“I will remember your small room, the feel of you, the light in the window, your records, your books, our morning coffee, our noons our nights, our bodies spilled together, sleeping, the tiny flowing currents, immediate and forever, your leg my leg, your arm my arm, your smile and the warmth of you who made me laugh again.”—Charles Bukowski
I imagined the past as an attendant, obsequiously remaining a step behind me; present but tactful. I was wrong, the past is the Fool, contorting himself in front of me, his hideous gesticulations bringing him close to my face. He presses himself against me, as if to remind me that I am only a concentration of all that’s come before.
Of all my errors of imagination, the most inexcusable was to consider myself royally.
“I believe love that is true and real creates a respite from death. All cowardice comes from not loving or not loving well which is the same thing and when a man who is brave and true looks death squarely in the face like some rhino hunters I know or Belmonte, who is truly brave, it is because they love with sufficient passion to push death out of their minds. Until it returns, as it does to all men, and then you must make really good love again.”—Midnight in Paris