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Loving
and being loved is unliterary…
Henry
: I don't know how to write love. I try to write it properly, and it just
comes out embarrassing. It's either childish or it's rude. And the rude
bits are absolutely juvenile. I can't use any of it. My credibility is
hanging by a thread after Desert Island Discs. Anyway I'm too prudish.
Perhaps I should write it completely artificial. Blank verse. Poetic imagery.
Not so much of the 'Will you still love me when my tits are droopy?' 'Of
course I will darling, it's your bum I'm mad for', and more of the 'By
my troth, thy beauty makest the moon hide her radiance', do you think?
Annie
: Not really, no.
Henry
: No. Not really. I don't know. Loving and being loved is unliterary. It's
happiness expressed in banality and lust.
I love love…
On why he feels no jealousy
towards a young actor flirting with Annie.
It's because I feel superior.
There he is, poor bugger, picking up the odd crumb of earwax from the rich
man's table. You're right. I don't mind. I like it. I like the way his
presumption admits his poverty. I like him, knowing that that's all there
is, because you're coming home to me and we don't want anyone else.
I love love. I love having
a lover and being one. The insularity of passion. I love it. I love the
way it blurs the distinction between everyone who isn't one's lover.
Only two kinds of presence
in the world. There's you and there's them.
I love you so. |
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