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Ann and her husband, Hugh, sat in front of the empty fireplace, on the bare pumpkin pine floor. It was a Saturday night and they were together. I could see (and love) that perfect family while they went on and on with their evening without seeing me. My feelings were raw and tender, and I watched the Butterfields through the weave of their curtains with tears of true and helpless longing in my eyes. It was the agitated, snarling grief of a boy whose long rapturous story has not been understood. And on that thick and ordinary August night, I set fire to a house inside of which were the people I adored more than anyone else in the world, and whose home I valued more than the home of my parents.īefore I set fire to their house I was hidden on their big wooden semicircular porch, peering into their window. The lawns looked black and the trees looked blacker the headlights of the cars made me think of those brave lights the miners wear, up and down the choking shaft. But now, years have passed and the night of August 12, 1967, still divides my life.
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When I was seventeen and in full obedience to my heart’s most urgent commands, I stepped far from the pathway of normal life and in a moment’s time ruined everything I loved-I loved so deeply, and when the love was interrupted, when the incorporeal body of love shrank back in terror and my own body was locked away, it was hard for others to believe that a life so new could suffer so irrevocably. How could I think the brief years were enough To prove the reality of endless love? -DELMORE SCHWARTZ Part One I no more wrote than read that book which is The self I am, half-hidden as it is From one and all who see within a kiss The lounging formless blackness of an abyss