Jeanette Winterson

The most beguilingly seductive novel to date from the author of The Passion and Sexing the Cherry. Winterson chronicles the consuming affair between the narrator, who is given neither name nor gender, and the beloved, a complex and confused married woman.

“At once a love story and a philosophical meditation.” —New York Times Book Review.

Written on the Body

kemi

You are still the colour of my blood. You are my blood. When I look in the mirror it’s not my own face I see. Your body is twice.

Love it was that drove them forth. Love that brought them home again.

Telling the truth, she said, was a luxury we could not afford so lying became a virtue, an economy we had to practice.

I took them into the garden and burned them one by one and I thought how easy it is to destroy the past and how difficult to forget it

It's impressive what a few inches of flesh can catch.

Cheating is easy. There's no swank to infidelity. To borrow against the trust someone has placed in you costs nothing at first. You get away with it, you take a little more and a little more until there is no more to draw on. Oddly, your hands should be full with all that taking but when you open them there's nothing there.

💒lara

snatched the body and the body is gone. The day before the Wednesday last, this time a year ago, you were here and now you're not. Why not? Death reduces us to the baffled logic of a small child. If yesterday why not today? And where are you? 

Fragile creatures of a small blue planet, surrounded by light years of silent space. Do the dead find peace beyond the rattle of the world? What peace is there for us whose best love cannot return them even for a day? I raise my head to the door and think I will see you in the frame. I know it is your voice in the corridor but when I run outside the corridor is empty. There is nothing I can do that wll make any difference. The last word was yours. 

The fluttering in the stomach goes away and the dull waking pain. Sometimes I think of you and I feel giddy. Memory makes me lightheaded, drunk on champagne. All the things we did. And if anyone had said this was the price I would have agreed to pay it. That surprises me; that with the hurt and the mess comes a shaft of recognition. It was worth it. Love is worth it.

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