Written on the body...

"Love demands expression. It will not stay still, stay silent, be good, be modest, be seen and
not heard,no. It will break out in tongues of praise, the high note that smashes the glass and
spills the liquid. It is no conversationalist love. It is a big game hunter and you are the game A curse on this game. How can you stick at a game when the rules keep changing? I call myself
Alice and play croquet with the flamingos. In wonderland everyone cheats and love is
wonderland, isn't it? Love makes the world go round. Love is blind. All you need is love. Nobody ever died of a broken heart, You'll get over it. It'll be different when we're married. Think of
the children Time's a great healer. Still waiting for Mr Right? Miss Right? and maybe all the
little Rights?
Its the cliches that cause the trouble. A precise emotion seeks a precise expression. If what I feel is not precise then should call I love? It is so terrifying, love, and all I can do is
shove is under a dump bin of pink cuddly toys and send myself a greeting card
saying"Congratulations on your Engagement". But I'm not engaged. I'm deeply distracted.I am desperately looking the other way so that love won't see me. I want the diluted version, the sloppy language, the insignificant gestures. The saggy armchair of cliches. It's all right, millions of bottoms have sat here before me. The springs are well worn, the fabric smelly and familiar. I don't have to be frightened, look. my grandma and grandad did it, now I will do it won't I, arms outstretched, not to hold you, just to keep my balance, sleepwalking to that armchair. How happy we will be. How happy everyone will be. And they all lived happily ever after. "


"You'll get over it..." It's the cliches that cause the trouble. To lose someone you love is
to alter your life forever. You don't get over it, because 'it' is the person you loved.the pain
stops, there are new people, but the gap never closes. How could it? The particular-ness of
someone who mattered enough to grieve over is not made anodyne by death. This hole in my heart is in the shape no one else can fit in. Why would I want them to ?
I've thought a lot about death recently, the finality of it, the argument ending in mid-air.
one of us hadn't finished, why did the other one go? And why without warning? even death after long illness is without warning. The moment you had prepared for so carefully took you by storm. The troops broke through the window and snatched the body and the body is gone. The day before the Wednesday last, this time a year ago, you were here and now you're not. Why not? Death reduces us to the baffled logic of a small child. If yesterday why not today? And where are you?
Fragile creatures of a small blue planet, surrounded by light years of silent space. Do the dead
find peace beyond the rattle of the world? What peace is there for us whose best love cannot
return them even for a day? I raise my head to the door and think I will see you in the frame. I
know it is your voice in the corridor but when I run outside, the corridor is empty. There is
nothing I can do that will make any difference. The last word was yours.
The fluttering in the stomach goes away and the dull waking pain. Sometimes I think of you and
I feel giddy. Memory makes me lightheaded, drunk on champagne.All the things we did. And if
anyone had said this was the price I would have agreed to pay it. That surprises me; that with the hurt and the mess comes a shaft of recognition. It was worth it. Love is worth it."



"I miss you Louise. Many waters cannot quench love, neither can floods drown it. What then kills love? Only this: Neglect. Not to see you when you stand before me. Not to think of you in the little things. Not to make the road wide for you, the table spread for you. To choose you out
of habit not desire, to pass the flower seller without a thought. To leave the dishes unwashed,
the bed unmade, to ignore you in the mornings, make use of you at night. To crave another while pecking your cheek. To say your name without hearing it, to assume it is mine to call. "





"I've hidden those words in the lining of my coat. I take them out like a jewel thief when no one's watching. They haven't faded. Nothing about you has faded. You are still the color of my blood. You are my blood. When I look in the mirror, it's not my own face I see. Your body is twice. Once you once me. Can I be sure which is which."

Excerpts from "Written On The Body" by Jeannette Winterson.