This marriage with her was his
resurrection and his life.
All this she could not know. She wanted to be made much of, to be
adored. There were infinite distances of silence between them. How
could he tell her of the immanence of her beauty, that was not form, or
weight, or colour, but something like a strange, golden light! How
could he know himself what her beauty lay in, for him. He said 'Your
nose is beautiful, your chin is adorable.' But it sounded like lies,
and she was disappointed, hurt. Even when he said, whispering with
truth, 'I love you, I love you,' it was not the real truth. It was
something beyond love, such a gladness of having surpassed oneself, of
having transcended the old existence. How could he say "I" when he was
something new and unknown, not himself at all? This I, this old formula
of the age, was a dead letter.
In the new, superfine bliss, a peace superseding knowledge, there was
no I and you, there was only the third, unrealised wonder, the wonder
of existing not as oneself, but in a consummation of my being and of
her being in a new one, a new, paradisal unit regained from the
duality.
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