Real Love in Literature and Life

[Threetrees]

There are perfect abstracts in literature about this profound feeling. Let it be the thread to remind us of it and of how writers felt about it. As to me there is nothing more refined than this one:
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If I speak in the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I am a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal. And if I have prophetic powers, and understand all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have all faith, so as to remove mountains, but have not love, I am nothing. If I give away all I have, and if I deliver up my body to be burned,a but have not love, I gain nothing.

Love is patient and kind; love does not envy or boast; it is not arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; it does not rejoice at wrongdoing, but rejoices with the truth. Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.

Love never ends. As for prophecies, they will pass away; as for tongues, they will cease; as for knowledge, it will pass away. For we know in part and we prophesy in part, but when the perfect comes, the partial will pass away. When I was a child, I spoke like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I gave up childish ways. For now we see in a mirror dimly, but then face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I have been fully known.

So now faith, hope, and love abide, these three; but the greatest of these is love.

1 Corinthians 13.

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Arthur Conan Doyle was torn between loyalty to his dying wife and the passion he felt for another woman. It was Arthur Conan Doyle's daily struggle for almost ten years.
*
"Then must you strive to be worthy of her love. Be brave and pure, fearless to the strong and humble to the weak; and so, whether this love prosper or no, you will have fitted yourself to be honored by a maiden's love, which is, in sooth, the highest guerdon which a true knight can hope for."

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
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As they say in biography, "Dickens's theatrical company performed The Frozen Deep for the Queen, and when a young actress named Ellen Ternan joined the cast in August, Dickens fell in love with her. In 1858, in London, Dickens undertook his first public readings for pay, and quarreled with his old friend and rival, the great novelist Thackeray. More importantly, it was in that year that, after a long period of difficulties, he separated from his wife. They had been for many years "tempermentally unsuited" to each other."

"I love you, love you, love you! If you were to cast me off now - but you will not - you would never be rid of me. No one should come between us. I would pursue you to the death."

Sir Charles Dickens
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[Threetrees]

THAT I did always love,
I bring thee proof: That till I loved
I did not love enough.
That I shall love alway,
I offer thee
That love is life,
And life hath immortality.
This, dost thou doubt, sweet?
Then have I
Nothing to show
But Calvary.

Emily Dickinson
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Emily Dickinson never married,

http://www.emilydickinsonmuseum.org/love_life
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...but because her canon includes magnificent love poems, questions concerning her love life have intrigued readers since her first publication in the 1890s. Speculation about whom she may have loved has filled and continues to fill volumes. Her girlhood relationships, her “Master Letters,” and her relationship with Judge Otis Lord form the backbone of these discussions.

Dickinson’s school days and young adulthood included several significant male friends, among them Benjamin Newton, a law student in her father’s office; Henry Vaughn Emmons, an Amherst College student; and George Gould, an Amherst College classmate of the poet’s brother Austin.
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[Threetrees]

Inexplicable things happen to me I must say. Really. I don't know how it occurs. A poem. It was written in seconds. But there were words preceding it. "Send me a word to-morrow."

Strange, unexpected, though not at all -
The words I said today,
Came to me.
Centuries ago.
Once have been uttered by another I discovered -
"Send me a word to-morrow."

I did not know in fact but discovered (my eyes popped out) that it had been already in Shakespeare's "Romeo and Juliet" :

ROM:
O blessed, blessed night! I am afeard, (145)
Being in night, all this is but a dream,
Too flattering-sweet to be substantial.

Enter Juliet above.

JUL:
Three words, dear Romeo, and good night indeed.
If that thy bent of love be honourable,
Thy purpose marriage, send me word to-morrow,(150)
By one that I'll procure to come to thee,
Where and what time thou wilt perform the rite;
And all my fortunes at thy foot I'll lay
And follow thee my lord throughout the world.

[Liam]

Something tells me you would enjoy Milorad Pavic's The Inner Side of the Wind, TT, about a pair of lovers (Hero & Leander) separated by centuries, who can't ever meet except in dreams.

[Dante Amaral]

I suffer reading novels or poems with frequent mentionings of the word 'love.' They appear to me to be merely saying the word without actually exploring it.

Yet I have loved Iris Murdoch's novels, most of which is about love. Here is an excerpt to share:

Eternally you escape my embrace. Art cannot assimilate you nor thought digest you. I do not now know, or want to know, anything about your life. For me, you have gone into the dark. Yet elsewhere I realize, and I meditate upon this knowledge, that you laugh, you cry, you read books and cook meals and yawn and lie perhaps in someone's arms. This knowledge too may I never deny, and may I never forget how in the humble hard time-ridden reality of my life I loved you. That love remains, Julian, not diminished though changing, a love with a very clear and a very faithful memory. It causes me on the whole remarkably little pain. Only sometimes at night when I think that you live now and are somewhere, I shed tears. (From The Black Prince)

D.

[Threetrees]

You're right, Liam. You've made my day.) Thanks a lot, a lot.) Frankly, I didn't know anything about Milorad Pavić until you told me. Upon reading reviews on the book you've mentioned and some other related stuff I may definitely say I shall have it to read. Moreover I have found some unpublished verses of his which had been written in October and November 2009. Some of them in hospital (he died of heart attack in 2009). They were provided by Jasmina Mihajlović. Imaginative and sage, full of love and wisdom, the last ones and everlasting.

Milorad Pavić
THE EPILOGUE

Never more
The Raven

If you were to buy me once more
A notebook with pages blank and unlined
Perhaps I would finally be able
To write you a love letter
The last instead of the first

***
I was happy, but did not know it,
You were unhappy, but did not know it.
When we realized, it was too late
Forever for me, but not for you
But you did not know that either

***
At „Ljubić’s“ we dined on
Veal with baked vegetables
You sat unhappy and healthy
And I happy and ill
In the mirror behind you
The cars and people going down the street
Were going up the street

***
For my birthday you bought me a book
I read it with your eyes
Watching out for the parts in it
That you might appreciate
For me books are no more

***
There are people that hate us immensely
And others that love us well
I am used to that; you are not
I count only the second,
But you, only the first.

***
You are clairvoyant, you see the future better
Not I, I more clearly see the past
You think only of the past
I dream only of the future
Perhaps we all want what we do not have

***
A woman once foretold us
The future would not resemble the past
I do not believe in that prophecy
On your parasol I wrote
All the lovely days of our past
All the gloomy days of our past
You wrote onto my umbrella
You do not believe that prophecy either

***
An ancient man once wrote
I cannot live with you or without you
When I read that I said
How beautifully this is put
Today I could not care less how it is put
Now I know it to be true

***
In youth the body is before the spirit
In old age the spirit is before the body
I know that both in work and in love
I seized the moment
When the spirit and body were equal
And now it is as it must be

***
You were young, beautiful and talented
I was happy because of your talent
You were unhappy because of my talent
Which left no time for the two of us
While I thought that talent did not count the years

***
I said that books are our children
When they are ready they will spread their wings and fly
When that happened our children spread their wings and flew
When that happened our books spread their wings and flew
Now our house is without the mortar that binds

***
A Russian man says that time
Stands still in matter and flows in energy
I think that our Now, our life
Is born at the intersection of eternity and time
You say that only for four more years
You will be able to wear pretty dresses

[Threetrees]

Nice, Dante Amaral. You made me sentimental once again over years. Looking back into my past, I would say now that this is a necessary suffering. It's the movement of man to the Sense. Through love. No other way. I used to read Iris Murdoch as well. I started my early career and fell madly in love with a co-worker at the time, and I was reading Iris Murdoch's "The Sandcastle". Coincidence. A novel that added to my feelings then. The relationships were the same as in the novel, more or less. With the exception that I had the novel inside and she - my love - had it not. What's interesting (now I'm sure of it) that we somehow project our relationships (any) in life into books (memories) and vice versa. At the time I wanted to be moved in the same way as in 'The Sandcastle'. Perhaps, I still do want to repeat it.

Several principal excerpts (scanned by me from original). I hope you'll understand after thoughtful and thorough reading why I insert them:

‘I’m sorry, Mr Staveley,’ said Mor, ‘I’ve said nothing
to the purpose. Let me try again. You say surely
freedom is a virtue — and I hesitate to accept this
phrase. Let me explain why. To begin with, as I was
saying in my talk this evening, freedom needs to be
defined. If by freedom we mean absence of external
restraint, then we may call a man lucky for being
free — but why should we call him good? If, on the
other hand, by freedom we mean self-discipline,
which dominates selfish desires, then indeed we
may call a free man virtuous. But, as we know, this
more refined conception of freedom can also play a
dangerous role in politics. It may be used to justify
the tyranny of people who think themselves to be
the enlightened ones. Whereas the notion of free-
dom which I’m sure Mr Staveley has in mind, the
freedom which inspired the great Liberal leaders of
the last century, is political freedom, the absence of
tyranny. This is the condition of virtue, and to
strive for it is a virtue. But it is not itself a virtue. To
call mere absence of restraint or mere kicking over
the traces and flouting of conventions a virtue is to
be simply romantic.’
Well, what’s wrong with being romantic?‘ said Mr
Staveley obstinately. ’Let’s have “romantic”
defined, since you’re so keen on definitions.‘
‘Surely, isn’t love the chief virtue?’ said a lady sit-
ting near the front, and turning round to look at Mr
Staveley. ‘Or does Mr Staveley think that the New
Testament is out of date?’
I’ve failed again, thought Mor, with the feeling of
one who has brought the horse round the field a
second time only for it to shy once more at the
jump. He felt very tired and the words did not come
easily. But he was prepared to go on trying.
‘Let’s leave “romantic”,’ he said, and stick to one
thing at a time. Let me start again — ‘
‘I’m afraid,’ said Tim Burke, ‘that it is time to bring
this stimulating session to a close.’
Confound him, thought Mor. He’s ending early be-
cause he wants to talk to me about that other mat-
ter. Mor sat down. He felt defeated. He could see
Mr Staveley shaking his head and saying something
in an undertone to his neighbour.
__________________________________________________ _________

‘Well, you’d better stay behind afterwards and talk
to me about it,’ said Mor. ‘Our time’s nearly up.
Could somebody finish translating? Carde, what
about you, could you do the last six lines for us?’
Carde sat quietly looking at the poem. He was a
good performer, and he was in no hurry. Carde was
efficient, and Mor respected efficiency. In the mo-
ment of renewed silence he looked again at the
poem. He had chosen it for them that morning as a
piece of prepared translation. Perhaps after all it
was too hard. Perhaps also not quite suitable. His
eye passed over the lines.

Tu modo, dum lucet, fructum ne desere vitae.
Omnia si dederis oscula, pauca dabis.
Ac veluti folia arentes liquere corollas,
Quae passim calathis strata natare vides,
Sic nobis, qui nunc magnum speramus amantes
Forsitan includet aastina fata dies.

Carde cleared his throat.
‘Yes?’ said Mor. He looked at his watch. He saw
that the period was nearly ended, and a slight feel-
ing of uneasiness came over him.
‘While the light remains,’ said Carde, speaking
slowly in his high deliberate voice, ‘only do not for-
sake the joy of life. If you shall have given all your
kisses, you will give too few. And as leaves fall from
withered wreaths which you may see spread upon
the cups and floating there, so for us, who now as
lovers hope for so much, perhaps tomorrow’s day
will close the doom.’
‘Yes,’ said Mor, ‘yes. Very nice, Carde. Thank you.

__________________________________________________ _____


Mor walked very slowly back down the platform.
He gave up his platform ticket. He came out into
the sun and stood still in the dusty deserted station
yard, which was quite silent now that the roar of
the train had died away into the distance. Mor
stood there, arrested by some obscure feeling of
pleasure, and somehow in the quietness of the
morning he apprehended that there were many
many things to be glad about. He waited. Then
from the very depths of his being the knowledge
came to him, suddenly and with devastating cer-
tainty. He was in love with Miss Carter. He stood
there looking at the dusty ground and the thought
that had taken shape shook him so that he nearly
fell. He took a step forward. He was in love. And if
in love then not just a little in love, but terribly,
desperately, needfully in love. With this there came
an inexpressibly violent sense of joy. Mor still stood
there quietly looking at the ground; but now he felt
that the world had started to rotate about him with
a gathering pace and he was at the centre of its
movement.
Mor drew in a deep breath and smiled down at the
dry earth below him, swaying slightly on his heels. I
must be mad, he thought, smiling. The words
formed, and were swept upward like leaves in a fur-
nace. He walked slowly across the station yard to
the wooden gate. He caressed the wood of the gate.
It was dry flaky wood, warm in the sun, beautiful.
Mor picked splinters off it. He could not stop smil-
ing. I must be mad, he thought, whatever shall I
do? Then he thought, I must see Miss Carter at
once. When I see her I shall know what to do. Then
I shall know what this state of mind is and what to
do about it. I shall know then, when I see her.
When I see her.
He left the station yard at a run and began to run
along the road towards the school. It was a long
way. The hot sun struck him on the brow with re-
peated blows, and the warm air refused to refresh
his lungs. He ran on, painting and gasping. He
must get to his bicycle, which was in the shed in the
masters’ garden. His desire to see Miss Carter was
now so violent it was become an extra quite physic-
al agony, apart from the straining of his lungs and
the aching of his muscles. He kept on running. The
school was in sight now. An agonizing stitch made
him slow down to walking pace. The pain of his
anxiety shaped his face into a cry and his breath
came in an audible whine. He turned into the drive
and managed to run again as far as the bicycle-
shed.
__________________________________________________ _______

He was, in particular, astonished that he could have
let himself be so moved and softened merely by
putting to himself the idea that he was in love. It
seemed almost as if this phrase in itself had done
the damage. Yet he knew perfectly that the notion
of being in love, which was all very well for boys in
their twenties, could have no possible place in his
life. Mor took seriously the obligations imposed by
matrimony. At least he supposed he did. He had
never really had occasion to reflect on the matter.
He had always been scrupulously responsible and
serious in everything that related to his wife and
children. But it was not so much considerations
such as these which made him feel that he had ac-
ted wrongly. It was simply the non-existence in his
life, as it solidly and in reality was, of any place for
an emotion or a drama of this kind. When he had
imagined himself to be swayed by an overwhelming
passion he had been a man in a dream. Now he had
awakened from the dream.
_____________________________________________

He was in a terrible fix. He had behaved
wrongly and he had involved another person in his
wrong behaviour. All this would have to be sorted
out. But just at this very moment there was an oasis
of calm. He had caught her, he had brought her
back, she lay there before him, she was not going
away at once, he would not let her. Then deep with-
in he felt again the joy which he had felt in the first
day when he had looked at the flaky wood of the
station gate. He loved her.
Mor turned and looked at Rain. She was looking at
him. He knew that there must be a sort of triumph
in his face. He let her read it there. She began shak-
ing her head. ‘Mor,’ she said, ‘this is wrong.’
‘Rain,’ said Mor, ‘did you want to come?’
‘Of course I wanted to come,’ she said. ‘I wanted
very very much to come. But I oughtn’t to have
done. If I’d really willed not to come, if I’d felt
clearly enough how bad it was, I wouldn’t have run
the risk of delivering the letter-I would simply not
have appeared. But I couldn’t bear the thought of
your waiting and waiting.’
‘You wanted to come!’ said Mor. He could hardly
believe it. ‘Will you have some brandy or some
white wine?’ he said. What he wanted now was a
moment of quiet.
‘I’ll have brandy,’ said Rain. She sat up on the sofa,
running her hands nervously through her dark
hair. It ruffled jaggedly around her face. The rain
was coming down fast now. Its drumming in-
creased in an alarming crescendo. Then there was a
flash and a deafening crack of thunder. They re-
mained immobile looking at each other.
‘Yes,’ said Mor, ‘I think I’ll have some brandy too. I
feel a bit shaken after all this.’ The air was growing
perceptibly cooler. The drumming continued. Mor
turned on an electric fire.
He came and knelt on the floor beside the sofa.
‘Dear darling,’ he said. He looked upon her with
amazement, with incredulity. ‘How is it,’ he said,
‘that you could possibly have wanted to come. That
amazes me. How could you want to see me?’ He
touched her hair.
Rain took the glass from his hand and laid it upon
the floor. Then she threw both arms about his neck
and drew him down until his head lay upon her
breast. She held him close, caressing his hair. Mor
lay still. A deep peace and joy was in him. He could
have died thus. For a long time they lay quiet. The
thunder rumbled overhead and the rain came down
steadily.
At last Mor lifted his head and began to kiss her.
She returned his kisses with an equal fierceness,
her hands locked behind his neck, drawing his head
back towards her. When they were sated with kiss-
ing, they lay, their faces very close, regarding each
other.
‘When did you begin,’ said Rain, ‘to feel like this?’
Mor considered. ‘I think the very beginning,’ he
said, ‘was when you took my hand on the steps
leading up to the rose garden. Do you remember?
The very first evening we met. I was so terribly
moved that you took my hand. But I didn’t realize
properly that I was in love till the day when I found
you in the wood, when the boys were drawing you.
Oh, Rain, I looked for you so hard that day, it was
agony.’
She stroked his face, her eyes burning with tender-
ness. ‘That was a marvel,’ she said. ‘You came and
released me from a spell.’
‘When did you first,’ said Mor — he could not find
the words - ‘notice me at all?’
‘Dear Mor,’ said Rain, laughing at him, ‘I think it
was when I was drawing you at Demoyte’s house
that it first occurred to me that perhaps I was - fall-
ing in love.’
It stunned Mor to hear her utter these words. He
looked at her open-mouthed. ‘This is all beyond
me!’ he said.
Rain laughed again, a deep loose joyful laugh that
was close to tears. ‘That was why I went to bed
early,’ she said, ‘and why I wouldn’t show you the
sketch. I thought you would certainly be able to
read in it what I was beginning to feel.’
‘Will you give me the sketch?’ said Mor.
‘I want to keep it!’ she said, ‘but I’ll let you see it.’
‘Rain,’ said Mor, ‘it was such torment these last few
days. I wanted to see you so much.’ He realized as
he spoke that the torment had only not been unen-
durable because he had suspected in his heart that
he would see her again.
‘I know,’ said Rain, ‘I too - I’ve thought of nothing
else. I knew I oughtn’t to go to that cricket match. I
stayed away all the morning and the beginning of
the afternoon. But then I couldn’t bear it, I had to
come.’
Mor felt, it is fate, it is not our will. We have both
struggled against it. But it has been too strong. As
he thought this, he answered himself. No, it is our
will. And with this came a great sense of vigour and
power. He took her triumphantly in his arms.
‘Mor,’ Rain said, murmuring into his ear, ‘Mor, we
cannot do this, we are behaving like mad people.’
Mor heard her, and her words moved in his head,
becoming his own thought. It was a searingly pain-
ful thought. He continued to hold her close to him.
Such pain could not be endured; and if it could not
be endured, then there must be some way to avoid
it.
‘We have no future,’ said Rain.
He felt her tears upon his cheek. She is brave, he
thought. She says this so soon. I would have waited.
He held her and went on thinking.
‘Mor,’ said Rain, ‘please speak.’
‘Dear heart,’ said Mor. He sat back on his heels.
The brandy was untasted beside him. He drank
some of it. Rain sipped hers. He felt as if they were
adrift together. A world of appalling desolation sur-
rounded them. But at least at this moment they
were together. The brandy was putting courage into
him. He could not, he would not, let her go. Yet
there was no way.
‘I don’t know what to do,’ said Mor, ‘but I want to
go on seeing you.’ Once he had said this clearly, he
felt better.
Rain was silent. ‘I know,’ she said at last, ‘that I
ought to say no to that, but I can’t. If you want to
see me, I shall see you. But we are mad.’
Mor felt profound relief. ‘It can’t be,’ he said, ‘that
you really love me. You must try to find out your
real feelings. Let us have a little time at least for
these things to become clear.’ As he said this he felt
much better. Here was something rational to hold
on to. The situation was not yet quite clear. Perhaps
Rain didn’t really love him - and if not there was no
problem, or at least not the same problem. They
must wait a while to see what their real feelings
were - and during that time they must quietly en-
counter each other, patiently waiting.
‘Do not deceive yourself,’ said Rain. ‘If our feelings
are not clear now, they will never be clear. If there
is something called being in love, then we are in
love.’
My God, what honesty, thought Mor. But he did not
want her to lead him into a place from which there
was no issue. He countered at once. ‘All right, call it
so - though how you can love me is still a mystery.
But if it’s granted that we do see each other again,
then at least nothing can be decided at once. We
must wait a while. I feel far too confused to make
any decision - except the one that we’ve made.’
Rain was sitting up in his embrace. She had emp-
tied her glass of brandy. ‘Mor,’ she said with a wail
in her voice, ‘what is there to be decided? You are
married. You are not going to leave your wife - and
really there is nothing more to be said. We may see
each other again - but in the end I shall have to go.’
She hid her face in his shoulder.
__________________________________________________ ____________

Oh, no. I can't copy the whole book. Unfortunately. Though it worths it.*
Nice to meet you, a good man from China. Thanks for your relevant contribution and turning me into sentimental memories. TT

[Threetrees]

Something pushed me to explore the Chinese philosophy of love after the recent post. Yesterday when spending the time with the colleagues of mine I asked a Chinese who was there why Chinese literature was so taciturn in the matters of love. He seemed to be a bit embarrassed with such an unexpected question. I tried to help him by stating that, as far as I came to know, "love" was specific notion within a culture of China.

Wikipedia quote:



Two philosophical underpinnings of love exist in the Chinese tradition, one from Confucianism which emphasized actions and duty while the other came from Mohism which championed a universal love. A core concept to Confucianism is Ren ("benevolent love", 仁), which focuses on duty, action and attitude in a relationship rather than love itself. In Confucianism, one displays benevolent love by performing actions such as filial piety from children, kindness from parent, loyalty to the king and so forth.

The concept of Ai (愛) was developed by the Chinese philosopher Mozi in the 4th century BC in reaction to Confucianism's benevolent love. Mozi tried to replace what he considered to be the long-entrenched Chinese over-attachment to family and clan structures with the concept of "universal love" (jiān'ài, 兼愛). In this, he argued directly against Confucians who believed that it was natural and correct for people to care about different people in different degrees. Mozi, by contrast, believed people in principle should care for all people equally. Mohism stressed that rather than adopting different attitudes towards different people, love should be unconditional and offered to everyone without regard to reciprocation, not just to friends, family and other Confucian relations. Later in Chinese Buddhism, the term Ai (愛) was adopted to refer to a passionate caring love and was considered a fundamental desire. In Buddhism, Ai was seen as capable of being either selfish or selfless, the latter being a key element towards enlightenment.

In contemporary Chinese, Ai (愛) is often used as the equivalent of the Western concept of love. Ai is used as both a verb (e.g. wo ai ni 我愛你, or "I love you") and a noun (such as aiqing 愛情, or "romantic love"). However, due to the influence of Confucian Ren, the phrase ‘Wo ai ni’ (I love you) carries with it a very specific sense of responsibility, commitment and loyalty. Instead of frequently saying "I love you" as in some Western societies, the Chinese are more likely to express feelings of affection in a more casual way. Consequently, "I like you" (Wo xihuan ni, 我喜欢你) is a more common way of expressing affection in Chinese; it is more playful and less serious.[31] This is also true in Japanese (suki da, 好きだ). The Chinese are also more likely to say "I love you" in English or other foreign languages than they would in their mother tongue.

In many cultures they worship love. Chinese people (I may be wrong here) seem to see "love" more as "illusion".

Love Is to Make a Fire in the Snow
By Yan Yi

Love is where a fire is built in the snow,
When a lamp is made in the night,
And what for one to come to senses from dreams.
Such is love:
It is a support to prop up each other's life.

《爱是雪里造火》雁翼

爱是一种雪里造火
夜里造灯
梦里造醒,是
生命与生命的互相支撑

Or they talk of it not in the same, "passionate" way as we do, both in life and literature. Don't we? I pointed out that the core part and the bulk of Chinese philosophy concentrates in getting wisdom or craftsmanship. Love or passion is not there. Love of another kind is there. He agreed with me saying it was quite true. Then he asked me a piece of paper. I gave it without asking why. I immediately thought of a kind of a magic to be shown. In a minute or two, after manipulating with his hands below the desk he exhibited me... a heart, a casket in the shape of heart, a paper origami piece. "Made in China. Made with love." - he said smiling and presenting it to me. Oh, that was quite a trick.

[Threetrees]

I had an inspiration and want to share this piece of mine.

Veil Of the Noon.



I met her eyes. They were far enough from me. In the haze of the noon day. Just eyes. No other charming segments of the face, the feminine visage, were there. Only dark eyes, the sparkles. She stood behind the half-opened door as though waiting me to invite her to show. I couldn't say anything. They were coming... I didn't want to stop them...