j'ai perdu mon eurydice
On a friend's advice I am reading Louise Glück's Vita Nova, and it is good to me. It makes me feel noble.
Consider "intimacy" to be a code word for shared embarrassment. There's something awful about betraying the deep secrets of your desires—physical, emotional—to another being. It's driven by need, of course, but you are always aware that the need will never be assuaged; that in admitting this need, you have laid your heart open upon the operating table; that when you recall this interplay in the far future it will seem cold, cold, cold.
"If I could only learn to play guitar, I would just date myself."
Is this believable?
