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Authors: John D. Casey
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may be wrong, but it seems to me now you may be trying out your feelings—I remember very well how strong and confusing these growing-up feelings can be—and I certainly don’t want to hurt your feelings, but I don’t want you to be hurt by your own feelings either. And I’m afraid that they may have been getting …” She squeezed her lips together and turned the palm of one hand up.
I interrupted. “I’m not ‘trying out’ feelings. I’m writing about—”
Josie said, “Well, yes. But when you write this—it’s really very good, you know—when you write this:
‘His fingertips that brush the pale marmoreal skin
Burn suddenly with fleshly fire
And change the touch that had been dreaded sin
To higher right and better law—Desire!’
Well, all I can think is that it wouldn’t really be like that in real life—”
“It would,” I said. “It would because—”
“Oliver,” she said, cautioning me.
“It’s you!” I said.
I felt that this revelation would undo her. I had seen her nerves. But behind her nerves she was horribly self-possessed. I realized a little later that she’d been prepared for any declaration I had the power to make.
She said, “I know you’re so sweet that I just can’t be cross. But you really shouldn’t let yourself get carried away.…”
While she was talking I considered what else I could do. I had another poem, but that was out. It went further in someways—it was a shipwreck poem, in which only two reach a desert shore. I also knew that now I was much less interested in long-term love—I had come to see several flaws in her in the last minute—but I was all the more interested in a real kiss.
Josie said, “Real feelings are much more complicated—the feelings a woman has for a man have to do with so many more emotions.… There has to be more or there really just isn’t real feeling at all.”
That was certainly the catechism of the fifties. I believed it. I believed she believed it and that she was right to believe it. In fact, the most complicated parts of my imagining were not the physical setting (loose togas, storm-tattered skirt, etc.); they were rather the array of other emotions I devised for her to feel for me: gratitude, pity, amusement, curiosity—even family loyalty. I always imagined at least a half dozen concurrent feelings to shore up the plausibility of her one giddy spark of dangerous affection. So I was irritated when she told
me
: “Real feelings are much more complicated.”
Irritated, but helpless. Because while she’d been talking I’d had to admit to myself that I didn’t have the courage to try to kiss her. I was as tall as she was, but I was thin and I had the terrible feeling that she was stronger than I was.
It had also crossed my mind to tell her either that I was so miserable that I was going to leave school for good or that one of the masters had tried to seduce me and that I was in desperate need of reassurance. I wasn’t sure why I couldn’t try these tacks; I just knew I couldn’t.
I said, “Give me back the poem.”
She handed it to me and I tore it up.
She said, “Oh, Ollie.”
I said, “Don’t call me that.”
She pushed herself up from the desk. Our eyes were on the same level. I suddenly began to move toward her, some small wish in me suddenly swimming hard, leaping and plunging upstream into her look. But there was no real force in the rest ofme; I was just weakly staggering. She put her arms out. I took another dizzy step, my eyes blindly on hers. She caught me by the shoulders and held me at arms’ length.
Then I realized she was looking at me with pleasure—a mild, completely controlled pleasure.
She said, “You really are so sweet. What am I going to do with you? Believe me, if I were a girl your age I really don’t know what—” She squeezed my shoulders, picked up her pocketbook, and left. I don’t believe she knew exactly what she was doing, but she had done it neatly. When she
I interrupted. “I’m not ‘trying out’ feelings. I’m writing about—”
Josie said, “Well, yes. But when you write this—it’s really very good, you know—when you write this:
‘His fingertips that brush the pale marmoreal skin
Burn suddenly with fleshly fire
And change the touch that had been dreaded sin
To higher right and better law—Desire!’
Well, all I can think is that it wouldn’t really be like that in real life—”
“It would,” I said. “It would because—”
“Oliver,” she said, cautioning me.
“It’s you!” I said.
I felt that this revelation would undo her. I had seen her nerves. But behind her nerves she was horribly self-possessed. I realized a little later that she’d been prepared for any declaration I had the power to make.
She said, “I know you’re so sweet that I just can’t be cross. But you really shouldn’t let yourself get carried away.…”
While she was talking I considered what else I could do. I had another poem, but that was out. It went further in someways—it was a shipwreck poem, in which only two reach a desert shore. I also knew that now I was much less interested in long-term love—I had come to see several flaws in her in the last minute—but I was all the more interested in a real kiss.
Josie said, “Real feelings are much more complicated—the feelings a woman has for a man have to do with so many more emotions.… There has to be more or there really just isn’t real feeling at all.”
That was certainly the catechism of the fifties. I believed it. I believed she believed it and that she was right to believe it. In fact, the most complicated parts of my imagining were not the physical setting (loose togas, storm-tattered skirt, etc.); they were rather the array of other emotions I devised for her to feel for me: gratitude, pity, amusement, curiosity—even family loyalty. I always imagined at least a half dozen concurrent feelings to shore up the plausibility of her one giddy spark of dangerous affection. So I was irritated when she told
me
: “Real feelings are much more complicated.”
Irritated, but helpless. Because while she’d been talking I’d had to admit to myself that I didn’t have the courage to try to kiss her. I was as tall as she was, but I was thin and I had the terrible feeling that she was stronger than I was.
It had also crossed my mind to tell her either that I was so miserable that I was going to leave school for good or that one of the masters had tried to seduce me and that I was in desperate need of reassurance. I wasn’t sure why I couldn’t try these tacks; I just knew I couldn’t.
I said, “Give me back the poem.”
She handed it to me and I tore it up.
She said, “Oh, Ollie.”
I said, “Don’t call me that.”
She pushed herself up from the desk. Our eyes were on the same level. I suddenly began to move toward her, some small wish in me suddenly swimming hard, leaping and plunging upstream into her look. But there was no real force in the rest ofme; I was just weakly staggering. She put her arms out. I took another dizzy step, my eyes blindly on hers. She caught me by the shoulders and held me at arms’ length.
Then I realized she was looking at me with pleasure—a mild, completely controlled pleasure.
She said, “You really are so sweet. What am I going to do with you? Believe me, if I were a girl your age I really don’t know what—” She squeezed my shoulders, picked up her pocketbook, and left. I don’t believe she knew exactly what she was doing, but she had done it neatly. When she
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