"I ought not to have listened to her," he confided to me one day.
"One never ought to listen to the flowers.
One should simply look at them and breathe their fragrance.
Mine perfumed all my planet.
But I did not know how to take pleasure in all her grace.
This tale of claws, which disturbed me so much, should only have filled my heart with tenderness and pity."
And he continued his confidences:
"The fact is that I did not know how to understand anything!
I ought to have judged by deeds and not by words.
She cast her fragrance and her radiance over me.
I ought never to have run away from her...
I ought to have guessed all the affection that lay behind her poor little stratagems.
Flowers are so inconsistent!
But I was too young to know how to love her …"
One time, when he was a child, in a power-failure, his mother had found and lit a last candle and there had been a brief hour of rediscovery, of such illumination that space lost its vast dimensions and drew comfortably around them, and they, mother and son, alone, transformed, hoping that the power might not come on again too soon....
I guess I could be pretty pissed of f about what happened to me... but it's hard to stay mad, when there's so much beauty in the world. Sometimes I feel like I'm seeing it all at once, and it's too much, my heart fills up like a balloon that's about to burst... And then I remember to relax, and stop trying to hold on to it, and then it flows through me like rain and I can't feel anything but gratitude for every single moment of my stupid little life...