Roman gibi bir şiir: Faith and Despondency
‘The winter wind is loud and wild,
Come close to me, my darling child;
Forsake thy books, and mateless play;
And, while the night is gathering grey,
We’ll talk its pensive hours away; –
‘Iernë, round our sheltered hall
November’s gusts unheeded call;
Not one faint breath can enter here
Enough to wave my daughter’s hair,
And I am glad to
Penguin Classics - İnanç ve UmutsuzlukKitabı okudu
Denial gives way to acceptance; acceptance breeds dependence. Anyone who's ever cared for a terminal patient will tell you that, too. Sick people need someone who will bring them their pills and glasses of cold sweet juice to wash them down with. They need someone to sit with them when the night is dark and the hours stretch out. They need someone to say, 'Sleep now, it will be better in the morning. I am here, so sleep. Sleep now. Sleep and let me take care of everything.
Sleep'.
But now, he kisses her like someone tasting poison.
Cautious, questing, almost afraid.
And only when she answers, returns the kiss in kind, does he deepen his advance, his teeth skating along her bottom lip, the weight and heat of his body pressing against hers.
He tastes like the air at night, heady with the weight of summer storms. He tastes like the faint traces of far-off woodsmoke, a fire dying in the dark. He tastes like the forest, and somehow, impossibly, like home.
A slim band, carved of pale ash wood.
It is a ring.
It is her ring.
The gift she made to the dark that night.
The gift he scorned, and turned to smoke.
The image conjured in a seaside church.
But if it is an illusion now, it is an exceptional one. Here, the notch where her father’s chisel bit a fraction too deep. There, the curve rubbed smooth as stone by years of worrying.
It is real. It must be real. And yet—
“What do you want?” asks the stranger, still studying the sky, and Henry cringes, on instinct, but there’s no anger in the man’s voice. If anything, it’s curious, questing. His head drifts back down, and he looks at Henry with the greenest eyes he’s ever seen. So bright they glitter in the dark.
“Right now, in this moment,” says the stranger. “What do you want?”
“To be happy,” answers Henry.
“Ah,” says the stranger, smoke sliding between his lips, “no one can give you that.”
Late night, telephone
Calling all the wallflowers I'lI know
Out the dark, and used to the light
Half love, half regret🔂