Each time we talk about things that can be experienced only in privacy or intimacy, we bring them out into a sphere where they will asume a kind of reality which, their intensity notwithstanding, they never could have before ( Hannah Arendt)
And in spite of these things when i think of leaving, my chest if full of stones.
Infatuation. First Love. Lust.
My passion can be explained away. But this is sure; whatever she touches, she reveals. ( Winterson)
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If as Theodore Zeldin argue, ‘what we make of other people, and what we see in the mirror when we look at ourselves, depends on what we know of the world, what we believe to be possible, what memories we have, and whether our loyalties are to the past, the present or the future’ then Winterson’s novel The Passion explores the conflictual and self-betraying terroritory of intimacy.
Her. A person who is not me….
My passion for her, even though she could never return it, showed the difference betwen inventing a lover and falling in love.
The one is about you, the other about someone else.
Henri’s epiphany has the exhausted crystalline quality of truth. His ‘rock’ has allowed him a place from which to anchor himself to revelation. Perhaps from this revelation he can grow. Perhaps.