Read Online The PowerBook by Jeanette Winterson - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jeanette Winterson
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together at the core of reality. All the separations and divisions and blind alleys and impossibilities that seem so central to life are happening at its outer edges. If I could follow the map further and if I could refuse the false endings (the false starts don’t matter), I could find the place where time stops. Where death stops. Where love is.
Beyond time, beyond death, love is. Time and death cannot wear it away.
I love you.
In the morning, thunder was rumbling round the island, the waves were white-topped and the birds were quiet.
I like islands because the weather is so changeable.
I like the way the morning can be stormy and the afternoon as clear and sparkling as a jewel in the water. Put your hand in the water to reach for a sea urchin or a seashell, and the thing desirednever quite lies where you had lined it up to be. The same is true of love. In prospect or in contemplation, love is where it seems to be. Reach in to lift it out and your hand misses. The water is deeper than you had gauged. You reach further, your whole body straining, and then there is nothing for it but to slide in—deeper, much deeper than you had gauged—and still the thing eludes you.
I put the
macchinetta
on the stove and fed the cats the mince. At least I hope that’s what I did. The little lizards were scuttling under the trailing vine and there was the usual earnest column of ants transporting a sliver of parmesan down to their hoard.
In the holm-oak, a blackbird had finished his morning bath in a pan of water I put out for him. In return he sings. He sings of the morning of the world, which happens every day for him, untainted by memory. The island is new. The tree has grown under his feet. His hollow bones are sung through with happiness. He flies light as a note.
The hiss and bubble of the coffee-pot reminded me of my business. I clattered out the little white cups onto the marble counter and poured the black, boiling coffee. Carefully I carried the two cups into the bedroom. The smell drifted into your dreams and you followed it back through sleep into day.
‘What time is it?’ you mumbled.
‘Seven o’clock.’
‘Horrible.’
You slumped back. I propped you up with pillows.
‘You said you wanted to be woken early.’
‘I didn’t say the middle of the night.’
‘It’s been light for hours.’
‘Not in my world it hasn’t.’
‘Drink this.’
You sipped noisily from the edge of the cup.
‘Too strong.’
‘I thought you like it strong.’
‘A liquid should not be a solid.’
‘It will get you going.’
‘Going where?’
‘Your hotel. Like you said.’
‘Maybe I’ll just stay here.’
‘You can’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘How many good reasons do you want?’
‘Why don’t you just go down there and get my clothes?’
‘You want me to go and ask your husband for your clothes?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m not Bugs Bunny.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean that when he pulls off my head it won’t flip back on again.’
‘He won’t pull your head off.’
‘So what am I supposed to say?’
‘Say I’m ill.’
‘OK, you’re ill, so you need all your little black dresses …’
‘Of course I do.’
‘Try again.’
‘Say you’re my cousin from Illinois.’
‘I am not your cousin from Illinois.’
‘For a writer you stick pretty close to the facts.’
‘The fact is that your husband is down at the Quisisana.’
‘The fact is that my lover is here …’
She put down her coffee.
‘In bed …’
She leaned over and pulled me down on her.
‘With me.’
It was ten o’clock before we got up again, which proves the pointlessness of early starts. I’m not a morning person, but some virtue still clings to it. People who stay up late (me) are debauched. People who get up early are clean living. Well, this morning, for once, I had got up early and look where it had led me.
A second pot of coffee was bubbling on the stove. You must have caught a whiff of conscience
Beyond time, beyond death, love is. Time and death cannot wear it away.
I love you.
In the morning, thunder was rumbling round the island, the waves were white-topped and the birds were quiet.
I like islands because the weather is so changeable.
I like the way the morning can be stormy and the afternoon as clear and sparkling as a jewel in the water. Put your hand in the water to reach for a sea urchin or a seashell, and the thing desirednever quite lies where you had lined it up to be. The same is true of love. In prospect or in contemplation, love is where it seems to be. Reach in to lift it out and your hand misses. The water is deeper than you had gauged. You reach further, your whole body straining, and then there is nothing for it but to slide in—deeper, much deeper than you had gauged—and still the thing eludes you.
I put the
macchinetta
on the stove and fed the cats the mince. At least I hope that’s what I did. The little lizards were scuttling under the trailing vine and there was the usual earnest column of ants transporting a sliver of parmesan down to their hoard.
In the holm-oak, a blackbird had finished his morning bath in a pan of water I put out for him. In return he sings. He sings of the morning of the world, which happens every day for him, untainted by memory. The island is new. The tree has grown under his feet. His hollow bones are sung through with happiness. He flies light as a note.
The hiss and bubble of the coffee-pot reminded me of my business. I clattered out the little white cups onto the marble counter and poured the black, boiling coffee. Carefully I carried the two cups into the bedroom. The smell drifted into your dreams and you followed it back through sleep into day.
‘What time is it?’ you mumbled.
‘Seven o’clock.’
‘Horrible.’
You slumped back. I propped you up with pillows.
‘You said you wanted to be woken early.’
‘I didn’t say the middle of the night.’
‘It’s been light for hours.’
‘Not in my world it hasn’t.’
‘Drink this.’
You sipped noisily from the edge of the cup.
‘Too strong.’
‘I thought you like it strong.’
‘A liquid should not be a solid.’
‘It will get you going.’
‘Going where?’
‘Your hotel. Like you said.’
‘Maybe I’ll just stay here.’
‘You can’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘How many good reasons do you want?’
‘Why don’t you just go down there and get my clothes?’
‘You want me to go and ask your husband for your clothes?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m not Bugs Bunny.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean that when he pulls off my head it won’t flip back on again.’
‘He won’t pull your head off.’
‘So what am I supposed to say?’
‘Say I’m ill.’
‘OK, you’re ill, so you need all your little black dresses …’
‘Of course I do.’
‘Try again.’
‘Say you’re my cousin from Illinois.’
‘I am not your cousin from Illinois.’
‘For a writer you stick pretty close to the facts.’
‘The fact is that your husband is down at the Quisisana.’
‘The fact is that my lover is here …’
She put down her coffee.
‘In bed …’
She leaned over and pulled me down on her.
‘With me.’
It was ten o’clock before we got up again, which proves the pointlessness of early starts. I’m not a morning person, but some virtue still clings to it. People who stay up late (me) are debauched. People who get up early are clean living. Well, this morning, for once, I had got up early and look where it had led me.
A second pot of coffee was bubbling on the stove. You must have caught a whiff of conscience
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