It is a curious thing, the death of a loved one. We all know that our time in this world is limited, and that eventually all of us will end up underneath some sheet, never to wake up. And yet it is always a surprise when it happens to someone we know. It is like walking up the stairs to your bedroom in the dark, and thinking there is one more stair than there is. Your foot falls down, through the air, and there is a sickly moment of dark surprise as you try and readjust the way you thought of things.
-Listen. Suppose-
-Donapos;t suppose.
-suppose I made a mistake; and it was the mistake of my life. And suppose: O suppose-Iapos;m making it
-Youapos;re wrong, quite wrong. Itapos;s the mistake of my life.
-Is it?
-Yes.
-It may take two people to make a really beautiful mistake.
All my life Iapos;ve wondered if I am any good. If my head and my heart are made out of something firmer or more living than what I see everywhere covering itself with hats and with linen. --If all the capable and little and disgusting minds which, somehow, are responsible for the cities and the countries in which I exist, have not perhaps also manufactured this thing--this bundle of wishes--which I like to call "myself." If my arms dreams hands exist with an intensity of any other arms dreams hands....You cannot imagine how disagreeable it is to wonder--to look about you, at the eyes and the gestures which promenade themselves in streets and in houses, and to be afraid. To think: "Am I also one of these, a doll, living in a doll world, doomed to be undressed, dressed, spanked, kissed, put to bed?" You canapos;t imagine how disagreeable it is. Suppose that you spent your life buying a dress. Suppose that at last you found the precise and wonderful dress which you had dreamed of, and suppose that you bought it and put it on and walked in it everywhere and everywhere you saw thousands of people all of whom were wearing your dress.
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