She sat up to face me. "I want you naked in bed," she smiled.
Her hands undid my fly and I leant back on my arms to let her pull my jeans down. Then she realized I still had my shoes and stockings on. So she quickly tore them off and pulled off my jeans and underpants.
I lay back on my elbows and let her look at me.
"You've lost all that flab," she whispered.
"I've been getting a lot of exercise lately," I smiled back.
"I bet," she looked up with a wicket grin on her face. "Come on," she stood up and walked across to the bed.
I stood and followed, walking that strange walk I always get when I'm naked with an erection.
She pulled back the covers and climbed into bed. Moving across to the far said and holding the covers up to welcome me in. I climbed onto the bed and reached for her.
She rolled on top, pulling the covers over her head and giggling as I ran my right hand down her abdomen and my left up to her breast. My tongue found her other nipple so I opened my mouth and sucked her breast in. She moaned as my hand found her wet and open. I pushed my middle two fingers inside and she began to rock back and forward. I rubbed in time to her rhythm, my fingers hooked inside, the balls of hand rubbing outside. Her mouth found my ear and my world was reduced to a timeless eternity of just a few sensations, my fingers in her vagina, her nipple on my tongue, her body rocking back and forth, her tongue on my ear and the background static of the hormones racing through my veins.
She shuddered from head to toe, gave a deep sigh and pushed my hand away. "Hmmmm, that was nice," she turned her head and lightly kissed me on the cheek. Then she rolled away, snuggled her shoulder into my arm pit and curled up around my right arm. "Good night," she whispered.
Once again she had shut me out in a way that I couldn't argue with. What she had just done would have been an perfect way to end our love making, if only our love making had been at an end. But she had finished and once again she had lost interest in me.
I lay back, put my free hand behind my head and tried to ignore the pressure of my erection against the sheets. She was still playing games with me. After all I'd said she still played games.
Then she giggled. I could feel the little convulsions shake her body. She hugged my arm, hard, and pressed my fingers down into her pubic hair. "How who doesn't appreciate who's sense of humor?" she rolled over to face me and grinned. "I told you I'd do it properly tonight. Didn't I?"
She kissed me, pushing her tongue deep into my mouth. I responded automatically. She pulled her mouth off mine, "Didn't you believe me?" She started to lick under my chin and gently bit my Adam's apple. I thought of Jasmine.
"Do you like this as much as I do?" her voice whispered.
"Mmmm," I replied as she started to rub her body against mine.
My erection pressed into her, my hands made their own way across her gorgeous skin and I was lost in a sea of sensual delight. My body loved her, but that was all. Deep in my heart I discovered a lump of ice that wouldn't melt.
We rode and rode into the early morning. Then fell asleep in each other’s arms, exhausted. It took me a long time to come. Not because I wanted to prolong her pleasure any more, but because I didn't want to come in her. And when I came it was just a little trickle. And while she fell asleep, exhausted and contented, on top of me, I lay awake staring at the dark ceiling. One thought kept going through my mind. She was still playing games with me. After all I'd said to her, she was still playing games.


Chapter 17
----------

I woke up in dim light and wondered why Jasmine hadn't pulled back the curtains. Then I realized I was in a single bed with a warm body pressed close to me. I was wide awake instantly. The memories of last night came flooding into my mind.
"Shit," I whispered.
Alexandra murmured something in her sleep.
I realized she was naked beside me and I began to get aroused. It was this small betrayal of my heart by my body that forced me to move. As gently as I could I slid out from under her arm and onto the floor. I stood and began searching in the dim light for my clothes.
As I was getting dressed Alexandra woke.
"Good morning," she smiled at me and stretched lazily under the bed clothes.
I was glad I had my jeans on so she couldn't see the reaction she caused in me. And I got annoyed that my body betrayed my desire when I'd decided that I didn't want her any more. I have to admit now that I still wanted her, it was just that I knew that I would be far better off with out her.
"Hi," I replied. "Did you sleep well?"
"I had a gorgeous time, Kevin," her eyes were still dreamy.
I pulled my T-shirt on and walked to the sink. "Do you want some coffee?" I had hoped to leave before she woke up. To run away so I'd not have to face her. Now she was awake all I could think of was performing the social niceties.
"Yes please," she yawned.
She got out of bed as I filled the kettle and padded across to the wardrobe. I took out the coffee and put a couple of spoonfuls into two mugs. When I looked up she was standing beside me in her silk dressing grown. She leaned close to kiss. I lightly kissed her lips.
She put her arms around me and hugged. "Hmmm," she whispered as she rocked herself against me. "It's nice to have somebody to make coffee for you in the morning."
"Maybe you should hire a maid," I suggested.
"What do I need a maid for when I've got you," she looked up at me.
I smiled and looked away.
Steam was coming out of the kettle. I quickly made the coffee and, taking my mug, sat down at the table.
She looked at me for a moment. Then asked, "Is there something wrong, Kevin?"
I looked away, "I think last night was a mistake."
"Oh," she whispered. "Why?"
"It didn't achieve anything," I explained.
"At least now I know why I love you," she said.
"You don't love me, Alexandra," I put my cup down. "You don't love me and you don't understand me." I shook my head, "And you never will."
She sat down opposite me and I realized that I didn't mind her putting the table as a barrier between us.
"There's a gulf between us which I cannot bridge," I looked at her. "And which I don't think you can bridge either."
She said nothing for a moment. "If you want to do something badly enough you'll always find a way to do it," she said, quoting form a film we'd seen together.
I nodded, "I agree." And looked down, "I guess I don't want to love you badly enough. I've got Jasmine and she really loves me. I don't need you anymore." I looked up at her, "Maybe I never did, I just thought that I did."
"So where does that leave me?" she was in a state of shock. "After I gave myself to you last night."
A bolt of anger rose inside me. I wanted to scream. Why is so much emphasis placed on Sex? Why is it so important to keep yourself "pure and chaste" for your future husband? But I didn't. I suddenly realized that our whole relationship had been fucked up by her believe in the importance of her "giving herself" to someone.
She hadn't been able to admit her desire for me because she had wanted to keep her virtue intact. Yet she was able to get her desire sated because I wanted to make love to her so much. She couldn't masturbate or give me head, because that is immoral. So my frustration built up and tore the relationship apart.
Now I couldn't trust her. Now I couldn't love her. All because of her sacred virtue.
I looked down. "Like I said before there's a difference between commitment and sex." I looked up at her again, "They're not the same thing."
She gripped the edge of the table, "You just used me!"
"No, Alexandra," I kept my voice soft. "You used me. I was always honest about my feelings for you. I never told you I was going to devote my life to you if you had sex with me." I shook my head, "You were the one who said that you wouldn't give any commitment to me."
"All you wanted was to fuck me!" she shouted.
"That's not true, Alexandra," I kept my voice normal. "I always wanted a deeper, more committed relationship than you did." I shrugged, "And now I've got it. But it's not with you."
"So what was last night about?" she didn't shout, but she still burned with anger.
"Last night?" I smiled. "Last night was about you wanted to have sex with me, for your own reasons." I looked down. "And for my own I wanted to have sex with you."
"And that's all that it was to you?" she seemed deflated. Her anger had evaporated. "Just sex?"
"I didn't feel anything deeper, Alexandra," I said. "I tried to feel the way I felt on that first night. I tried to feel what I used to feel for you. But I couldn't. And I don't think I ever will."
We were silent for a while.
"And what about Jasmine?" Alexandra looked at me. "Will she forgive you for spending the night with me?"
"No," I smiled and shook my head. "She won't forgive me, because I don't think that she'll feel the need to forgive me. And I won't feel the need to ask for it."
"So you'll just walk in and tell her that you've had sex with me?" it was a rhetorical question.
"No," I shook my head again. "She already knows that I've had sex with you."
Alexandra smiled her disbelieve.
I smiled back. "You don't understand." I leant forward. "It was her idea for us to do this," I explained. "It was her idea to get rid of all my leftover emotions I felt for you. For me to realize what my true feelings for you ."
I leant back, "And for you to realize what you felt for me."
"You expect me to believe that she made you have sex with me?" she almost laughed.
"I already said, Alexandra," I pointed out, "that I wanted to have sex with you." I started to explain. "Jasmine doesn't own me and I don't own her. We're in love with each other. We decided to share our lives with each other. We're committed to each other." I looked straight at her. "And she is not jealous of you. She understands my desire for you."
"You desire me and you love Jasmine," she snorted.
I shrugged, "That's about right."
She stood up and shouted at me. "Do you expect me to accept that, for you to live with and love and 'Be committed' to Jasmine, and for me to be your bit on the side?"
"No," I stayed seated and kept my voice low. "I expect that we'll not see each other again." I looked down, "And I don't think that we can be friends."
She realized that I was saying good buy. Slowly she sat down. We sat in silence for a minute or two. I looked at her and she looked at her feet. Finally she whispered, "I want you, Kevin."
My heart broke. I knew that she meant it. And I started to cry. She came around the table and put her arms around my waist. I hugged her back and we sank onto the floor in each other's arms. Slowly we rocked back and forward. My tears flowing into her hair, her's onto my shoulder.
Finally I managed to speak. "I'm sorry Alexandra," I kissed her ear. "I'm sorry, Alex," I hugged her. Hard!
Then I pushed her away and stood up. She looked down at the floor as I took my coat off the back of the chair and walked out. Not looking back.
For the first time in my life, not looking back.
On my way home I had a long, long talk with myself. A talk in which I convinced myself that I'd done the right thing, that I would be happier with Jasmine than with Alex, and that Alex would be happier without me.
I started off by trying to explain why I fell in love with Alex.
It was like I'd had this ideal concept of the perfect person for me. I had constructed this box inside my head. A box of the "shape" of the person I wanted. And I put the label "The love of my life" on it. Then when I met Alex I'd put her in that box and thought that she do what I expected her to do and give me what I needed. And when she had done what she wanted to do herself I hadn't been able to accept it
And maybe now, I thought. I had just swapped the contents of that box, replaced Alex with Jasmine. But no, I said back. Jasmine has changed utterly the shape of that box. Because of what she has given me I no longer needed the things that form the "Love of my life" that I had needed from Alex. Maybe Alex had given me all that I'd really wanted. And I realized then that she had given all that I'd allowed her to give. That she had given all that she had known how to give.
It was my fault that I had not known how to show her what else she could give. As she had said herself she had needed guidance and I had not known how to guide her. I had not known how to help her sort out the mess that life had made her. But then, I had not known how to sort myself out.
And Jasmine had taken me and quite casually shown me what freedom really was. The freedom I had been unable to show Alex. The freedom she hadn't known existed and so hadn't known she could aspire to. The freedom that Jasmine took for granted. The freedom I had deluded myself into thinking that I had already archived.
Looking back on my relationship with Alex. When I heard myself thinking this I knew that it really was over, once and for all. But looking back on it from her point of view I wonder if her interpretation of it had been right all along. Here I was losing all interest in her after one night of having sex with her. Maybe that was all I wanted all along. Or, then again, maybe I really was a masochist for putting myself through all that pain and suffering.
I mean the physical evidence is all in favor of her interpretation. I tried again and again to... Well let's say it, fuck. That's what it really was anyway. I tried again and again to fuck her. When one angle of attack didn't work I changed my technique. And when that didn't work I tried another. And as soon as I succeed I lost interest in her.
Had I been lying to myself when I said that I wanted to share my life with her? Did I have to justify my lust for her with "morally correct" thoughts? Was I just a slave to my emotions and not as free as I liked to think I was?
Well I've already answered that last question. I've already admitted that I didn't choose to love her, that I had no control over my feelings for her. And that given the choice I wouldn't have picked her.
I know I would have picked someone who would give the "love and support" I thought I needed. And I know that over time I would have ended up despising that person for not being able to stand up to me. I think I needed someone like Alex to help me grow into another, better person.
And if I hadn't had that relationship with Alex I'd never have been able to treat Jasmine the way I do. I would never have been able to love and understand her the way I can now.
Having that relationship with Alex had thought me a lot. And I hope that she learnt something as well. And in my darkest, and brightest, moments I hope that I have given her the best, and worst, revenge possible, the gift of understanding.
I hope she understands exquisite detail the pain and confusion I felt. I hope that she has trouble sleeping at night. And I realize that if I have help her gain the understanding to lose sleep over what she did to me, then she also has the understanding to come to terms with it and use it to grow and develop into a better, stronger person.
I hope that is my lasting gift to her. Because that is what she gave to me, an understanding of what my faults and weaknesses are and the chance to do something about correcting them.
The bus pulled up to my stop and I got off and stood looking down the road at Jasmine's house. My heart pounded and my palms were sweaty. I had to face Jasmine now. I had to convince her that my love for Alex was dead and that I really truly loved her. That I wanted to share the rest of my life with her. It came to me there and then that I wanted her to be the mother of my children; a thought that had never struck me before. But that seemed so inescapable once I'd thought it.
I wanted more than anything to run up to the house, tare inside, grab Jasmine and hug her ever so tightly. I wanted to explain to her how I felt. I wanted to make her believe that I really loved her. That I really believed she loved me. That we could make it together. That we really could be happy. No shadows hanging over us. No doubts. No confusions. A moment of unnerving clarity that stretched into minutes as I just stood there looking at the house bathed in early morning sunlight.
I'd just spent the night with a woman I'd spent the best part of three years dreaming about. A woman I'd loved so desperately I'd been unable to control myself. A woman who's very presence in the same room as me could give me a hard on. A woman I'd talked about so very often. Too often. A woman who'd hung over Jasmine like an avenging angel.
And I was to arrive now and tell her that it was all over between me and Alex. That I'd suddenly opened my eyes and realized what I was doing. That I been unable to let go of the bad thing and reach for the good. That Jasmine was the best thing that'd ever happened to me. That my relationship with Alex had been self-destructive from the start. That like a veil lifting from my eyes I'd suddenly realized that what I really wanted was what I all ready had.
It all sounded like a bad soap opera. Or to be more exact like a good soap opera.
"At least I still have my sense of humor," I smiled to myself. Then quickly looked around when I realized I'd spoken out loud.
I started to walk towards the house. Each step had to be forced out of me. And I daren't stop for fear that I'd be unable to resume. I walked up the garden path like a condemned man approaching his death. Then something snapped inside and I realized I was being way over dramatic. Jasmine loves me. This was all her idea. Of course she'll believe that it's worked. That I've come back with my love for her renewed and strengthened.
But still my heart was pounding as I opened the door and entered the hall. Her coat was hanging there so she hadn't gone out shopping yet. Then I heard the radio playing in the kitchen. My knees trembled as I walked down and slowly opened the door.
She was standing at the sink filling the kettle.
We looked at each other for a moment.
I tried to speak but my mouth was too dry. I swallowed and started to walk towards her.
She dropped the kettle into the sink and stepped towards me.
I knelt down on the floor in front of her, hugged her knees to me and asked, "Will you marry me." I looked up at her, while still hugging her close. "I'll even get a job. I'll become a responsible member of society. I'll conform as much as I can."
She ran her fingers through my hair, pushed her knees either side of me and sank down into my lap. "No," she kissed me and smiled, her hands still running through my hair. "I don't want that. All I want is for you to become a bestselling, internationally famous writer. OK?" And we kissed passionately.

The End
Afterword
Thank you for your interest in my story. I do hope that you enjoyed it. If you have any comments, thoughts or reviews and you are a customer of Amazon.com you can go to the paperback version of this book at: http://www.amazon.com/dp/190708200X/?tag=declanstanley and leave a review.
You can also leave reviews, thoughts and comments on:
CreateSpace.com (https://www.createspace.com/3374095)
Lulu.com (http://www.lulu.com/declanstanley).
SmashWords.com (https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/169)
My own blog (http://declanstanley.com/novels/alexandra/chapter-17/)

Once again I would like to thank you for your interest in my work and I encourage you to read more of my writings available on my web site(http://declanstanley.com/).

Thank you,
Declan Stanley
2nd April 2009

This, I found a very interesting study of how thhings develope betweenmale and female, what they like, what they feel, what the effect of the other's behaviour is on a lover.

Although explicit, those of you who are studying Psychology, will have a lot to consider, while those who don't study Psychology, will still enjoy it.

Sorry, I couldn't get onto CIS, so I tried again to re-post the whole book. Please look for "Alexandra" in my other post. Hope it works, it's the longest print doc I have posted!

The Country of the Blind

by H.G. Wells



Three hundred miles and more from Chimborazo, one hundred from the snows of Cotopaxi, in the wildest wastes of Ecuador's Andes, there lies that mysterious mountain valley, cut off from all the world of men, the Country of the Blind. Long years ago that valley lay so far open to the world that men might come at last through frightful gorges and over an icy pass into its equable meadows, and thither indeed men came, a family or so of Peruvian half-breeds fleeing from the lust and tyranny of an evil Spanish ruler. Then came the stupendous outbreak of Mindobamba, when it was night in Quito for seventeen days, and the water was boiling at Yaguachi and all the fish floating dying even as far as Guayaquil; everywhere along the Pacific slopes there were land-slips and swift thawings and sudden floods, and one whole side of the old Arauca crest slipped and came down in thunder, and cut off the Country of the Blind for ever from the exploring feet of men. But one of these early settlers had chanced to be on the hither side of the gorges when the world had so terribly shaken itself, and he perforce had to forget his wife and his child and all the friends and possessions he had left up there, and start life over again in the lower world. He started it again but ill, blindness overtook him, and he died of punishment in the mines; but the story he told begot a legend that lingers along the length of the Cordilleras of the Andes to this day.

He told of his reason for venturing back from that fastness, into which he had first been carried lashed to a llama, beside a vast bale of gear, when he was a child. The valley, he said, had in it all that the heart of man could desire--sweet water, pasture, an even climate, slopes of rich brown soil with tangles of a shrub that bore an excellent fruit, and on one side great hanging forests of pine that held the avalanches high. Far overhead, on three sides, vast cliffs of grey-green rock were capped by cliffs of ice; but the glacier stream came not to them, but flowed away by the farther slopes, and only now and then huge ice masses fell on the valley side. In this valley it neither rained nor snowed, but the abundant springs gave a rich green pasture, that irrigation would spread over all the valley space. The settlers did well indeed there. Their beasts did well and multiplied, and but one thing marred their happiness. Yet it was enough to mar it greatly. A strange disease had come upon them and had made all the children born to them there--and, indeed, several older children also--blind. It was to seek some charm or antidote against this plague of blindness that he had with fatigue and danger and difficulty returned down the gorge. In those days, in such cases, men did not think of germs and infections, but of sins, and it seemed to him that the reason of this affliction must he in the negligence of these priestless immigrants to set up a shrine so soon as they entered the valley. He wanted a shrine--a handsome, cheap, effectual shrine--to be erected in the valley; he wanted relics and such-like potent things of faith, blessed objects and mysterious medals and prayers. In his wallet he had a bar of native silver for which he would not account; he insisted there was none in the valley with something of the insistence of an inexpert liar. They had all clubbed their money and ornaments together, having little need for such treasure up there, he said, to buy them holy help against their ill. I figure this dim-eyed young mountaineer, sunburnt, gaunt, and anxious, hat brim clutched feverishly, a man all unused to the ways of the lower world, telling this story to some keen-eyed, attentive priest before the great convulsion; I can picture him presently seeking to return with pious and infallible remedies against that trouble, and the infinite dismay with which he must have faced the tumbled vastness where the gorge had once come out. But the rest of his story of mischances is lost to me, save that I know of his evil death after several years. Poor stray from that remoteness! The stream that had once made the gorge now bursts from the mouth of a rocky cave, and the legend his poor, ill-told story set going developed into the legend of a race of blind men somewhere "over there" one may still hear to-day.

And amidst the little population of that now isolated and forgotten valley the disease ran its course. The old became groping, the young saw but dimly, and the children that were born to them never saw at all. But life was very easy in that snow-rimmed basin, lost to all the world, with neither thorns nor briers, with no evil insects nor any beasts save the gentle breed of llamas they had lugged and thrust and followed up the beds of the shrunken rivers in the gorges up which they had come. The seeing had become purblind so gradually that they scarcely noticed their loss. They guided the sightless youngsters hither and thither until they knew the whole valley marvellously, and when at last sight died out among them the race lived on. They had even time to adapt themselves to the blind control of fire, which they made carefully in stoves of stone. They were a simple strain of people at the first, unlettered, only slightly touched with the Spanish civilisation, but with something of a tradition of the arts of old Peru and of its lost philosophy. Generation followed generation. They forgot many things; they devised many things. Their tradition of the greater world they came from became mythical in colour and uncertain. In all things save sight they were strong and able, and presently chance sent one who had an original mind and who could talk and persuade among them, and then afterwards another. These two passed, leaving their effects, and the little community grew in numbers and in understanding, and met and settled social and economic problems that arose. Generation followed generation. Generation followed generation. There came a time when a child was born who was
 fifteen generations from that ancestor who went out of the valley with a bar of silver to seek God's aid, and who never returned. Thereabout it chanced that a man came into this community from the outer world. And this is the story of that man.

He was a mountaineer from the country near Quito, a man who had been down to the sea and had seen the world, a reader of books in an original way, an acute and enterprising man, and he was taken on by a party of Englishmen who had come out to Ecuador to climb mountains, to replace one of their three Swiss guides who had fallen ill. He climbed here and he climbed there, and then came the attempt on Parascotopetl, the Matterhorn of the Andes, in which he was lost to the outer world. The story of that accident has been written a dozen times. Pointer's narrative is the best. He tells how the little party worked their difficult and almost vertical way up to the very foot of the last and greatest precipice, and how they built a night shelter amidst the snow upon a little shelf of rock, and, with a touch of real dramatic power, how presently they found Nunez had gone from them. They shouted, and there was no reply; shouted and whistled, and for the rest of that night they slept no more.

As the morning broke they saw the traces of his fall. It seems impossible he could have uttered a sound. He had slipped eastward towards the unknown side of the mountain; far below he had struck a steep slope of snow, and ploughed his way down it in the midst of a snow avalanche. His track went straight to the edge of a frightful precipice, and beyond that everything was hidden. Far, far below, and hazy with distance, they could see trees rising out of a narrow, shut-in valley--the lost Country of the Blind. But they did not know it was the lost Country of the Blind, nor distinguish it in any way from any other narrow streak of upland valley. Unnerved by this disaster, they abandoned their attempt in the afternoon, and Pointer was called away to the war before he could make another attack. To this day Parascotopetl lifts an unconquered crest, and Pointer's shelter crumbles unvisited amidst the snows.

And the man who fell survived.

At the end of the slope he fell a thousand feet, and came down in the midst of a cloud of snow upon a snow-slope even steeper than the one above. Down this he was whirled, stunned and insensible, but without a bone broken in his body; and then at last came to gentler slopes, and at last rolled out and lay still, buried amidst a softening heap of the white masses that had accompanied and saved him. He came to himself with a dim fancy that he was ill in bed; then realized his position with a mountaineer's intelligence and worked himself loose and, after a rest or so, out until he saw the stars. He rested flat upon his chest for a space, wondering where he was and what had happened to him. He explored his limbs, and discovered that several of his buttons were gone and his coat turned over his head. His knife had gone from his pocket and his hat was lost, though he had tied it under his chin. He recalled that he had been looking for loose stones to raise his piece of the shelter wall. His ice-axe had disappeared.

He decided he must have fallen, and looked up to see, exaggerated by the ghastly light of the rising moon, the tremendous flight he had taken. For a while he lay, gazing blankly at the vast, pale cliff towering above, rising moment by moment out of a subsiding tide of darkness. Its phantasmal, mysterious beauty held him for a space, and then he was seized with a paroxysm of sobbing laughter . . . .

After a great interval of time he became aware that he was near the lower edge of the snow. Below, down what was now a moon-lit and practicable slope, he saw the dark and broken appearance of rock-strewn turf He struggled to his feet, aching in every joint and limb, got down painfully from the heaped loose snow about him, went downward until he was on the turf, and there dropped rather than lay beside a boulder, drank deep from the flask in his inner pocket, and instantly fell asleep . . . .

He was awakened by the singing of birds in the trees far below.

He sat up and perceived he was on a little alp at the foot of a vast precipice that sloped only a little in the gully down which he and his snow had come. Over against him another wall of rock reared itself against the sky. The gorge between these precipices ran east and west and was full of the morning sunlight, which lit to the westward the mass of fallen mountain that closed the descending gorge. Below him it seemed there was a precipice equally steep, but behind the snow in the gully he found a sort of chimney-cleft dripping with snow-water, down which a desperate man might venture. He found it easier than it seemed, and came at last to another desolate alp, and then after a rock climb of no particular difficulty, to a steep slope of trees. He took his bearings and turned his face up the gorge, for he saw it opened out above upon green meadows, among which he now glimpsed quite distinctly a cluster of stone huts of unfamiliar fashion. At times his progress was like clambering along the face of a wall, and after a time the rising sun ceased to strike along the gorge, the voices of the singing birds died away, and the air grew cold and dark about him. But the distant valley with its houses was all the brighter for that. He came presently to talus, and among the rocks he noted--for he was an observant man--an unfamiliar fern that seemed to clutch out of the crevices with intense green hands. He picked a frond or so and gnawed its stalk, and found it helpful.

About midday he came at last out of the throat of the gorge into the plain and the sunlight. He was stiff and weary; he sat down in the shadow of a rock, filled up his flask with water from a spring and drank it down, and remained for a time, resting before he went on to the houses.

They were very strange to hi
s eyes, and indeed the whole aspect of that valley became, as he regarded it, queerer and more unfamiliar. The greater part of its surface was lush green meadow, starred with many beautiful flowers, irrigated with extraordinary care, and bearing evidence of systematic cropping piece by piece. High up and ringing the valley about was a wall, and what appeared to be a circumferential water channel, from which the little trickles of water that fed the meadow plants came, and on the higher slopes above this flocks of llamas cropped the scanty herbage. Sheds, apparently shelters or feeding-places for the llamas, stood against the boundary wall here and there. The irrigation streams ran together into a main channel down the centre of the valley, and this was enclosed on either side by a wall breast high. This gave a singularly urban quality to this secluded place, a quality that was greatly enhanced by the fact that a number of paths paved with black and white stones, and each with a curious little kerb at the side, ran hither and thither in an orderly manner. The houses of the central village were quite unlike the casual and higgledy-piggledy agglomeration of the mountain villages he knew; they stood in a continuous row on either side of a central street of astonishing cleanness, here and there their parti-coloured facade was pierced by a door, and not a solitary window broke their even frontage. They were parti-coloured with extraordinary irregularity, smeared with a sort of plaster that was sometimes grey, sometimes drab, sometimes slate-coloured or dark brown; and it was the sight of this wild plastering first brought the word "blind" into the thoughts of the explorer. "The good man who did that," he thought, "must have been as blind as a bat."

He descended a steep place, and so came to the wall and channel that ran about the valley, near where the latter spouted out its surplus contents into the deeps of the gorge in a thin and wavering thread of cascade. He could now see a number of men and women resting on piled heaps of grass, as if taking a siesta, in the remoter part of the meadow, and nearer the village a number of recumbent children, and then nearer at hand three men carrying pails on yokes along a little path that ran from the encircling wall towards the houses. These latter were clad in garments of llama cloth and boots and belts of leather, and they wore caps of cloth with back and ear flaps. They followed one another in single file, walking slowly and yawning as they walked, like men who have been up all night. There was something so reassuringly prosperous and respectable in their bearing that after a moment's hesitation Nunez stood forward as conspicuously as possible upon his rock, and gave vent to a mighty shout that echoed round the valley.

The three men stopped, and moved their heads as though they were looking about them. They turned their faces this way and that, and Nunez gesticulated with freedom. But they did not appear to see him for all his gestures, and after a time, directing themselves towards the mountains far away to the right, they shouted as if in answer. Nunez bawled again, and then once more, and as he gestured ineffectually the word "blind" came up to the top of his thoughts. "The fools must be blind," he said.

When at last, after much shouting and wrath, Nunez crossed the stream by a little bridge, came through a gate in the wall, and approached them, he was sure that they were blind. He was sure that this was the Country of the Blind of which the legends told. Conviction had sprung upon him, and a sense of great and rather enviable adventure. The three stood side by side, not looking at him, but with their ears directed towards him, judging him by his unfamiliar steps. They stood close together like men a little afraid, and he could see their eyelids closed and sunken, as though the very balls beneath had shrunk away. There was an expression near awe on their faces.

"A man," one said, in hardly recognisable Spanish. "A man it is--a man or a spirit--coming down from the rocks."

But Nunez advanced with the confident steps of a youth who enters upon life. All the old stories of the lost valley and the Country of the Blind had come back to his mind, and through his thoughts ran this old proverb, as if it were a refrain:--

"In the Country of the Blind the One-Eyed Man is King."

"In the Country of the Blind the One-Eyed Man is King."

And very civilly he gave them greeting. He talked to them and used his eyes.

"Where does he come from, brother Pedro?" asked one.

"Down out of the rocks."

"Over the mountains I come," said Nunez, "out of the country beyond there--where men can see. From near Bogota--where there are a hundred thousands of people, and where the city passes out of sight."

"Sight?" muttered Pedro. "Sight?"

"He comes," said the second blind man, "out of the rocks."

The cloth of their coats, Nunez saw was curious fashioned, each with a different sort of stitching.

They startled him by a simultaneous movement towards him, each with a hand outstretched. He stepped back from the advance of these spread fingers.

"Come hither," said the third blind man, following his motion and clutching him neatly.

And they held Nunez and felt him over, saying no word further until they had done so.

"Carefully," he cried, with a finger in his eye, and found they thought that organ, with its fluttering lids, a queer thing in him. They went over it again.

"A strange creature, Correa," said the one called Pedro. "Feel the coarseness of his hair. Like a llama's hair."

"Rough he is as the rocks that begot him," said Correa, investigating Nunez's unshaven chin with a soft and slightly moist hand. "Perhaps he will grow finer."

Nunez struggled a little under their examination, but they gripped him firm.

"Carefully," he said again.

"He speaks," said the third man. "Certainly he is a man."

"Ugh!" said Pedro, at
the roughness of his coat.

"And you have come into the world?" asked Pedro.

"Out of the world. Over mountains and glaciers; right over above there, half-way to the sun. Out of the great, big world that goes down, twelve days' journey to the sea."

They scarcely seemed to heed him. "Our fathers have told us men may be made by the forces of Nature," said Correa. "It is the warmth of things, and moisture, and rottenness--rottenness."

"Let us lead him to the elders," said Pedro.

"Shout first," said Correa, "lest the children be afraid. This is a marvellous occasion."

So they shouted, and Pedro went first and took Nunez by the hand to lead him to the houses.

He drew his hand away. "I can see," he said.

"See?" said Correa.

"Yes; see," said Nunez, turning towards him, and stumbled against Pedro's pail.

"His senses are still imperfect," said the third blind man. "He stumbles, and talks unmeaning words. Lead him by the hand."

"As you will," said Nunez, and was led along laughing.

It seemed they knew nothing of sight.

Well, all in good time he would teach them.

He heard people shouting, and saw a number of figures gathering together in the middle roadway of the village.

He found it tax his nerve and patience more than he had anticipated, that first encounter with the population of the Country of the Blind. The place seemed larger as he drew near to it, and the smeared plasterings queerer, and a crowd of children and men and women (the women and girls he was pleased to note had, some of them, quite sweet faces, for all that their eyes were shut and sunken) came about him, holding on to him, touching him with soft, sensitive hands, smelling at him, and listening at every word he spoke. Some of the maidens and children, however, kept aloof as if afraid, and indeed his voice seemed coarse and rude beside their softer notes. They mobbed him. His three guides kept close to him with an effect of proprietorship, and said again and again, "A wild man out of the rocks."

"Bogota," he said. "Bogota. Over the mountain crests."

"A wild man--using wild words," said Pedro. "Did you hear that--"Bogota? His mind has hardly formed yet. He has only the beginnings of speech."

A little boy nipped his hand. "Bogota!" he said mockingly.

"Aye! A city to your village. I come from the great world --where men have eyes and see."

"His name's Bogota," they said.

"He stumbled," said Correa--" stumbled twice as we came hither."

"Bring him in to the elders."

And they thrust him suddenly through a doorway into a room as black as pitch, save at the end there faintly glowed a fire. The crowd closed in behind him and shut out all but the faintest glimmer of day, and before he could arrest himself he had fallen headlong over the feet of a seated man. His arm, outflung, struck the face of someone else as he went down; he felt the soft impact of features and heard a cry of anger, and for a moment he struggled against a number of hands that clutched him. It was a one-sided fight. An inkling of the situation came to him and he lay quiet.

"I fell down," be said; I couldn't see in this pitchy darkness."
There was a pause as if the unseen persons about him tried to understand his words. Then the voice of Correa said: "He is but newly formed. He stumbles as he walks and mingles words that mean nothing with his speech."

Others also said things about him that he heard or understood imperfectly.

"May I sit up?" he asked, in a pause. "I will not struggle against you again."

They consulted and let him rise.

The voice of an older man began to question him, and Nunez found himself trying to explain the great world out of which he had fallen, and the sky and mountains and such-like marvels, to these elders who sat in darkness in the Country of the Blind. And they would believe and understand nothing whatever that he told them, a thing quite outside his expectation. They would not even understand many of his words. For fourteen generations these people had been blind and cut off from all the seeing world; the names for all the things of sight had faded and changed; the story of the outer world was faded and changed to a child's story; and they had ceased to concern themselves with anything beyond the rocky slopes above their circling wall. Blind men of genius had arisen among them and questioned the shreds of belief and tradition they had brought with them from their seeing days, and had dismissed all these things as idle fancies and replaced them with new and saner explanations. Much of their imagination had shrivelled with their eyes, and they had made for themselves new imaginations with their ever more sensitive ears and finger-tips. Slowly Nunez realised this: that his expectation of wonder and reverence at his origin and his gifts was not to be borne out; and after his poor attempt to explain sight to them had been set aside as the confused version of a new-made being describing the marvels of his incoherent sensations, he subsided, a little dashed, into listening to their instruction. And the eldest of the blind men explained to him life and philosophy and religion, how that the world (meaning their valley) had been first an empty hollow in the rocks, and then had come first inanimate things without the gift of touch, and llamas and a few other creatures that had little sense, and then men, and at last angels, whom one could hear singing and making fluttering sounds, but whom no one could touch at all, which puzzled Nunez greatly until he thought of the birds.

He went on to tell Nunez how this time had been divided into the warm and the cold, which are the blind equivalents of day and night, and how it was good to sleep in the warm and work during the cold, so that now, but for his advent, the whole town of the blind would have been asleep. He said Nunez must have been specially created to learn and serve the wisdom they had acquired, and that for all his mental incoherency and stumbling behaviour he must have courage and do his best to learn, and at that all the people in the door-way murmured encouragingly. He said the night--for the blind call their day night--was now far gone, and it behooved everyone to go back to sleep. He asked Nunez if he knew how to sleep, and Nunez said he did, but that before sleep he wanted food. They brought him food, llama's milk in a bowl and rough salted bread, and led him into a lonely place to eat out of their hearing, and afterwards to slumber until the chill of the mountain evening roused them to begin their day again. But Nunez slumbered not at all.

Instead, he sat up in the place where they had left him, resting his limbs and turning the unanticipated circumstances of his arrival over and over in his mind.

Every now and then he laughed, sometimes with amusement and sometimes with indignation.

"Unformed mind!" he said. "Got no senses yet! They little know they've been insulting their Heaven-sent King and master . . . . .

"I see I must bring them to reason.

"Let me think.

"Let me think."

He was still thinking when the sun set.

Nunez had an eye for all beautiful things, and it seemed to him that the glow upon the snow-fields and glaciers that rose about the valley on every side was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. His eyes went from that inaccessible glory to the village and irrigated fields, fast sinking into the twilight, and suddenly a wave of emotion took him, and he thanked God from the bottom of his heart that the power of sight had been given him.

He heard a voice calling to him from out of the village.

"Yaho there, Bogota! Come hither!"

At that he stood up, smiling. He would show these people once and for all what sight would do for a man. They would seek him, but not find him.

"You move not, Bogota," said the voice.

He laughed noiselessly and made two stealthy steps aside from the path.

"Trample not on the grass, Bogota; that is not allowed."

Nunez had scarcely heard the sound he made himself. He stopped, amazed.

The owner of the voice came running up the piebald path towards him.

He stepped back into the pathway. "Here I am," he said.

"Why did you not come when I called you?" said the blind man. "Must you be led like a child? Cannot you hear the path as you walk?"

Nunez laughed. "I can see it," he said.
"There is no such word as see," said the blind man, after a pause. "Cease this folly and follow the sound of my feet."

Nunez followed, a little annoyed.

"My time will come," he said.

"You'll learn," the blind man answered. "There is much to learn in the world."

"Has no one told you, 'In the Country of the Blind the One-Eyed Man is King?'"

"What is blind?" asked the blind man, carelessly, over his shoulder.

Four days passed and the fifth found the King of the Blind still incognito, as a clumsy and useless stranger among his subjects.

It was, he found, much more difficult to proclaim himself than he had supposed, and in the meantime, while he meditated his coup d'etat, he did what he was told and learnt the manners and customs of the Country of the Blind. He found working and going about at night a particularly irksome thing, and he decided that that should be the first thing he would change.

They led a simple, laborious life, these people, with all the elements of virtue and happiness as these things can be understood by men. They toiled, but not oppressively; they had food and clothing sufficient for their needs; they had days and seasons of rest; they made much of music and singing, and there was love among them and little children. It was marvellous with what confidence and precision they went about their ordered world. Everything, you see, had been made to fit their needs; each of the radiating paths of the valley area had a constant angle to the others, and was distinguished by a special notch upon its kerbing; all obstacles and irregularities of path or meadow had long since been cleared away; all their methods and procedure arose naturally from their special needs. Their senses had become marvellously acute; they could hear and judge the slightest gesture of a man a dozen paces away--could hear the very beating of his heart. Intonation had long replaced expression with them, and touches gesture, and their work with hoe and spade and fork was as free and confident as garden work can be. Their sense of smell was extraordinarily fine; they could distinguish individual differences as readily as a dog can, and they went about the tending of llamas, who lived among the rocks above and came to the wall for food and shelter, with ease and confidence. It was only when at last Nunez sought to assert himself that he found how easy and confident their movements could be.

He rebelled only after he had tried persuasion.

He tried at first on several occasions to tell them of sight. "Look you here, you people," he said. "There are things you do not understand in me."

Once or twice one or two of them attended to him; they sat with faces downcast and ears turned intelligently towards him, and he did his best to tell them what it was to see. Among his hearers was a girl, with eyelids less red and sunken than the others, so that one could almost fancy she was hiding eyes, whom especially he hoped to persuade. He spoke of the beauties of sight, of watching the mountains, of the sky and the sunrise, and they heard him with amused incredulity that presently became condemnatory. They told him there were indeed no mountains at all, but that the end of the rocks where the llamas grazed was indeed the end of the world; thence sprang a cavernous roof of the universe, from which the dew and the avalanches fell; and when he maintained stoutly the world had neither end nor roof such as they supposed, they said his thoughts were wicked. So far as he could describe sky and clouds and stars to them it seemed to them a hideous void, a terrible blankness in the place of the smooth roof to things in which they believed--it was an article of faith with them that the cavern roof was exquisitely smooth to the touch. He saw that in some manner he shocked them, and gave up that aspect of the matter altogether, and tried to show them the practical value of sight. One morning he saw Pedro in the path called Seventeen and coming towards the central houses, but still too far off for hearing or scent, and he told them as much. "In a little while," he prophesied, "Pedro will be here." An old man remarked that Pedro had no business on path Seventeen, and then, as if in confirmation, that individual as he drew near turned and went transversely into path Ten, and so back with nimble paces towards the outer wall. They mocked Nunez when Pedro did not arrive, and afterwards, when he asked Pedro questions to clear his character, Pedro denied and outfaced him, and was afterwards hostile to him.

Then he induced them to let him go a long way up the sloping meadows towards the wall with one complaisant individual, and to him he promised to describe all that happened among the houses. He noted certain goings and comings, but the things that really seemed to signify to these people happened inside of or behind the windowless houses--the only things they took note of to test him by--and of those he could see or tell nothing; and it was after the failure of this attempt, and the ridicule they could not repress, that he resorted to force. He thought of seizing a spade and suddenly smiting one or two of them to earth, and so in fair combat showing the advantage of eyes. He went so far with that resolution as to seize his spade, and then he discovered a new thing about himself, and that was that it was impossible for him to hit a blind man in cold blood.

He hesitated, and found them all aware that he had snatched up the spade. They stood all alert, with their heads on one side, and bent ears towards him for what he would do next.

"Put that spade down," said one, and he felt a sort of helpless horror. He came near obedience.

Then he had thrust one backwards against a house wall, and fled past him and out of the village.

He went athwart one of their meadows, leaving a track of trampled grass behind his feet, and presently sat down by the side of one of their ways. He felt something of the buoyancy that comes to all men in the beginning of a fight, but more perplexity. He began to realise that you cannot even fight happily with creatures who stand upon a different mental basis to yourself. Far away he saw a number of men carrying spades and sticks come out of the street of houses and advance in a spreading line along the several paths towards him. They advanced slowly, speaking frequently to one another, and ever and again the whole cordon would halt and sniff the air and listen.

The first time they did this Nunez laughed. But afterwards he did not laugh.

One struck his trail in the meadow grass and came stooping and feeling his way along it.

For five minutes he watched the slow extension of the cordon, and then his vague disposition to do something forthwith became frantic. He stood up, went a pace or so towards the circumferential wall, turned, and went back a little way. There they all stood in a crescent, still and listening.

He also stood still, gripping his spade very tightly in both hands. Should he charge them?

The pulse in his ears ran into the rhythm of "In the Country of the Blind the One-Eyed Man is King."

Should he charge them?

He looked back at the high and unclimbable wall behind--unclimbable because of its smooth plastering, but withal pierced with many little doors and at the approaching line of seekers. Behind these others were now coming out of the street of houses.

Should he charge them?
"Bogota!" called one. "Bogota! where are you?"

He gripped his spade still tighter and advanced down the meadows towards the place of habitations, and directly he moved they converged upon him. "I'll hit them if they touch me," he swore; "by Heaven, I will. I'll hit." He called aloud, "Look here, I'm going to do what I like in this valley! Do you hear? I'm going to do what I like and go where I like."

They were moving in upon him quickly, groping, yet moving rapidly. It was like playing blind man's buff with everyone blindfolded except one. "Get hold of him!" cried one. He found himself in the arc of a loose curve of pursuers. He felt suddenly he must be active and resolute.

"You don't understand," he cried, in a voice that was meant to be great and resolute, and which broke. "You are blind and I can see. Leave me alone!"

"Bogota! Put down that spade and come off the grass!"

The last order, grotesque in its urban familiarity, produced a gust of anger. "I'll hurt you," he said, sobbing with emotion. "By Heaven, I'll hurt you! Leave me alone!"

He began to run--not knowing clearly where to run. He ran from the nearest blind man, because it was a horror to hit him. He stopped, and then made a dash to escape from their closing ranks. He made for where a gap was wide, and the men on either side, with a quick perception of the approach of his paces, rushed in on one another. He sprang forward, and then saw he must be caught, and swish! the spade had struck. He felt the soft thud of hand and arm, and the man was down with a yell of pain, and he was through.

Through! And then he was close to the street of houses again, and blind men, whirling spades and stakes, were running with a reasoned swiftness hither and thither.

He heard steps behind him just in time, and found a tall man rushing forward and swiping at the sound of him. He lost his nerve, hurled his spade a yard wide of this antagonist, and whirled about and fled, fairly yelling as he dodged another.

He was panic-stricken. He ran furiously to and fro, dodging when there was no need to dodge, and, in his anxiety to see on every side of him at once, stumbling. For a moment he was down and they heard his fall. Far away in the circumferential wall a little doorway looked like Heaven, and he set off in a wild rush for it. He did not even look round at his pursuers until it was gained, and he had stumbled across the bridge, clambered a little way among the rocks, to the surprise and dismay of a young llama, who went leaping out of sight, and lay down sobbing for breath.

And so his coup d'etat came to an end.

He stayed outside the wall of the valley of the blind for two nights and days without food or shelter, and meditated upon the Unexpected. During these meditations he repeated very frequently and always with a profounder note of derision the exploded proverb: "In the Country of the Blind the One-Eyed Man is King." He thought chiefly of ways of fighting and conquering these people, and it grew clear that for him no practicable way was possible. He had no weapons, and now it would be hard to get one.

The canker of civilisation had got to him even in Bogota, and he could not find it in himself to go down and assassinate a blind man. Of course, if he did that, he might then dictate terms on the threat of assassinating them all. But--Sooner or later he must sleep! . . . .

He tried also to find food among the pine trees, to be comfortable under pine boughs while the frost fell at night, and-- with less confidence--to catch a llama by artifice in order to try to kill it--perhaps by hammering it with a stone--and so finally, perhaps, to eat some of it. But the llamas had a doubt of him and regarded him with distrustful brown eyes and spat when he drew near. Fear came on him the second day and fits of shivering. Finally he crawled down to the wall of the Country of the Blind and tried to make his terms. He crawled along by the stream, shouting, until two blind men came out to the gate and talked to him.

"I was mad," he said. "But I was only newly made."

They said that was better.

He told them he was wiser now, and repented of all he had done.

Then he wept without intention, for he was very weak and ill now, and they took that as a favourable sign.

They asked him if he still thought he could see."

"No," he said. "That was folly. The word means nothing. Less than nothing!"

They asked him what was overhead.

"About ten times ten the height of a man there is a roof above the world--of rock--and very, very smooth. So smooth--so beautifully smooth . . "He burst again into hysterical tears. "Before you ask me any more, give me some food or I shall die!"

He expected dire punishments, but these blind people were capable of toleration. They regarded his rebellion as but one more proof of his general idiocy and inferiority, and after they had whipped him they appointed him to do the simplest and heaviest work they had for anyone to do, and he, seeing no other way of living, did submissively what he was told.

He was ill for some days and they nursed him kindly. That refined his submission. But they insisted on his lying in the dark, and that was a great misery. And blind philosophers came and talked to him of the wicked levity of his mind, and reproved him so impressively for his doubts about the lid of rock that covered their cosmic casserole that he almost doubted whether indeed he was not the victim of hallucination in not seeing it overhead.

So Nunez became a citizen of the Country of the Blind, and these people ceased to be a generalised people and became individualities to him, and familiar to him, while the world beyond the mountains became more and more remote and unreal. There was Yacob, his master, a kindly man when not annoyed; there was Pedro, Yacob's nephew; and there was Medina-sarote, who was the youngest daughter of Yacob. She was little esteemed in the world of the blind, because she had a clear-cut face and lacked that satisfying, glossy smoothness that is the blind man's ideal of feminine beauty, but Nunez thought her beautiful at first, and presently the most beautiful thing in the whole creation. Her closed eyelids were not sunken and red after the common way of the valley, but lay as though they might open again at any moment; and she had long eyelashes, which were considered a grave disfigurement. And her voice was weak and did not satisfy the acute hearing of the valley swains. So that she had no lover.
There came a time when Nunez thought that, could he win her, he would be resigned to live in the valley for all the rest of his days.

He watched her; he sought opportunities of doing her little services and presently he found that she observed him. Once at a rest-day gathering they sat side by side in the dim starlight, and the music was sweet. His hand came upon hers and he dared to clasp it. Then very tenderly she returned his pressure. And one day, as they were at their meal in the darkness, he felt her hand very softly seeking him, and as it chanced the fire leapt then, and he saw the tenderness of her face.

He sought to speak to her.

He went to her one day when she was sitting in the summer moonlight spinning. The light made her a thing of silver and mystery. He sat down at her feet and told her he loved her, and told her how beautiful she seemed to him. He had a lover's voice, he spoke with a tender reverence that came near to awe, and she had never before been touched by adoration. She made him no definite answer, but it was clear his words pleased her.

After that he talked to her whenever he could take an opportunity. The valley became the world for him, and the world beyond the mountains where men lived by day seemed no more than a fairy tale he would some day pour into her ears. Very tentatively and timidly he spoke to her of sight.

Sight seemed to her the most poetical of fancies, and she listened to his description of the stars and the mountains and her own sweet white-lit beauty as though it was a guilty indulgence. She did not believe, she could only half understand, but she was mysteriously delighted, and it seemed to him that she completely understood.

His love lost its awe and took courage. Presently he was for demanding her of Yacob and the elders in marriage, but she became fearful and delayed. And it was one of her elder sisters who first told Yacob that Medina-sarote and Nunez were in love.

There was from the first very great opposition to the marriage of Nunez and Medina-sarote; not so much because they valued her as because they held him as a being apart, an idiot, incompetent thing below the permissible level of a man. Her sisters opposed it bitterly as bringing discredit on them all; and old Yacob, though he had formed a sort of liking for his clumsy, obedient serf, shook his head and said the thing could not be. The young men were all angry at the idea of corrupting the race, and one went so far as to revile and strike Nunez. He struck back. Then for the first time he found an advantage in seeing, even by twilight, and after that fight was over no one was disposed to raise a hand against him. But they still found his marriage impossible.

Old Yacob had a tenderness for his last little daughter, and was grieved to have her weep upon his shoulder.

"You see, my dear, he's an idiot. He has delusions; he can't do anything right."

"I know," wept Medina-sarote. "But he's better than he was. He's getting better. And he's strong, dear father, and kind--stronger and kinder than any other man in the world. And he loves me--and, father, I love him."

Old Yacob was greatly distressed to find her inconsolable, and, besides--what made it more distressing--he liked Nunez for many things. So he went and sat in the windowless council-chamber with the other elders and watched the trend of the talk, and said, at the proper time, "He's better than he was. Very likely, some day, we shall find him as sane as ourselves."

Then afterwards one of the elders, who thought deeply, had an idea. He was a great doctor among these people, their medicine-man, and he had a very philosophical and inventive mind, and the idea of curing Nunez of his peculiarities appealed to him. One day when Yacob was present he returned to the topic of Nunez. "I have examined Nunez," he said, "and the case is clearer to me. I think very probably he might be cured."

"This is what I have always hoped," said old Yacob.

"His brain is affected," said the blind doctor.

The elders murmured assent.

"Now, what affects it?"

"Ah!" said old Yacob.

This," said the doctor, answering his own question. "Those queer things that are called the eyes, and which exist to make an agreeable depression in the face, are diseased, in the case of Nunez, in such a way as to affect his brain. They are greatly distended, he has eyelashes, and his eyelids move, and consequently his brain is in a state of constant irritation and distraction."

"Yes?" said old Yacob. "Yes?"

"And I think I may say with reasonable certainty that, in order to cure him complete, all that we need to do is a simple and easy surgical operation--namely, to remove these irritant bodies."

"And then he will be sane?"

"Then he will be perfectly sane, and a quite admirable citizen."

"Thank Heaven for science!" said old Yacob, and went forth at once to tell Nunez of his happy hopes.

But Nunez's manner of receiving the good news struck him as being cold and disappointing.
"One might think," he said, "from the tone you take that you did not care for my daughter."

It was Medina-sarote who persuaded Nunez to face the blind surgeons.

"You do not want me," he said, "to lose my gift of sight?"

She shook her head.

"My world is sight."

Her head drooped lower.

"There are the beautiful things, the beautiful little things--the flowers, the lichens amidst the rocks, the light and softness on a piece of fur, the far sky with its drifting dawn of clouds, the sunsets and the stars. And there is you. For you alone it is good to have sight, to see your sweet, serene face, your kindly lips, your dear, beautiful hands folded together. . . . . It is these eyes of mine you won, these eyes that hold me to you, that these idiots seek. Instead, I must touch you, hear you, and never see you again. I must come under that roof of rock and stone and darkness, that horrible roof under which your imaginations stoop . . . no; you would not have me do that?"

A disagreeable doubt had arisen in him. He stopped and left the thing a question.

"I wish," she said, "sometimes--" She paused.

"Yes?" he said, a little apprehensively.

"I wish sometimes--you would not talk like that."

"Like what?"

"I know it's pretty--it's your imagination. I love it, but now--"

He felt cold. "Now?" he said, faintly.

She sat quite still.

"You mean--you think--I should be better, better perhaps--"

He was realising things very swiftly. He felt anger perhaps, anger at the dull course of fate, but also sympathy for her lack of understanding--a sympathy near akin to pity.

"Dear," he said, and he could see by her whiteness how tensely her spirit pressed against the things she could not say. He put his arms about her, he kissed her ear, and they sat for a time in silence.

"If I were to consent to this?" he said at last, in a voice that was very gentle.

She flung her arms about him, weeping wildly. "Oh, if you would," she sobbed, "if only you would!"

For a week before the operation that was to raise him from his servitude and inferiority to the level of a blind citizen Nunez knew nothing of sleep, and all through the warm, sunlit hours, while the others slumbered happily, he sat brooding or wandered aimlessly, trying to bring his mind to bear on his dilemma. He had given his answer, he had given his consent, and still he was not sure. And at last work-time was over, the sun rose in splendour over the golden crests, and his last day of vision began for him. He had a few minutes with Medina-sarote before she went apart to sleep.

"To-morrow," he said, "I shall see no more."

"Dear heart!" she answered, and pressed his hands with all her strength.

"They will hurt you but little," she said; "and you are going through this pain, you are going through it, dear lover, for me . . . . Dear, if a woman's heart and life can do it, I will repay you. My dearest one, my dearest with the tender voice, I will repay."

He was drenched in pity for himself and her.
He held her in his arms, and pressed his lips to hers and looked on her sweet face for the last time. "Good-bye!" he whispered to that dear sight, "good-bye!"

And then in silence he turned away from her.

She could hear his slow retreating footsteps, and something in the rhythm of them threw her into a passion of weeping.

He walked away.

He had fully meant to go to a lonely place where the meadows were beautiful with white narcissus, and there remain until the hour of his sacrifice should come, but as he walked he lifted up his eyes and saw the morning, the morning like an angel in golden armour, marching down the steeps . . . .

It seemed to him that before this splendour he and this blind world in the valley, and his love and all, were no more than a pit of sin.

He did not turn aside as he had meant to do, but went on and passed through the wall of the circumference and out upon the rocks, and his eyes were always upon the sunlit ice and snow.

He saw their infinite beauty, and his imagination soared over them to the things beyond he was now to resign for ever!

He thought of that great free world that he was parted from, the world that was his own, and he had a vision of those further slopes, distance beyond distance, with Bogota, a place of multitudinous stirring beauty, a glory by day, a luminous mystery by night, a place of palaces and fountains and statues and white houses, lying beautifully in the middle distance. He thought how for a day or so one might come down through passes drawing ever nearer and nearer to its busy streets and ways. He thought of the river journey, day by day, from great Bogota to the still vaster world beyond, through towns and villages, forest and desert places, the rushing river day by day, until its banks receded, and the big steamers came splashing by and one had reached the sea--the limitless sea, with its thousand islands, its thousands of islands, and its ships seen dimly far away in their incessant journeyings round and about that greater world. And there, unpent by mountains, one saw the sky--the sky, not such a disc as one saw it here, but an arch of immeasurable blue, a deep of deeps in which the circling stars were floating . . . .

His eyes began to scrutinise the great curtain of the mountains with a keener inquiry.

For example; if one went so, up that gully and to that chimney there, then one might come out high among those stunted pines that ran round in a sort of shelf and rose still higher and higher as it passed above the gorge. And then? That talus might be managed. Thence perhaps a climb might be found to take him up to the precipice that came below the snow; and if that chimney failed, then another farther to the east might serve his purpose better. And then? Then one would be out upon the amber-lit snow there, and half-way up to the crest of those beautiful desolations. And suppose one had good fortune!

He glanced back at the village, then turned right round and regarded it with folded arms.

He thought of Medina-sarote, and she had become small and remote.

He turned again towards the mountain wall down which the day had come to him.

Then very circumspectly he began his climb.

When sunset came he was not longer climbing, but he was far and high. His clothes were torn, his limbs were bloodstained, he was bruised in many places, but he lay as if he were at his ease, and there was a smile on his face.

From where he rested the valley seemed as if it were in a pit and nearly a mile below. Already it was dim with haze and shadow, though the mountain summits around him were things of light and fire. The mountain summits around him were things of light and fire, and the little things in the rocks near at hand were drenched with light and beauty, a vein of green mineral piercing the grey, a flash of small crystal here and there, a minute, minutely-beautiful orange lichen close beside his face. There were deep, mysterious shadows in the gorge, blue deepening into purple, and purple into a luminous darkness, and overhead was the illimitable vastness of the sky. But he heeded these things no longer, but lay quite still there, smiling as if he were content now merely to have escaped from the valley of the Blind, in which he had thought to be King. And the glow of the sunset passed, and the night came, and still he lay there, under the cold, clear stars.


The End

Hi All:

Can any body help me by posting the poem Epileptic by K.N.Daruwala please?

Thanks,
Viji

A Match Made In Heaven: the Shirley McAlpine and Vinnie Rembaut Story

by Todd M.A. Wandio--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

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Mrs. Shirley McAlpine was beginning to think of herself as something of a curse to men. At fifty-seven, she was just this morning arrived from burying her
sixth husband, one Roy McAlpine, a farmer of some thirty years. Roy had been in perfect health and a bachelor up until three years ago, when nature called
to him to wed Shirley Hesprey, a woman widowed for six months when her fifth husband, Axel Hesprey slipped whilst cleaning out the loft in the barn. The
fall was not nearly so fatal as was the rake buried beneath a thin layer of hay. Ah, well, everyone said at the funereal festivities, accidents do happen.


Roy had not been sick a day in his life, marvelled his friends, though not within hearing of the widow McAlpine, a frail, mousy-faced woman with salt and
pepper hair and outdated glasses with which she refused to part. It was clearly a surprise to the town when it was reported that to them that Roy McAlpine
had suddenly taken ill with a horrible, phlegmatic cough. Two days later, with a team of physicians shrugging and arguing, poking and prodding, Roy sat
up suddenly, coughed horribly violently once, and promptly passed on. Shirley said to her friend Miss Joanne Duff that the one cough lasted perhaps two
minutes. Roy hadn't inhaled once in that entire time. His life just seemed to expire through his lungs.

Sitting alone in her small house on the outskirts of town, Shirley sipped her cup of tea alone, and wondered if God had meant her to marry. She seemed to
have no luck at all with husbands. They were all good men, nobody could have said any differently, but longevity was not apparently their strong suit.


Her fourth husband, Pete Cranston, was a Red Ram salesman who also operated a small machine shop in town. It should not have been a shock when Pete was
rushed to hospital with fatal injuries following a mishap with a tap and die machine. Sgt. Levesque, who had just arrived in town, was reported to have
exclaimed that a 3/8ths bolt would have fit perfectly through Pete's skull. The whole town came out to that one, hoping the funeral would be of the open
casket variety. Silas Webb, the mortician, considered a number of ways of dressing the fatal wound for show, but in the end and in the interest of propriety
opted for the closed casket instead.

The problem was, Shirley thought to herself, she didn't allow herself enough time to mourn. She loved all those men dearly, and even now had a fondness
for each that she could not put into words. Their pictures graced the mantle of her old gas fireplace, looking like the hallway of the House of Parliament
with all the Prime Ministers set in order from first to latest. Perhaps mourning wasn't the problem, she decided, rising from the kitchen table and putting
on her lime green hand knitted sweater, placing her matching sun hat atop her salt and pepper hair, just this morning taken out of curlers. Perhaps she
just hadn't found the right man yet.

On the other side of town, in the last house on the street, removed by two vacant lots from the next nearest dwelling, was the odd house of Vinnie Rembaut.
The house in question was initially a double wide trailer. Renovations had been undertaken to add two additional floors to the property, each one slightly
smaller than the last. The finished effect was that of a sea-going vessel, complete with antenna mast flying the Jolly Roger at its pinnacle.

dd>It was said by folks who knew him that Vinnie Rembaut believed himself to be a pirate laying low on the prairies until the time was right for adventure
on the high seas once again. Truth be told, Vinnie was born and raised in Carbon Creek, the son of the gas station owner, and if not for an unfortunate
series of mishaps beginning with a fishing excursion and ending with an unforseen mixture of incompatible solvents, Vinnie would be perfectly aware of
that fact. But since his long term memory was limited to ten months or so, Vinnie had quite successfully convinced himself of his rougish lineage.

Other matters helped the delusion. As a boy, Vinnie lost his right eye in a fishing accident. His father was said to have caught Old Curmudgeon with that
orb, thinking all the while he was battling the fish that his son's squeals were of excitement over the catch of the century. Just prior to the near fatal
inhalation of gasoline and ammonia, which wiped the young man's memory clean, Vinnie slipped while crossing the street and was run over by none other than
Mrs. Shirley Rogers, the newly widowed thirty-five year old whose third husband Ken, on their fifth anniversary, died while whittling a tree into a colonial
chair with a chainsaw, the details of which just aren't pretty.

Vinnie lost his left leg from the knee down. His father, being a traditionalist and somewhat of a woodworker, lathed a wooden leg for his son.

It was not much of a stretch for Vinnie, when recovering in hospital from the freak accident involving a gasoline truck and a vehicle hauling ammonium hydroxide,
which collided while Vinnie was crossing the same street which had claimed his left leg, to believe himself a pirate. With a peg leg, hook hand, and a
patch over his right eye, Vinnie was the spitting image of Bluebeard or somesuch.

Be that as it may, Vinnie would harangue passersby with a nasty string of expletives, threatening to board them and the like. He rarely left his aformentioned
house, but on the odd occasions when he did, would swagger along the main street, jostling other pedestrians, tipping his moth eaten tricorne (the favoured
headgear of many a 16th Century pirate), which he had ordered some years ago from a second hand costumiere, at the gentle ladies of the town. He would
end those brief sojourns in the hotel tavern, quaffing all the ale his disability cheque would purchase, or until he would pass out, face down in the bowl
of beef stew he would order. Some kind townsperson would volunteer to drag his sorry carcass home, and Vinnie would awaken the next morning feeling as
rough as he looked, imagining that he had just survived a battle at sea with Sir Francis Drake himself.

On the day in question, one Mrs. Shirley McAlpine, having just that morning buried her sixth husband, decided to drive into town to look for the right man,
the man who wouldn't, as her second husband, Svenard Olafsson had, find himself threshed, combined and baled by his own tractor when a faulty clutch mechanism
gave way while he was standing in his own field relieving himself. Shirley had no way of knowing who the lucky man was to be, she simply followed her instincts
in matters of the heart. She was confident she would know him when she saw him.

Summarily, on that same day, one Vinnie Rembaut, believing himself to be a pirate of no small renown, awoke with an urge to put into port for a flagon of
grog and a bowl of hearty beef stew. He polished his peg leg with care, cleaned his black eye patch and adjusted it over the empty orifice it covered,
donned a clean pair of breeches and a striped crew neck shirt, finishing off the ensemble with the obligatory tricorne, set to a slant atop his balding
head. Some wax applied liberally to his pencil thin moustache, a twist at each end for that debonaire flair, and Vinnie was hobbling out the door, haranguing
the first passerby, who had crossed the street just prior to the pirate-ship house and was hurrying away, with a string of cuss-words and blasphemes which
could peel paint.

It was a day for high adventure. Vinnie could feel it in his bones. He paused in the street, wondering if he shouldn't have gone back and strapped on his
sabre, in case things got ugly at the tavern. Then, scratching his nose with his nasty hook hand, Vinnie carried on. There wasn't a rogue alive who could
best him, he thought, believeing this to be true. His lack of long term memory prohibited him from recalling the day he was beaten up by Agnes Krause in
second grade, because he laughed when she said she wanted to be a potato farmer's wife when she grew up. He was unable to recall similar whoppings by Fiona
Farquahart, Daisy Millner and the diminutive Corky Robash, who said he was going to be a linebacker on a professional football team. No matter, in Vinnie's
mind, he had never been bested, and that was true, as far as he could remember.

People gave Vinnie a wide berth. This was due mostly to the ominous hook hand, polished to a sharp gleam. The hand Vinnie acquired in his teens. As a work
experience student in high school, he came to epiphany regarding the dangers inherent in paper shredders after diving in to retrieve his wallet, which
had somehow dropped from the front vest pocket of his shirt to the orifice of the nasty bladed shredder. Needless to say, Vinnie never kept his wallet
in that pocket following the mishap.

His father decided to splurge on a model 67b Stainless Steel Appendiclaw for his son. It seemed the least he could do for the one-eyed, single handed lad
who was battling depression for obvious reasons, and who, the day he received the gift of the gleaming metal appendage, was admiring the prosthesis while
crossing the street, slipped on loose gravel while stepping off the curb, fell down and was driven over by the mourning Mrs. Shirley Rogers, just returning
from her late husband's funeral. She stopped after the front tires thumped heavily over something, she had just pulled from the curbside after all. Getting
out of the car, the same battleship blue Pontiac Parisienne she drives to this day, she quickly reaized the back tires were resting atop the leg of a local
boy she did not recognize. She quickly moved the car off the lad, and some bystanders called an ambulance, which had to come all the way from Strathmore.


More's the pity.

Though Mrs. Rogers felt terribly guilty for the loss of a leg suffered by young Vinnie Rembaut, the boy's father accepted an apology and shrugged his shoulders,
locked himself in his workshop for two days and crafted the most magnificent peg leg ever carved. Even Vinnie, still of course battling depression, admired
the creation as a work of art. He wore it proudly, still does, and had his breeches cut to provide the best display of the artificial, if antiquated limb.


Despite all that, Vinnie was happy to be alive, sincerely believing he was the last living pirate setting out on a day of high adventure in the shanty town
of Carbon Creek.

Similarly, Mrs. Shirley McAlpine was cruising along in her big blue boat at near flank speed, there being no speed trap in Carbon Creek, feeling that today
would be the day she would meet the right man. The right man, she had decided, would be of an indomitable constitution, would be somewhat lucky, would
have a devil-may-care attitude of the swashbuckler about him.

And it appeared, Shirley realized as she hurtled two tons of polished blue battleship down main street, that just such a man was crossing the street in
front of her, lost in a daydream.

As he heard the brakes squeal, Vinnie Rembaut spun on the point of his peg leg and hurtled himself with his remaining flesh and bone pedal appendage towards
the safety of the sidewalk. The big blue Parisienne stopped a half block further down the road, and began backing up. Vinnie watched calmly, then with
slight agitation as the huge sedan angled in towards him.

"Avast!" he croaked, hobbling towards the nearest store front, narrowly avoiding the second rush.

"Oh my..." Mrs. Shirley McAlpine breathed, first glimpsing the figure crossing the street, then again, "Oh my..." as she stopped, backed up to apologize
and nearly ran the man down a second time.

When the dust from the skidding car had settled, it was Vinnie Rembaut who spoke first, hobbling rapidly towards the Parisienne, wielding his stainless
steel hook hand like a sword, cursing in two or even three languages, one of which he had not previously realized he knew. The content of the discourse
was highly colourful, and Vinnie's face was a high crimson as he continued his tirade for quite some time.

"Oh my..." was all Shirley McAlpine could utter as she stood, having gotten out of the car to check on the man's condition. At each pause in the apparent
pirate's verbal battery, she would repeat, "Oh my..." and nothing else. It appeared she was unable to form the apology she had returned to give. Neigh,
so utterly stricken was she that no concrete thought could form.

The tirade continued for five or six minutes. By that time, a small crowd had gathered, which, in Carbon Creek consisted of a tired old golden retriever
with three legs, Emil Grundel and Miss Joanne Duff, the latter of whom recognized Mrs. McAlpine's Parisienne and had stopped to offer assistance. Any sign
of a crowd eventually brought the police. And soon arrived Sgt. Levesque, his lunch napkin still tucked into the waistband of his uniform in a tradition
the people of Carbon Creek were kindly discreet enough not to inquire about. Butting into the proceedings at an appropriate pause, Sgt. Levesque made his
presence known clearly enough for Vinnie to stop for breath.

"Perhaps, mehbe, we could discuss 'dis matter, privately," Sgt. Levesque suggested, motioning towards the Golden Dragon Restaurant, beside which the brouhaha
had taken place. Vinnie moved towards the door, but Mrs. Shirley McAlpine did not budge.

"Oh, my..." she said, breathlessly. "Oh, my..." again, as she realized something from deep within her soul was squelching to the surface.

Shirley McAlpine was in love. And seven was her lucky number.

Sgt. Levesque had little difficulty sorting the whole mess out. Mrs. McAlpine was obviously in the wrong, though, really, no one could blame her, having
just that morning buried her sixth husband. Sgt. Levesque was surprised when the fifth died, and he couldn't imagine how the woman could be out on the
town with the sixth now in the ground. But then, Sgt. Levesque had come to expect the unexpected from the unique people of the singular prairie town.

The odd man before him was still muttering obscenities beneath his breath, things along the line of "rapscallion" and "keel haul". It was common knowledge
throughout town that Vinnie Rembaut thought himself a pirate, despite the fact that he was born centuries too late. A few bricks short as well, Sgt. Levesque
thought to himself.

"So, well then, it seems, ahh, that we have a problem. Not one, however, zat we can not deal wit. After all, you see, there was no harm done to either party,"
Levesque explained, jotting notes into his black scribbler. He would throw the notes away later, he wasn't even going to file this one. Too much paperwork
for something so easily solved.

"No harm?! No harm?! You call gettin' near runned over twice no harm? Why you yellow yard ape, I oughta have you drawn and quartered and left in the sun
to bake..." And on and on growled Vinnie Rembaut, who believed that the uniformed officer was in league with the driver of the corsair; that both were
really after his hoarded treasure.

Mrs. McAlpine, meanwhile, was so taken by Vinnie Rembaut, his flash and his daring, that she found she could scarcely breath. He is the one, she concluded.
Just imagine all that he must have been through in his life, yet he still lived.

She didn't realize he was the same man whose leg she had severed in a mishap years before. Nor even did she realize, for nobody really knew it, that it
was she, as a secretary at the high school had accidentally bumped Vinnie Rembaut, causing his wallet to be jolted from his breast pocket into the shredding
machine, leading to the unfortunate reach which would spell the end of Vinnie's hand. How could she know she was the object of Carlos Rembaut's affections,
that on a certain day she was sunning herself on the banks of Carbon Creek, while a love-struck Carlos absently cast his line out, Vinnie's eye firmly
attached, to catch the biggest fish in the creek, Old Curmudgeon.

How could she know she was responsible for a tanker truck collision, following the burial of her first husband, Reinhold Teske, who, while shaving one morning
following a weekend bender, stupidly grabbed the Caustic Lye, think it was shaving lotion. He splashed the flesh eating concoction liberally across his
face, and soon was stumbling out of the upstairs bathroom in mind numbing pain, blinded by tears. Thus was it that he was incapable of seeing the bud vase
which had fallen at the top of the stairs, which had broken beneath his heavy labourer's step, cutting into his right foot. Hopping along, he caught at
least three of the stairs on the way down, just barely managing to smash his skull into the telephone table, rolling away and impaling himself on the coat
hook, which by the way, Shirley had been at him for months to raise out of harm's way. That was an open casket funeral cast in very poor taste; which subsequently
led to the drawing up of a bylaw prohibiting open caskets following graphic deaths. Shirley was so benumbed by the sight of her deceased husband that she
did not pause to look safely both ways crossing the street that afternoon on her way to the Golden Dragon, where the luncheon was being served. this neglect
caused a Ford Pinto to veer to avoid her. That same Pinto, forced to change course, took an alternate route to its destination, in the process allowing
itself to be tailgated by a chemical bearing semi-trailer unit. Applying the brakes to avoid squishing a rodent sunning itself on the highway, the Pinto
caused the tailgating semi to lock up the brakes, the driver losing control and veering into the oncoming traffic, which just happened to be another chemical
bearing semi-trailer unit driven by the son of the regular driver, who was taking a joy ride. A collision ensued, just outside of town, by the last house
on the street, where an unsuspecting young Vinnie Rembaut, complete with eye patch, hook hand and peg leg was hobbling across the street, witnessed the
collision and took a snoot full of caustic fumes which wiped his memory as clean as the sand blasted behind of an elephant, leading to his mistaken belief
that he was a pirate. Considering all this, considering the consequences of years of tragedy, considering all of that, how could Shirley Teske-Olafsson-Rogers-Cranston-Hesprey-McAlpine,
perhaps the most unfortunate widow in Carbon Creek's lengthy and strange history, how could she not love this man, equally as unfortunate, yet still alive,
still full of life, still gripping the world by the throat with his one capable hand and forcing it to say "Uncle"?

Upon hearing his name, Shirley came quickly to her senses. She remembered. She introduced herself. He looked at her with a stunned expression, his memory
not kicking in. But look at her he did, and in that look saw the challenge of a pirate's lifetime. To weather the storms this woman would bring into his
life was a challenge befitting a man prone to high adventure. By Henry, he would take her.

How pleased he was to find that she was equally challenged by him.

The wedding was conducted outside the church, within sight of the graveyard where lay buried Shirley's past six husbands, by the only justice of the peace
who would perform the ceremony. The whole town was invited and all attended. Sgt. Levesque, the J.P. in question gathered the guests around the hapless,
happy couple and performed a ceremony the likes of which had never been seen in Carbon Creek. Horseshoes ringed the churchyard, rabbits' feet graced the
fences and were hanging from the antennae of the wedding cars. The plants of choice were clovers, all of them painstakingly sought out from nearby fields
for their four leaves. People came prepared with their fingers crossed behind their backs, wearing their luckiest shirts, socks, pants and undergarments.


The service itself was unremarkable. The trading of vows were traditional. Shirley cried, as did her maid of honor, Miss Joanne Duff, alas still a maiden
after all these years. Silas Webb, ironically enough stood up for Vinnie. He cried too.

The reception was a total disaster. Iris Philipchuk choked on a Swedish meatball and was sent to the emergency at Strathmore General Hospital following
a successful though unfortunate attempt at the Heimlich manoeuvre by Doug Feldspar, the town wrist wrestling champion for five years running who applied
a little too much pressure and sent Iris into cardiac arrest. Heimie Kupsch slipped on the dislodged meatball and split his head on Gail Webb's upraised
elbow, cracking Gail's elbow, who, as she fell, knocked the hot hors d'ourvres table over onto the caterer, Gary Holding, all of his brothers and sisters
and their families (it was quite a large table), causing a variety of injuries ranging from nasty burns all the way to broken bones in rather near deadly
tumbles. The outside tent which had been set up caught fire and a dozen more people were obviously damaged, not to mention the psychological trauma caused
by the cancellation of the reception shortly after.

Mrs. Shirley Rembaut and her new husband, Vinnie, the Fates forever bless their souls, departed from the hubbub unscathed, her fingers entwined in his hook
hand, his one eye meeting her two, his peg leg finely adorned for the momentous occassion.

It was a match, everyone said from the very start of it, made in heaven.

The End

the diary marked 2008,found amongst the papers to be recycled, brings together Cathy [Catharine] and her childhood friends [Laura and Sallie] in a mysterious manner.

'money and privacy are the two essential things needed for a woman writer to bring out her work', says Woolf in this popular essay. a feminist approach encouraging the female writers.

this novel is mushroomed with love afairs and tawks about the lasiviousness exists in human nature. read and enjoy!

Hi, Looks to me, the people in the old days wrote some very nice books, and were restored and computerised for us.

Anyway, here follows a link to a very nice Page with lots of scanned, very readable classic books, done by someone called Arthur Wendover, in conjunction with the Gutenburg Project, which I believe you may be interested in:

http://arthursclassicnovels.com

Enjoy! It's keeping me reading...