Love you… anxiously

Could it be that books mean to keep us together? You love “To Kill a Mockingbird” while I love “The Catcher in theRye.” You can be my Atticus Finch while I, Holden Caulfield, would kill everybody stupid in the world. You can be my counsel. We can escape this because insanity pleas non-guilt. Then we can be Boo Radleys in a larger house. Our world could rotate around this house while it revolves around our love, our lust, our passion.

Could it be that books mean to teach us love? You can be Lizzy Bennet and I Fitzwilliam, because that is exactly what I feel right now. I refuse to love you because contradicting my ideals injures my pride. You pale besides women I have ever loved but I love you more than I love all of them. For although I have Darcy’s pride, you haveElizabeth’s wit. Everything about you puzzles me and this is enough reason for me to grasp this alien emotion.

You say you are ugly but is not ugliness reflected on the picture of Dorian Gray. Should everybody have the same portrait, yours would be the most beautiful. You would not age a bit and your face will be as flawless as when you were a twelve-year-old girl reading Harry Potter under the shades of the old oak tree.

When I asked you to spend the rest of your life with me, I had hoped to elicit the same expectation Mrs. Havisham had. But you only smiled and that smile was nothing like hers. It was Jane’s. Had I disappointed that smile, I would have had a place in Dante’s Inferno with eyes shedding eternal tears and heart covered with scorching wounds.                                                                                                           

But literature only awakens desires and ideals. They have not bequeathed upon me guts and courage and so I am anxious to love you.