Un jeudi l'après-midi

After a gentle nudge from the editor yesterday, i have embarked upon the revision of my twin articles, although my mind is likely somewhere else. Actually it's in a roaming mode. Between Fitzgerald's Tender is the night and C Skyes' A Nation of Victims and i believe what i will eventually name The Saga of One Monsieur Jones. Lol.

Jokes aside, what he said the other night has put me in the thinking mode. Not L's kind of thinking, but R's. I have been reminded of one of my most favorite novels on the earth. Written by my Best friend forever (of all my silent friends), who many think of as the Shakespeare of the East, and i lovingly call Saint T. True, the laurel of Nobel Prize in literature came to him for his collection of verses citing its nature trascendantale, but it was the novel "The last verse" that in my opinion transcended even most of his work.

I wouldn't dare to present to you the prose, for i am afraid my touch would diminish its beauty in some way. Funny, i think i have just described what the novel is about. And this was exactly what mr. jones had to say.

What am i to say?

I suppose i have said my bit. To mr jones. I dunno. Sometimes i feel like Robert Kincaid (The Bridges of the Madison County). The photographer who awakened the little girl in the housewife from the humdrum outskirts of Des Moines, got her dangerously close to the danger that is love. Kincaid who was unabashed about saying that he can take care of things with her husband in "short order" and Kincaid who lasted long summer nights with her. In the morning wetness of the dewdrops and the hollow nights that followed the parched summer days, he surrounded her, within and without, brandishing her socially full yet otherwise empty existence. And then, just like that summer zephyr he was gone.

She was afraid to entrust the fragile love to the stony stares of reality.

But he thought otherwise. And i think like him. We are alike. Was he right?

I wish i knew.