“But you have left out the selves; you won’t get love without them. And as for rest and peace—Love is made by difference, so that as long as there is love there must be restlessness.”
“Isn’t it made by sameness?” Gavan asked.
“No, by incompleteness: one loves what could complete oneself and what one could complete; or so it seems to me.”
“And as long as there are selves, will there be suffering, too?”
Her eyes met his thought fearlessly.
“That question, I am sure, is the basis for all the religions of cowardice, religions that deny life because of their craving for peace.”
“Isn’t the craving for peace as legitimate as the craving for life?”
“Nothing that denies life can be legitimate. Life is the one arbitrator. And restlessness need not mean suffering. A symphony is all restlessness—a restlessness made by difference in harmony; forgive the well-worn metaphor, but it is a good one. And, suppose that it did mean suffering, all of it. Isn’t it worth it?” Her eyes measured him, not in challenge, but quietly.
“What a lover of life you are,” he said. It was like seeing him go into his house and, not hastily, but very firmly, shut the door. And as if, rather rudely, she hurled a stone at the shut door, she asked, “Do you love anything?”
He smiled. “Please don’t quarrel with me.”