‘…a soul as stout and noble as yours knows only too well the condition God has given to us from birth, to try with pointless longing to resist the necessity of his law. And although we cannot submit ourselves to God’s law without some pain, I value love so highly that I think whatever we go through for the sake of it is pleasant – so much so that even those who are ready to die for the good of those they love seem to me to be happy to their last breath.’

René Descartes, letter to Huygens, 20th May 1637

Guilt? Regret? Was he ashamed? Ashamed of himself, ashamed of me…of Francine? Everything I thought I knew of us began to unravel – a thread pulled back to the beginning, a story taken back to the first line. He said he wanted us. Said he could not be a month without me. His letters – he had written of love. I rested my head against the wall and closed my eyes. Words. Words he had never sent; words he had not wanted me to see. Words were what he was good at. He could present whatever face he wanted to the world. Love? The word thickened in my throat.

Sand, The Words in my Hand

 
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