And without understanding, could each properly love the other?
Anita BrooknerTag: love understanding
Good women always think it is their fault when someone else is being offensive. Bad women never take the blame for anything.
Anita BrooknerTag: women
My idea of absolute happiness is to sit in a hot garden all, reading, or writing, utterly safe in the knowledge that the person I love will come home to me in the evening. Every evening.'
'You are a romantic, Edith,' repeated Mr Neville, with a smile.
'It is you who are wrong,' she replied. 'I have been listening to that particular accusation for most of my life. I am not a romantic. I am a domestic animal. I do not sigh and yearn for extravagant displays of passion, for the grand affair, the world well lost for love. I know all that, and know that it leaves you lonely. No, what I crave is the simplicity of routine. An evening walk, arm in arm, in fine weather. A game of cards. Time for idle talk. Preparing a meal together.
I suppose what one wants really is ideal company and books are ideal company.
Anita BrooknerTag: words reading books literature
It was then that I saw the business of writing for what it truly was and is to me. It is your penance for not being lucky. It is an attempt to reach others and to make them love you. It is your instinctive protest, when you find you have no voice at the world's tribunals, and that no one will speak for you. I would give my entire output of words, past, present and to come, in exchange for easier access to the world, for permission to state "I hurt" or " I hate" or " I want". Or indeed, "Look at me". And I do not go back on this. For once a thing is known it can never be unknown. It can only be forgotten. And writing is the enemy of forgetfulness, or thoughtlessness. For the writer there is no oblivion. Only endless memory.
Anita BrooknerA woman owes it to herself to have pretty things. And if she feels good she looks good.
You are wrong if you think you cannot live without love.
I cannot live without it. I do not mean that I go into a decline, develop odd symptons, became a caricature. I mean that I cannot live well without it. I cannot think or act or speak or write or even dream with any kind of energy in the absence of love. I feel excluded from the living world. I become cold, fish-like, immobile. I implode. My idea of absolute happiness is to sit in a hot garden all day, reading or writing, utterly safe in the knowledge that the person I love will come home to me in the evening. Every evening. I am not a romantic. I am a domesticated animal. I do not sigh and yearn for extravagant displays of passion, for the grand affair, the world well lost for love. I know all that, and know that it leaves you lonely. No, what I crave is the simplicity of routine. An evening walk, arm in arm, in fine weather. A game of cards. Time for idle talk. Preparing a meal together.
Siz bir romantiksiniz, Edith," diyerek sözünü yineledi Mr.Neville gülümseyerek.
"Yanılan sizsiniz," diye yanıtladı Edith. "Ömrüm boyunca bu suçlamayı dinledim durdum.Romantik değilim ben.Ben, evcil bir hayvanım. Ahlayıp ohlayıp taşkın tutku gösterilerinin, büyük aşkların özlemini çekmiyorum, aşk için dünyayı hepten gözden çıkarmıyorum. Bütün bunları biliyorum ve bunun insanı yapayalnız bıraktığını da biliyorum. Hayır, benim can attığım şey rutin yaşamın yalınlığı. Güzel bir havada kol kola bir akşam yürüyüşü.Bir iskambil oyunu. Gevezelik etmek. Bir yemeği birlikte hazırlamak
Biliyor musunuz," dedi Edith, on dakika süren sessiz inişten sonra, "Şu gülümsemenizi birazcık sevimsiz buluyorum."
Mr. Neville'in gülümsemesi yüzüne daha da yayıldı. "Beni daha iyi tanıdığınızda," dedi, "Gülümseyişimin gerçekte ne kadar sevimsiz olduğunu anlayacaksınız.
Kavgalar tatlıya bağlanabilir, ama başkalarını mahcup düşürenler asla tümüyle unutulamaz.
Anita BrooknerTag: türkçe kavga mahcup unutma
They sat islanded in their foreignness, irrelevant now that the holiday season had ended, anachronistic, outstaying their welcome, no longer necessary to anyone's plans. Priorities had shifted; the little town was settling down for its long uninterrupted hibernation. No one came here in the winter. The weather was too bleak, the snow too distant, the amenities too sparse to tempt visitors. And they felt that the backs of the residents had been turned on them with a sigh of relief, reminding them of their transitory nature, their fundamental unreality. And when Monica at last succeeded in ordering coffee, they still sat, glumly, for another ten minutes, before the busy waitress remembered their order.
'Homesick,' said Edith finally. 'Yes.' But she thought of her little house as if it had existed in another life, another dimension. She thought of it as something to which she might never return. The seasons had changed since she last saw it; she was no longer the person who could sit up in bed in the early morning and let the sun warm her shoulders and the light make her impatient for the day to begin. That sun, that light had faded, and she had faded with them. Now she was as grey as the season itself. She bent her head over her coffee, trying to believe that it was the steam rising from the cup that was making her eyes prick. This cannot go on, she thought.
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