A love letter

A love letter

"The letter had been crumpled up and tossed onto the grate. It had burned all around the edges, so the names at the top and bottom had gone up in smoke. But there was enough of the bold black scrawl to reveal that it had indeed been a love letter. And as Hannah read the singed and half-destroyed parchment, she was forced to turn away to hide the trembling of her hand.

—should warn you that this letter will not be eloquent. However, it will be sincere, especially in light of the fact that you will never read it. I have felt these words like a weight in my chest, until I find myself amazed that a heart can go on beating under such a burden.

I love you. I love you desperately, violently, tenderly, completely. I want you in ways that I know you would find shocking. My love, you don't belong with a man like me. In the past I've done things you wouldn't approve of, and I've done them ten times over. I have led a life of immoderate sin. As it turns out, I'm just as immoderate in love. Worse, in fact.

I want to kiss every soft place of you, make you blush and faint, pleasure you until you weep, and dry every tear with my lips. If you only knew how I crave the taste of you. I want to take you in my hands and mouth and feast on you. I want to drink wine and honey from you.

I want you under me. On your back.

I'm sorry. You deserve more respect than that. But I can't stop thinking of it. Your arms and legs around me. Your mouth, open for my kisses. I need too much of you. A lifetime of nights spent between your thighs wouldn't be enough.

I want to talk with you forever. I remember every word you've ever said to me.

If only I could visit you as a foreigner goes into a new country, learn the language of you, wander past all borders into every private and secret place, I would stay forever. I would become a citizen of you.

You would say it's too soon to feel this way. You would ask how I could be so certain. But some things can't be measured by time. Ask me an hour from now. Ask me a month from now. A year, ten years, a lifetime. The way I love you will outlast every calendar, clock, and every toll of every bell that will ever be cast. If only you—

And there it stopped."

Lisa Kleypas, A Wallflower Christmas

Prospettive, sogni, magia, storie

Le prospettive sghembe tipiche dei sogni...

La vera magia è la personale capacità di inventare delle storie.
La vera magia è la speciale capacità di inventare, cioè trovare e ricreare, la propria storia personale.

(da appunti su un foglietto, con la dicitura: The magician's boy - Susan Cooper - San Giorgio e il drago)

San Giorgio e il drago, Vitale da Bologna

La copertina del libro di Susan Cooper, illustrato da Serena Riglietti.
Ne deriva che probabilmente le frasi le avevo scritte a seguito della mostra
sui disegni di Serena Riglietti che vidi a Gradara qualhe anno fa.

Creare una propria storia.

Creare la propria storia. 

Tessere la propria storia.

Wuthering hights, di Emily Bronte

Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.

Emily Bronte, Wuthering hights

Anna, di Lucy M. Montgomery

“Tomorrow is always fresh, with no mistakes in it yet.”
—L. M. Montgomery, Anne of Green Gables