But if I had also been told: "A day will come when you will have nothing more to learn of each other, nothing more to tell each other; without mutual explanations you will understand everything," I should have denied the possibility. I should have cried out that a whole century wouldn't be enough to bring two human beings into harmony, because human beings change from second to second. I should have said it was blasphemy.
But the day did come.
There is a region of soft azure outlines where words have been extinguished. He exists and I exist.
It is a little green arbor where nothing, in short, binds us together, neither the flaming leafage, nor the smell of invisible murmuring water, nor the languishing hour; neither the nights past and gone, nor the days to come, nor the little child asleep at home in his cradle. If anything binds us together, it is the freedom that each of us has found, nothing else.
One must never say "This is love," for love is the heaven that the heart has in prospect, and the whole of space is yet to be traversed.... It is an immense feeling which speaks and impels you and is made up of certainty and clearness.
I am sure of him.
He might see a weapon of crime in my hands—or at least some symbolic weapon, something he holds a crime—without a shrug of his shoulders. Remembering that my tenderness is unfailing, he would say to me "all right," then he would come to me to find out why what I was doing was right.
And he is sure of me. He could leave us, his hearth, his love, his child, without so much as a glance back. I should merely say: "He had to go, he must submit to our love, and go his own way. That is how we love each other."
A moment at the foot of a hill, a great moment, so welcoming, so stable, and so peaceful that it is like an open doorway before which you must commune with yourself before entering. Two years gone by. Before me the rest of my life.