(no subject)
Well, I finished the short story I had been working on. After taking some great advice, it's done, although there is still minor editing to be done -- there always is.
Anyway, con-crit is more than welcome...I'd really love some feedback!
My fascination with Ana delved far beyond the realm of sexual attraction: I obsessed over every idiosyncrasy, every nuance about her. The way she crossed her ankles when a book captured her interest threw my stomach into knots. Her antique fingers enthralled me; I coveted her almost insubstantial body.
Ana's arrival remains permanently etched in my mind. The atmosphere changed that day, as if the universe was preparing the rest of the world for her coming. The cool late-autumn weather that had been so persistent throughout November changed abruptly, the temperature dropping down below zero. The cold air crackled, burned my face.
Even now, I cannot forget her -- the pink of her lips, the smell of her hair, the way she moved, klutzy and awkward. She wasn't beautiful; she was ghostly. A transluscent apparition with her stark skin and white-blonde hair, she floated into and out of my life like one of the undead.
She haunts me now, like she haunted me before. Her reflection lingers in the hallway mirror, her scent in the carpets. I can almost smell her funeral-parlor essence, almost hear her clumsy footsteps. Her memory is almost alive, still smiling softly.
I was infatuated with Ana and all of her nuances. I obsessed over the curvature of her frame, the veins beneath her skin. I wanted to explore her virgin terrain, teach her how to feel. In hindsight, I didn't love her. I had wanted to, but I had never been able to, perhaps because there is no real way to love a ghost.
*****
Ana, so seemingly ancient, arrived at the pinnacle of what I believed to be my maturation. I was a grown boy, a man with a five-o'clock shadow and a chip on his shoulder. Ana's frailty, her slight frame and wiry limbs, somehow dwarfed my coming-of-age. The facade of the pragmatic, twenty-something nihilist I had adopted was almost immediately shattered by the virgin innocence she, a wisp of a girl, possessed.
Ana glided into the book shop I worked at (one of my attempts at an avant-garde lifestyle), purchased a used paperback copy of Lady Chatterley's Lover, and, stumbling over her own feet, left.
It was outside the book shop that my infatuation began. On a bench that looked almost as frail as she, Ana read her book, her eyes caressing the pages. She looked as though she were deeply in love with the book -- with the characters, the language, the plotline.
She looked up at me with her pale, doe eyes and smiled a little bit, as though she hadn't smiled in centuries. She seemed antique, sitting on that bench, as though she were about to collapse in upon herself. She was far too small, too fragile, to be in a place like New York.
I told her this, and she smiled the knowing half-smile that would persist in my memory long after she was gone. "I think the same goes for you," she said. The elegance of her quiet voice astounded me.
I sat down beside her, wanting to drink in her essence.
I would continue to sit with her, every day, watching her with her books, silently willing her to love me as much as she loved the words she read.
*****
I still cannot put a finger on what it was about Ana that enraptured me so. I felt pedophilic, obsessing over her as I did for so long. I wanted to touch her hair, kiss her lips, worship her body. I started putting books aside for her -- old classics, all used, just to see the passion ignite in her wide eyes.
After she finished her books -- Oedipus, The Canterbury Tales, Mrs. Dalloway -- I would read them, searching for what sparked the fire in Ana's eyes. I went through book after book, sitting on her bench, trying so hard to find Ana's passion.
I never grasped it, never understood the profundity of the literature: the words stayed on the page, and the characters remained two-dimensional in my mind. My inability to feel as much for the books as I felt for Ana was infuriating.
I knew that Ana did not go to the bookshop for me. She never watched me as I watched her, never shot clandestine glances my way. I served as a vessel for her literature, but never anything more.
All of this -- my inability to feel what Ana felt, my willingness to provide her with the books she loved so much, my frustration -- drove me to take Ana home with me. I wanted to love her, and at the same time to break her, to snap her in two.
The thing was, we never kissed. Throughout the entire thing -- the car ride, the fumbling of hands, the tangle of arms and legs -- I never even tried to kiss her. Kissing Ana would have opened a new door to a horizon far too complicated for my simple worshipping of her. Despite all the infatuation that I mistook for love, I didn't want that. I didn't want intimacy. I didn't want Ana's love; I wanted her passion.
I wanted to fuck her, to make her laugh, watch her cry. I wanted to see her rage, her excitement, her ardor. I wanted Ana's eyes to light up for me like they did for Virginia Woolf.
But Ana, her eyes stayed that cloudy, stagnant blue.
*****
After a while, when I ran out of second-hand books, the fire in Ana's clear, blue eyes quickly sparked and faded, and then she disappeared. I sat on the bench every day without fail, rereading the books she had adored so much, waiting for her return. The emptiness was staggering.
And then fragile, delicate Ana was on the front page of the Times, her eyes dark and dead. She had begun to frequent another small bookshop on the other side of town. Another full grown, nihilistic boy with a heart of steel had ripped Ana out of the world. He had broken her...snapped her in two.
Ana, with her quiet words and her antique hands, with her funeral-parlor fragrance. Ana, a real ghost now.
What terrified me was the idea that maybe that could have been me. Maybe, if Ana had not fallen out of love with my book store, I would have really broken her. Perhaps I would have been the one to shatter her tiny body and her heart of glass.
The idea that maybe I could be capable of that scared me. Because maybe I could be a monster, too.
*****
After deciding to leave the city behind, I began to pack my life away. While boxing up my memories, I found a dusty novel on the floor. Ana had left it beside my bed, that night when I tried to love her. After all the wear-and-tear the book had taken, the title was inscrutable.
I opened to the page Ana had dog-eared, hoping to find a piece of her there.
The words hit me with astounding force, and it was as if Ana herself was reading them to me: "Have no fear of robbers or murderers. They are external dangers, petty dangers. We should fear ourselves."*
*****
*Les Miserables, Victor Hugo. (p 27)
Anyway, con-crit is more than welcome...I'd really love some feedback!
My fascination with Ana delved far beyond the realm of sexual attraction: I obsessed over every idiosyncrasy, every nuance about her. The way she crossed her ankles when a book captured her interest threw my stomach into knots. Her antique fingers enthralled me; I coveted her almost insubstantial body.
Ana's arrival remains permanently etched in my mind. The atmosphere changed that day, as if the universe was preparing the rest of the world for her coming. The cool late-autumn weather that had been so persistent throughout November changed abruptly, the temperature dropping down below zero. The cold air crackled, burned my face.
Even now, I cannot forget her -- the pink of her lips, the smell of her hair, the way she moved, klutzy and awkward. She wasn't beautiful; she was ghostly. A transluscent apparition with her stark skin and white-blonde hair, she floated into and out of my life like one of the undead.
She haunts me now, like she haunted me before. Her reflection lingers in the hallway mirror, her scent in the carpets. I can almost smell her funeral-parlor essence, almost hear her clumsy footsteps. Her memory is almost alive, still smiling softly.
I was infatuated with Ana and all of her nuances. I obsessed over the curvature of her frame, the veins beneath her skin. I wanted to explore her virgin terrain, teach her how to feel. In hindsight, I didn't love her. I had wanted to, but I had never been able to, perhaps because there is no real way to love a ghost.
*****
Ana, so seemingly ancient, arrived at the pinnacle of what I believed to be my maturation. I was a grown boy, a man with a five-o'clock shadow and a chip on his shoulder. Ana's frailty, her slight frame and wiry limbs, somehow dwarfed my coming-of-age. The facade of the pragmatic, twenty-something nihilist I had adopted was almost immediately shattered by the virgin innocence she, a wisp of a girl, possessed.
Ana glided into the book shop I worked at (one of my attempts at an avant-garde lifestyle), purchased a used paperback copy of Lady Chatterley's Lover, and, stumbling over her own feet, left.
It was outside the book shop that my infatuation began. On a bench that looked almost as frail as she, Ana read her book, her eyes caressing the pages. She looked as though she were deeply in love with the book -- with the characters, the language, the plotline.
She looked up at me with her pale, doe eyes and smiled a little bit, as though she hadn't smiled in centuries. She seemed antique, sitting on that bench, as though she were about to collapse in upon herself. She was far too small, too fragile, to be in a place like New York.
I told her this, and she smiled the knowing half-smile that would persist in my memory long after she was gone. "I think the same goes for you," she said. The elegance of her quiet voice astounded me.
I sat down beside her, wanting to drink in her essence.
I would continue to sit with her, every day, watching her with her books, silently willing her to love me as much as she loved the words she read.
*****
I still cannot put a finger on what it was about Ana that enraptured me so. I felt pedophilic, obsessing over her as I did for so long. I wanted to touch her hair, kiss her lips, worship her body. I started putting books aside for her -- old classics, all used, just to see the passion ignite in her wide eyes.
After she finished her books -- Oedipus, The Canterbury Tales, Mrs. Dalloway -- I would read them, searching for what sparked the fire in Ana's eyes. I went through book after book, sitting on her bench, trying so hard to find Ana's passion.
I never grasped it, never understood the profundity of the literature: the words stayed on the page, and the characters remained two-dimensional in my mind. My inability to feel as much for the books as I felt for Ana was infuriating.
I knew that Ana did not go to the bookshop for me. She never watched me as I watched her, never shot clandestine glances my way. I served as a vessel for her literature, but never anything more.
All of this -- my inability to feel what Ana felt, my willingness to provide her with the books she loved so much, my frustration -- drove me to take Ana home with me. I wanted to love her, and at the same time to break her, to snap her in two.
The thing was, we never kissed. Throughout the entire thing -- the car ride, the fumbling of hands, the tangle of arms and legs -- I never even tried to kiss her. Kissing Ana would have opened a new door to a horizon far too complicated for my simple worshipping of her. Despite all the infatuation that I mistook for love, I didn't want that. I didn't want intimacy. I didn't want Ana's love; I wanted her passion.
I wanted to fuck her, to make her laugh, watch her cry. I wanted to see her rage, her excitement, her ardor. I wanted Ana's eyes to light up for me like they did for Virginia Woolf.
But Ana, her eyes stayed that cloudy, stagnant blue.
*****
After a while, when I ran out of second-hand books, the fire in Ana's clear, blue eyes quickly sparked and faded, and then she disappeared. I sat on the bench every day without fail, rereading the books she had adored so much, waiting for her return. The emptiness was staggering.
And then fragile, delicate Ana was on the front page of the Times, her eyes dark and dead. She had begun to frequent another small bookshop on the other side of town. Another full grown, nihilistic boy with a heart of steel had ripped Ana out of the world. He had broken her...snapped her in two.
Ana, with her quiet words and her antique hands, with her funeral-parlor fragrance. Ana, a real ghost now.
What terrified me was the idea that maybe that could have been me. Maybe, if Ana had not fallen out of love with my book store, I would have really broken her. Perhaps I would have been the one to shatter her tiny body and her heart of glass.
The idea that maybe I could be capable of that scared me. Because maybe I could be a monster, too.
*****
After deciding to leave the city behind, I began to pack my life away. While boxing up my memories, I found a dusty novel on the floor. Ana had left it beside my bed, that night when I tried to love her. After all the wear-and-tear the book had taken, the title was inscrutable.
I opened to the page Ana had dog-eared, hoping to find a piece of her there.
The words hit me with astounding force, and it was as if Ana herself was reading them to me: "Have no fear of robbers or murderers. They are external dangers, petty dangers. We should fear ourselves."*
*****
*Les Miserables, Victor Hugo. (p 27)