No Letter Came

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The narrator reflects on the loss of true love in the form of Katharine who no longer loves him. He is very unwell but doesn't realise just how sick he is.

      And it was through such hours of unhappiness, such descents into despair, that I lived and fell, awaiting a letter or no letter.

      And no letter came.

      The nights have become cold and the days are shortening. It is all over.

      I often find myself thinking how frail is Katharine’s world that is so intriguingly built upon games and stratagems, and how, like many created worlds, its fragility is a fibre of spun silk.

     

      On the occasions when I tore up my letters to Kathy (which she valued more than me), on the occasions when, because of my violent, bullying persistence upon a certain “truth”, my dear heart’s whole world fell, she became more desolate, more forlorn, more forsaken, than the most innocent of souls, newly arrived in the paradise of God’s dream, finding itself spurned, twisted to death, and driven below to hell and hell’s fury. Reduced, she would try to beat me around the face and head though sinking away with all her effort and will removed.

      And though I may seem so sure of so much as this novel progresses, I have only the frailest of patterns to work upon, the quiet of disintegrating scents, and I know myself to be violent, unpleasant, and acid most of the time, and sore with a fester of sickness.

      I bear Insecurity, Uncertainty, and Hesitancy great malice and will go to any lengths to turf them out if they grow gluttonous in the gutters of my brain, though I know they gorge there, and I am wild with grief if they dream pleasantly in the soft lap of my love, in the unfolding petals and shadows and fretting shadows of pain and delight.

      In releasing me, Katharine left me alone in a garden of memories, in a garden so variegated, so full of so many blossoms of pleasure and pain, so many fretted and intertwining branches and leafy shades, so open to the fire of storms or the lull of a single summer’s day, patchworked by so many different skies, laced with the frailest of twigs, the cruellest of petals, so many different chances and changes of strange chance-change, chains and glittering glints of hard stone, petals and pebbles, patterns gritted with pain, paths and places, ascents into air, she left me with so many wearying, worrying, wild, and fantastic thoughts, so many mountainous streams, riverine lands, so many promises broken in the joining of hands, that my mind, through winnows  of weariness and caskets of scents, unlocked and unlocked in a search of unceasing ceaselessness, unhappiness wording those formidable, tremulous and tremendous days.

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