Emsky

The sun is shining, and yet to shine so brightly is oddly, little appreciated in art. The wind blows softly through the window, and through the yellow flowers of the fields and I know the boy who’s knows them well, but I can’t see him. And when we were younger, sitting in it, towering over our heads and nibbling flowers – the wrong one’s would have killed us – but he knew, silently, which ones were which.

Where is the knowledge of distinction gone? I come to find I cannot tell anymore. What are the people? The attracted or the attractive? The foolish or the martyred? A good friend or a used friend? The truth or a facade?
And yet each one seems as likely as the other.

I apologise, for being on rocky ground – but hell, why should I apologise for that? I need to know…

In A Month in the Country, Birkin’s wife is constantly leaving him. She always comes back though. Should he always wait for that beguiling, transient woman to come back from her flirtations with every other man? Why does he always know that she’ll be back? Why does he even let her? Everyone knows, it breaks his heart.