Posted:
The following words have been written by the writer of Lolita, but reading then made me feel like this is what Neil must have written to Ragini once. Let me know what you feel
I won't hide it: I'm so unused to being " well, understood, perhaps, " so unused to it, that in the very first minutes of our meeting I thought: this is a joke... But then... And there are things that are hard to talk about " you'll rub off their marvelous pollen at the touch of a word... You are lovely...
Yes, I need you, my fairy-tale. Because you are the only person I can talk with about the shade of a cloud, about the song of a thought " and about how, when I went out to work today and looked a tall sunflower in the face, it smiled at me with all of its seeds.
See you soon my strange joy, my tender night.
How can I explain to you, my happiness, my golden wonderful happiness, how much I am all yours " with all my memories, poems, outbursts, inner whirlwinds? Or explain that I cannot write a word without hearing how you will pronounce it " and can't recall a single trifle I've lived through without regret " so sharp! " that we haven't lived through it together " whether it's the most, the most personal, intransmissible " or only some sunset or other at the bend of a road " you see what I mean, my happiness?
And I know: I can't tell you anything in words " and when I do on the phone then it comes out completely wrong. Because with you one needs to talk wonderfully, the way we talk with people long gone... in terms of purity and lightness and spiritual precision... You can be bruised by an ugly diminutive " because you are so absolutely resonant " like seawater, my lovely.
I swear " and the inkblot has nothing to do with it " I swear by all that's dear to me, all I believe in " I swear that I have never loved before as I love you, " with such tenderness " to the point of tears " and with such a sense of radiance.
I won't hide it: I'm so unused to being " well, understood, perhaps, " so unused to it, that in the very first minutes of our meeting I thought: this is a joke... But then... And there are things that are hard to talk about " you'll rub off their marvelous pollen at the touch of a word... You are lovely...
Yes, I need you, my fairy-tale. Because you are the only person I can talk with about the shade of a cloud, about the song of a thought " and about how, when I went out to work today and looked a tall sunflower in the face, it smiled at me with all of its seeds.
See you soon my strange joy, my tender night.
How can I explain to you, my happiness, my golden wonderful happiness, how much I am all yours " with all my memories, poems, outbursts, inner whirlwinds? Or explain that I cannot write a word without hearing how you will pronounce it " and can't recall a single trifle I've lived through without regret " so sharp! " that we haven't lived through it together " whether it's the most, the most personal, intransmissible " or only some sunset or other at the bend of a road " you see what I mean, my happiness?
And I know: I can't tell you anything in words " and when I do on the phone then it comes out completely wrong. Because with you one needs to talk wonderfully, the way we talk with people long gone... in terms of purity and lightness and spiritual precision... You can be bruised by an ugly diminutive " because you are so absolutely resonant " like seawater, my lovely.
I swear " and the inkblot has nothing to do with it " I swear by all that's dear to me, all I believe in " I swear that I have never loved before as I love you, " with such tenderness " to the point of tears " and with such a sense of radiance.
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