I’m not a Nicholas Sparks character that will read you a Notebook or letters written to a Dear John

Nobody is interested in your sorrow, unless you can make a joke or a poem out of it. Funnily, I don't seem to be angry, at least not yet. Funnily too, things run on quite nicely and evenly around here as long as I'm busy.

But bear in mind that love is not blind, it is retarded. What about lust? An optical illusion? OMG! I think I’m the one lost there. I don’t make sense anymore. Have you ever driven home and then wondered how you got there? That’s how much I’m lost. Suitcase of regrets. Briefcase of hope. That’s what I’m carrying around.

Recently one of my friend told me that my crime was that I loved a woman with more hands than a parade of beggars, and here I stand. Heart like a four-poster bed. Heart like a canvas. Heart leaking something so strong they can smell it in the street. Perhaps they were right putting love into books. Perhaps it could not live anywhere else. Perhaps you were right Mr. Faulkner.

Time is short, and passing, in this world that’s all we’ve got. I’m twenty-six and I’m not, she knows, I hope, trying to pass on to her, bearded, distant, the blame for the shape my life has taken, denying responsibility.

That day when she offered me to come to her place, I wanted so badly to lie down next to her on the couch, to wrap my arms around her and sleep. Not fuck, like in those movies. Not even have sex. Just sleep together, in the most innocent sense of the phrase. But I lacked the courage and she had a boyfriend and I was gawky and she was gorgeous and I was hopelessly boring and she was endlessly fascinating. So I walked back to my room and collapsed on the bottom bunk, thinking that if people were rain, I was drizzle and she was hurricane. John Green – Looking for Alaska.

Tiffany’s ring was waiting in my bag. I was told they were the best for engagement. And I waited for her like a fool at the train station on my birthday. A birthday which has for guest solitude, anger and strangers. And I was left with no explanation and a ring waiting to fit in a finger… the best fingers she would say. But not good enough to build bridges. The silence wasn’t so bad, till I look at my hands and feel sad. Because the spaces between my fingers are right where yours fit perfectly.

I’m not a Nicholas Sparks character that will read you a Notebook or letters written to a Dear John, so don’t expect me to do such sacrifices again when you can’t even do a quarter of what I did. And I take comfort in knowing that even when things are being taken away from us, a new world waits, to be discovered, in an upside-down place.

Everything seems so far away at glance and I guess because it is and we sit trying to figure out what fences we have to jump, tunnels we have to crawl through and all the crazy shit we think would get us there as soon as possible. We are all headed there, somewhere out there, and though some never make it, it’s meant for us to get there. And maybe the long road is the best road. If we fly there by shortcut what was meant for us to have may not be ready or we may not be… after all, what’s made in the oven always taste better than what’s made in the microwave.

I can still bet that she would have laughed to my lamest jokes like: why can’t a bicycle stand on its own? Because it’s two-tired. Or when I stupidly say that he’s not Coldplay. He can’t FixYou. Facepalm. But she won’t laugh anymore because her grumpy side overtook her double faced sense of humor.

But now I guess some what ifs are happier than ever afters. So I hold on to your unique promise and I’m not saying you have to meet me. I’m just wishing one day you will. It's called being nice, ever heard of it? Don’t worry, I’ll keep carrying out a random act of kindness with no expectation of reward, safe in the knowledge that one day someone might do the same for me. And you will.

So today, I vowed that no matter how corrupted or commercial I was to become as a lawyer, I would always put the simple love of humanity before all. And I’m tempted to ask if He can give me eyes that see the best in people, a heart that forgives the worst, a mind that forgets the bad, and a soul that never loses faith.

I suppose in the end, the whole of life becomes an act of letting go, but what always hurts the most is not taking a moment to say goodbye. Yann Martel – Life of Pi. And you will regret the chance you didn’t take. So the tragedy of life is clearly not death but what we let die inside of us while we live.

And I would like her to always remember how heartbreaking was the end of December.

By the beginning of October.

PS: For the past few months, I was often asked indirect questions such as “You are not writing anymore, are you?” and I was fed up of answering to curiosity and gossips. Actually too many issues were drowning me. So I had to take a break from writing. And I’m sorry for it because I know that once you start writing, you should not stop. So here I am.

Everything in life is temporary. So if things are going good, enjoy it because it won’t last forever. And if things are going bad, don’t worry. It can’t last forever either.

To become as absorbed in any subject as I am in mine, that is a curse. A pundit shrap. Now we don’t have these passionate disagreements anymore, where we both had the same problem, both thinking we are always right. The monster-reader she was, "stuck a bookmark in my heart and walked away". We reached that milestone where I have to traverse a desert for days and days while holding a glass of water, and though I may die of thirst, I shall not drink. Because you were that glass.

So she did far worse than killing me, she hurt me, and she intends to go on, hurting me. She left me as I left her, as she left them. Marooned for all eternity at the centre of a dead planet. Buried alive. But of all the souls I met on my journey, she was certainly the most human. She was seductive, endlessly fascinating, but eternally elusive. I could imagine marrying someone like her because she wanted someone who will not leave, no matter hard it is to be with her, and I promised to follow her into the dark. While she would have been my priority, I would have been a mere option.

We should have known that forever is a long long time. And time has a way of changing things.

For the past few weeks, there was no phone, no internet. Just me, a carpet and a direction. Now I’ve been staring at my phone waiting for its light to shine because she was that light. I smiled to myself, content. But it was only football scores notifications and David Beckham retirement. Facepalm.

I’m writing from my orchard where branches sway and creak with yawns of awakening. Slowly, petals begin to fall. Until the air is full of petals sighing. Soon my kitchen garden has a thousand petals scattered over it, contrasting the brown soil with soft reds. Like rose petals at a wedding. Our. An occasional wayward raindrop slid off a branch and struck me in the face and I felt ridiculously happy. Tears came. It’s not sadness, it’s a simple breakdown, because tears do not show how weak you are, they silently display a feeling that you have been strong for too long and today I’m tired of fighting. Car je croyais assumer cette blessure à jamais ouverte.

But she was my light, my water. 
Someone bright, not to alter.

In the old backyard, I can see rocks surrounding a small tree. Each one is in the form of an independent brick or a ball, and yet they nestle and cuddle with one another for support. Each has an upper side that reflects the sky and a mysterious dark underside. These rocks have been partners for so long they have grown toward one another and are blended by their mutual mosses and lichens. So I end up curled in a foetal position in the middle of my garden.

Light, water, mosses, lichens. Sounds like ingredients for a one syllable word heavy as a heartbeat or for a sort of traffic accident of the heart - Diane Ackerman. Or for the L word pour une éponge jamais essorée. Mon coeur. (comme si j’en avais un).

For long, I tried playing up the melodramatic aspect because it’s easier if you make the end of your relation funny, put on a mask, and act like it’s not bothering you. But a total fiasco. Today, I can just go to her grave and whisper that “mieux vaut mourir incompris que passer sa vie à s’expliquer”- William Shakespeare.

Still I wish we could talk. But I know what she did was for our good. Burning the bridges because Melchizedek must have preached her that ce que l'homme ne veut pas apprendre par la sagesse, il l'apprendra par la souffrance. So sit still and look around, “cause if one day you wake up and find that you're missing me. And your heart starts to wonder where on this earth I could be. Thinking maybe you'll come back here to the place that we'd meet. You'll see me waiting for you on the corner of the street. So I'm not moving, I'm not” moving on. Even if she won’t be where we met or will never come to Paris.

Pour que tout soit consommé, pour que je me sente moins seul, il me reste à souhaiter qu’il y ait beaucoup de spectateurs le jour de ma mort et qu’ils m’accueillent avec de belles paroles mais surtout qu’ils me pardonnent et qu’elle me pardonne.

How am I supposed to smile when you refuse to?
How am I to live when you have ceased to?
- ZT

A Love Witness

When Dad’s shoulders were the highest place on earth and Mom was your hero…

Out of the corner of my eyes, I can see a large black old suitcase wide open waiting for me to fill stuff in it, or maybe waiting for me to fit in it. So I tried it, I folded my knees and stayed in it for a while. I felt like I was traveling back to my childhood where my Dad’s shoulders were the highest place on earth and my Mom was my hero… But I think it’s time for me to come out from that suitcase and leave behind me memories I want to burry forever. Of course, not such sweet memories. But of her…

A new destination to visit is calling me. Expectations are filling my head with good intentions. But wasn’t I supposed to live frugally on surprise and expect nothing? I’m not sure anymore.

Surprising, shocking and drastic changes are expected. I wish to enjoy the travel like Malcolm X did for its first time, feel the freedom, the peace and the universality of the mankind. To be one with all nations, tough it’s better to be part of all nations puisqu’il est commun de faire partie d’une nation, mais avoir l’opportunité d’embrasser plusieurs nations, là il s’agit d’un luxe que très peu de gens peuvent s’offrir.

It will be a new start, a new commencement, a new beginning… a resurrection. All my sins will be cleaned. I’m given the opportunity to restart everything, to rewrite every chapter of my story, or at least correct all the erasures. Or rather than turning the page, I can just throw the book away.

Then I’m asking myself what if I want to roam the world and learn of all of its people… but end up not belonging to any of them? What does that make me? A crazy guy who need psychiatric treatment? No, because most of the revolutionaries were always standing alone for their rights at the beginning, and then people would have joined them, so thank you Nelson Mandela, thank you Martin Luther King, thank you Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi and thank you Albert Einstein. I’ll stay one of the craziest human being on earth and I’ll gather all nations around cultural richness; though diversity is a cultural asset.

I often cry on matters that go beyond xenophobia, racism, homophobia, terrorism… I cry on poverty and how people ignore it, how people give more importance to a mere problem of a society running after its own happiness. How can you be happy while your neighbor is starving to death, and you just slam the door on his face?

I was 4 when I was told that something like poverty exists, without really understanding why it exists. On a random day, my mom and I went at a charity to give a big bag of rice of 10 kilos for kids living in Somalia; I still remember the smile of the volunteer who leant at me to thank me while putting its hand on my head without realizing what I did. I felt like I met a Somali kid and made a new friend, I felt like its happiness was my happiness, I felt like what was mine, was ours, I felt like there was no boundary, no nationality issue, no religious concern, no xenophobia… a simple help. Is that what you call humanity? Putting aside everything and share whatever you can, a smile, a hand shake, a hug, a talk, a meal… whatever you can.

I've tried frustration, anger, disappointment, tiredness and misery, and they all work to a degree, but joyous satisfaction and a sense of élan work best to stabilize your happiness compass. So here is seven steps to happiness: think less, feel more; talk less, listen more; judge less, accept more; watch less, do more; complain less, appreciate more; fear less, love more.

And I will leave you with a poem I once shared.

When clouds of pain loom in the sky,

When a shadow of sadness flickers by,

When a tear finds its way to the eye,

When fear keeps the loneliness alive,

I try and console my heart.

Why is that you cry? I ask

This is only what life imparts

These deeps silence within

Have been handed out to all by time

Everyone’s story has a little sorrow

Everyone’s share has a little sunshine

No need for water in your eyes

Every moment can be a new life

Why do you let them pass you by

Oh heart why is that you cry?

- Javed Akhtar



Pray that your loneliness may spur you into finding something to live for, great enough to die for - Hammerskjold

It is those days where you want to stay numb, unconscious in your bed waiting for a mouth-to-mouth resuscitation from a stranger, un bouche à bouche. I’m laying in bed in the opposite side like someone left dead, a dead body shot which fell down on the bed. I started to write this post half asleep with all my clothes on after a boring party where I got the syndrome of how-to-feel-alone-in-a-crowded-place.

I’m still thinking of us, I can’t get over her, I can’t move on. MOVE ON? How can you use such small words for such a big step in your life? I can still remember how the wind blew hard on our destiny and we swirled around each other like snowflakes refusing to melt on the floor. But at the end she melts and I’m still swirling around despair this time not love anymore. I did something so wrong to her that I could not have argued that it was unfair had I been required to pay with my own life. So I chose isolation for myself, a timeless place to pay for the time she wasted for me.

She must be hating herself for knowing that I’m not worth so much sadness, that such an outlay of mental energy is entirely wasted and useless. But she feels it anyway, and she cries in the shower or into her pillow or anytime something reminds her of me.

I can imagine her walking by shops and offices on the sidewalk, going somewhere or maybe not going anywhere in particular, feeling like the music in her ears is a soundtrack to her sadness. This song makes her think of me, that song comes close to capturing how lonely she is without me. She isolates herself physically because she feels so isolated inside, surrounded by people, she is still alone, because she had been abandoned by that one person who made her feel somehow less alone. And the syndrome of how-to-feel-alone-in-a-crowded-place made a new victim.

I want to scream out loud “leave me alone” to thoughts, memories, friends, family, acquaintance and you… but it’s useless. The pros and cons of isolation started to blow up in my skull, in my cranium, in my crâne. I want to restart my life, éloigné du monde et du bruit, away from faces I don’t want to see again, from places I want to forget, to run away from sweet memories I once loved.

From an unconventional point of view, being alone is a very beautiful thing as long as nobody is obstructing your vision, a complete panoramic vision. Contemplate the beauty of nature, listen to birds, learn from animals, observe the flow of water near a river, responding to every mood from tranquillity to turbulence, and meditate, meditate and meditate. Donate yourself to this lively world, where anything can happen, including lots of moment of chance of estrangement, excitement, or surprise.

Most of the time, we fill our days with ongoing connection, denying ourselves time to think and dream, we turn off our brains,  giving us less chance for flights of fancy or for brain light bulbs to turn on. Tout notre mal vient de ne pouvoir être seuls : de là le jeu, le luxe, la dissipation, le vin, les femmes, l’ignorance, la médisance, l’envie, l’oubli de soi-même et de Dieu – Jean de la Bruyère

However, as human, we may often be solitary in our world, in our own bubble, but we need not be solitary beings. Isolation is important in order to re-set the compass of our souls, but only partial and limited-time isolation. Because those who make the choice of full isolation estrange themselves from one of the great gifts that of also seeing our marvellous biosphere through the eyes of others. Interconnection and empathic knowledge of our human family are the high-flying flags of civilization. And we must admit that it cut off the opportunity for normal, human social interactions. I can’t deny that isolation in the nature allows us to think freely but it reduces our chances for social pleasantries or small talk with strangers. 

And honestly, on the few occasions when I've tried total isolation, I've grovelled my way back to the company of others because I always recall what Jack Nicholson once said about the perks of staying alone for too long, it gives him inspiration to write poems about suicide, and strangely it made me laugh. So don’t go for a long-term isolation because it will only lead you to a slow descent into madness, not so slow for some person. Quoique nécessaire, la solitude demeure mortelle lorsqu’elle est trop longue.

Further, there are principles, laws that I apply to myself. They're not like the law of gravity, which pretty well guarantees an apple will fall on the head of a Newton who sits under it, but following them, bring a balance in my life and isolation can be an option but not the best one. So bye bye isolation. I’ll be okay. Just not today.

There are worse things than

Being alone

But it often takes decades

To realize this

And most often

When you do

It’s too late

And there’s nothing worse

Than

Too late. 

- Charles Bukowski

Left without any options... le génocide des émotions était annoncé.

It’s an unpleasant day, like these past few days, leaving me with thoughts of how to disappear without hurting anyone, without making anyone worry about where I am, how I am and in which state I could be. Or thoughts on starting to drink in order to heal my sorrow, but the naughty Ann Landers left me with a warning saying that people who drink to drown their sorrow should be told that sorrows know how to swim. Then Ernest Hemingway argued with her that intelligent men are sometimes forced to be drunk to spend time with his fools. So swimming and fools lead me to swimming with fools. And it seems like it’s not an option, whether it’s a good or a bad option.

But I was left with nothing, left not even with a ghost but with its shadow. In the beginning she haunted me, haunted my dreams, but even now, just weeks later, she was slipping away, falling apart in my memory and everyone else’s dying again.

A kid sitting in the train next to me reminded me of her and how she had caprices of a marvelous unexpectedness, but how is any one to imitate a caprice? No options.

Even cries were not an option. Because, my mind, my soul, my heart, they would have asked me pourquoi leurs pleurs sont-ils supérieurs aux nôtres. Et je m’interroge. Je me la pose cette question, une question qui les dérange tant, une question étouffée, pour qu’il n’y reste que des sanglots, des gémissements, voir rien. Le génocide des émotions était annoncé.

So how will I come out from this sorrow? I’ll wrap myself with other people joy because I’ll find success only with sincerity, personal integrity, humility, courtesy, wisdom and the most important, charity, telling me to stay away from all sins.

He who binds to himself a joy

Does the winged life destroy;

But he who kisses the joy as it flies

Lives in eternity's sun rise

…

And throughout all eternity

I forgive you

You forgive me

- William Blake, Broken Love

At the end, I met her… and the first things she said were “pleased to meet you! Hope you guess my name!” The devil?! A parachute woman?! Or the road to success by killing your emotions, forbidding you to think for yourself. Because dreams to achieve were left.

And I realize how useless wails are and how gratuitous melancholy is... "Happy" Valentine day

He was a Frenchman, a melancholy-looking man. He had the appearance of one who has been looking for the leak in life’s gas pipe with a lighted candle. He was possessed by her love and couldn’t see anything further than love. Mais à présent qu'il était indispensable à sa vie, elle craignait d'en perdre quelque chose, ou même qu'il ne fût troublé. Quand elle s'en revenait de chez lui, elle jetait tout à l'entour des regards inquiets, épiait chaque forme qui passait à l'horizon. She listened to every single noise around her, steps, cries, crunch of dried leaves maybe under his feet…

She was becoming very sentimental. Elle demandait à présent une bague, un véritable anneau de mariage, en signe d'alliance éternelle. Souvent elle lui parlait des cloches du soir de son anniversaire, ou des voix de la nature, puis elle l'entretenait de sa mère à elle, et de sa mère à lui.

Il n'avait plus, comme autrefois, de ces mots si doux qui la faisaient pleurer, ni de ces véhémentes caresses qui la rendaient folle, si bien que leur grand amour, où elle vivait plongée, parut se diminuer sous elle comme l'eau d'un fleuve qui s'absorberait dans son lit, et elle aperçut la vase. Elle n'y voulut pas croire, elle redoubla de tendresse, et il cacha de moins en moins son indifférence.

Elle ne savait pas si elle regrettait de lui avoir cédé, ou si elle ne souhaitait point, au contraire, le chérir davantage. L'humiliation de se sentir faible se tournait en une rancune que les voluptés tempéraient. It wasn’t attachment, but as a constant seduction. He subjugated her. She was almost afraid of him.

Chaque sourire cachait un bâillement d'ennui, chaque joie a curse, tout plaisir son dégoût, et les meilleurs baisers ne vous laissaient sur la lèvre que l'irréalisable envie d'une volupté plus haute. Elle était aussi dégoûtée de lui qu'il était fatigué d'elle. She no longer wanted to live or endlessly sleep.

I always thought depression sounds like you just get like really sad, you get quiet and melancholy and just like sit quietly by the window sighing or just lying around. A state of not caring about anything. But …

“She was not crying

Which surprised me very much

But I understand now

That she had found places

For her melancholy

That were behind more masks

Than only her eyes”

― Jonathan Safran Foer, Everything is Illuminated 

And I realize how useless wails are and how gratuitous melancholy is.

Bath Assembly Room, Fashion Museum, UK

It’s not okay, you’re not okay, and that’s okay… because we will be fine and I was willing to accept what I couldn’t change.

It had been snowing for the past few days, but today the sky was strangely metallic grey, it was stingingly cold, and from one side of the horizon to the other you could only see the sun surrounded by the fog. I marvelled as other people streamed past, unimpressed.

If I was a guide, then I would tell you that you must be on foot, with chilled hands thrust into your pockets, scarf wrapped round your throat, and thoughts of a hot café crème in your imagination to enjoy the instant. It made the difference between simply being present and being there. But a single kite which was helplessly trying to join the sun, thrown me back to warm enough sweet memories of my grandparents, especially my grandpa, my nana. We used to go on the roof of his house in Lucknow and fly kites/patangs during countless hours.

He had the capacity to speak for hours, in the flawless syntactical sentences of matters about which he knew nothing at all. But it was enough to amaze the naïve kid I was. He used to compare kites to angels and wanted me to always remember that angels fly because they take themselves lightly. He knew how to make me feel special. That’s maybe why he loved so much my grandma, my nani.

She learned to fell in love everyday through a husband always teasing her nicely. They were a funny couple, he will always tease her and she will never reply or barely try to fight back, just a simple smile would have meant the world for him.

One day he sat behind her, bringing up things they might have forgotten. He was slipping easily into sarcasm. She was mute in the face of that sarcasm. He was sad in the face of her silence. They were both unhappy. He was unhappy that she was being short with him, and she was unhappy because he was the only one left, and these were her last years of life, and he didn’t want to ruin them by not being the person she deserves. Then she laughed and pulled him into her bosom despite his protestations. In her vice grip, pressed against her chest, she shook him from side to side and cooed at him “I love you”, she said. His buffooneries would have probably given her entertainment in those dull days of slow death. But few days later, she died. Her death had been a real grief to his warm heart, and he wept like a child. 

You don’t get to choose how you are going to die or when. You can only decide how you are going to live now. They lived happily. But after her death, he wasn’t able to remember anyone, except from few of his sons and daughters, but not his grandsons anymore. Alzheimer? Not a mere German. After a year of her absence, he also died. I feel like if he wanted to tell me something before dying he would have told me that certes, j'ai eu les inconvénients de mes avantages, mais aujourd'hui tu as les avantages de mes inconvénients, and I would have smile and let him go. But Richard Bach will certainly tell him that allow to live as it chooses, and allow yourself to live as you choose.

We, their grandsons are now the gatekeeper of their memory, of their joy, of their colourful life, of their life lessons… of how they taught me that family is the most important thing. That anyone who loves you has your back and is right there with you when things get real is family, and these are the people you have to take care of. Don’t make the mistake of thinking that your family is always going to be blood, human bonds are stronger than biology. Finally, me, myself and I agreed that the one I was expecting to understand this bond, she would never be able to understand it.

Who's' to say when the wind will take you

Who's to know what it is will break you

I don't know which way the wind will blow

Who's to know when the time's come around

Don't want to see you cry

I know that this is not goodbye

In summer I can taste the salt in the sea

There's a kite blowing out of control on a breeze

I wonder what's gonna happen to you

You wonder what has happened to me

Kite - U2

You were wanting to see India, not Indians… and that’s why they fall apart – A farewell to relationships

The town was a blur of light, in which the houses seemed dancing, and the palace waving little wings. The mountain turned into an umbrella where they got lost to enjoy the view. The city of Agra was stingingly cold but staying with her was an idea, warm enough for him, to bear it. While showing her the Taj Mahal, he cracked a joke about it. After that he cracked the same joke on the Tour Eiffel. But she did not laugh, even not a smile. She talked and he listened. He was good tempered and affectionate but a little formidable. However he always felt like a baby in that strange presence, a baby who unexpectedly receives a toy, without asking for it. 

It was the moment of the despised and rejected. So she gave up, living between France and India was getting too difficult. He knew that she did not love him as much as he loved her, and he was ashamed of pestering her. But that shocking revelation made his heart quiver, turned it sombre from red.

They trusted each other, although they were going to part, perhaps because they were going to part, he just kept listening and saying yes to everything and then she concluded half kissing him, “you and I shall be friends”. “Why can’t we be lovers now?” said the other, holding her affectionately. “It’s what I want. It’s what you want”. The earth didn’t want it. Ego, egoism, egotism, self-esteem, self-respect, self-love… they said in their hundred voices, “No, not anymore”, and the sky said, “No, not there”. 

She was getting engaged and all what he can do was accepting once again what she already told him at the beginning of their relationship, but he kept saying to her, advienne que pourra! And now it was too late. Late because he just started his career, late because he wasn’t rich enough, late because he couldn’t stop enjoying the time without any expectations, late because he needed more time. She could at certain moments fling down everything that is petty and temporary in their natures but this time it was too late.

It was too late for us a long long time ago

I can't explain why we don't part I just don't know

To be together only happy now and then

It's much too late for us that's how it's always been

Wasting years together surely is a sin

To know no peace of mind that's how it's always been

Why did they wait so long to let us know

It was too late for us a long long time ago - Jean Shepard

Day after day and night after night, he wished that it never happened, her wedding. The time of her engagement was gone and he couldn’t do anything. He was mortified, puzzled, like dazed by a blow on the head.

Few years later, the birth of her little daughter gave him the coup de grâce, that’s what he thought but the last blow was coming soon. With his remaining courage he wrote her on a postcard showing the Taj Mahal a request to meet him once at the same old spot where perhaps the story they finished was never the one they began. The feel between his fingers while writing the postcard generated deep remorse, regrets. A dull pain of body or mind, waiting to rise to the surface.

This time there were round white clouds in the sky, and white pools on the earth; the hills in the distance were purple, almost crimson, maybe the dull before the storm. With a heartbreaking pathos and a cruel irony, he told her that now he quite agrees with her that life is too short to cherish grievances and she was relieved that he was able to come into line with her wedding to some extent…indeed to some extent, because he couldn’t love anymore…

L’on n’aime bien qu’une seule fois : c’est la première ; les amours qui suivent sont moins involontaires. – Jean de la Bruyère