“I can’t say it is love I have to offer—and it isn’t love I want. It is something much more impersonal and harder—and rarer.”
There was a silence, out of which she said:
“You mean you don’t love me?”
She suffered furiously, saying that.
“Yes, if you like to put it like that. Though perhaps that isn’t true. I don’t know. At any rate, I don’t feel the emotion of love for you—no, and I don’t want to. Because it gives out in the last issues.”
“Love gives out in the last issues?” she asked, feeling numb to the lips.
“Yes, it does. At the very last, one is alone, beyond the influence of love. There is a real impersonal me, that is beyond love, beyond any emotional relationship. So it is with you. But we want to delude ourselves that love is the root. It isn’t. It is only the branches. The root is beyond love, a naked kind of isolation, an isolated me, that does not meet and mingle, and never can.”
She watched him with wide, troubled eyes. His face was incandescent in its abstract earnestness.
“And you mean you can’t love?” she asked, in trepidation.
“Yes, if you like. I have loved. But there is a beyond, where there is not love.”