no use. Nothing I can tell you will ever make you satisfied, because all you really want to know is,
will everything turn out all right?
So what should I do?
The monk stops and draws his fists together in front of his stomach, his
hara,
the center of energy. Tell yourself,
don’t know,
he says to Lewis. Say it to yourself, over and over.
Don’t know. Don’t know.
Don’t speculate. Don’t make plans. Just accept it:
I don’t know.
Lewis lets out a long sigh.
So we’re back at the beginning.
No, Hae Wol says, giving him a playful, twisting smile. Not yet. When you’re back at the beginning,
then
you’ll really be getting somewhere.
That night he has a dream:
They are in Melinda’s apartment in Somerville, the one she had when they met, when she was in the second year of Harvard Business School. The dream begins at their third date, just as it really happened. Late spring, twilight, the sun’s last rays streaming through her bedroom window. He is sitting on the bed, and she is standing; they are having an intense conversation about some painter she admired in college, and in the middle of it she begins unbuttoning her shirt, still talking, dropping it to the floor, unhooking her bra, unzipping her jeans. He forces himself to maintain eye contact, because he understands, somehow, that that is what is required; but when he blinks he glimpses the rest of her. The light makes her skin glow like liquid gold. Every movement, every gesture, is like some beautiful kind of dance he’s never seen before; he wishes he could see it again, from the beginning; he wants to say,
stop there, start over
. He thinks he is having a religious experience. He thinks,
I have just become a photographer.
Good for you, she says, still standing there. You just passed the first test.
What test? he asks, trying to look incredulous.
You’d be surprised how few men can hold a conversation with a naked woman.
Stay still, he tells her. Stop moving. Her face blurs; her body vibrates in the air. What’s happening to you?
There’s this problem with you, Lewis, she says, her voice hollow, echoing, as if they’re on opposite ends of a much larger room. You trust me too much. You believe in surfaces. Think about it this way:
You could be making the biggest mistake of your
life this instant and you would never know.
But that’s what love is, isn’t it? he says. You have to take that risk, don’t you?
Not me, she says. That’s the difference between us, Lewis. I’ve read your papers.
What papers, he says. What are you talking about?
A bell is ringing somewhere in the distance, heavy shoes pounding on the stairs. The monk sleeping next to him reaches up and flips the light switch, and he covers his eyes, shuddering.
The morning is cold and overcast, the mountain hidden by low-hanging clouds. In the meditation hall he sleeps, his head fallen to his chest. A monk wakes him with a jab between the shoulder blades, and he struggles to his feet, barely able to stand.
Hae Wol passes him a note scribbled on the back of an envelope.
Demons are everywhere,
it says.
Don’t follow them. You’re not
the only one.
So I ask you again, the teacher says. What is love?
Today it is cloudy.
The teacher watches him for a moment, lips pressed together, and shakes his head.
Not enough? Lewis asks.
Not enough.
Lewis passes a hand over his eyes.
Love is just coming and going. Like a bad dream.
The teacher picks up his stick and taps him on the shoulder.
I give you thirty blows, he says. You understand emptiness. But emptiness is only half the story.
It’s the most incredible thing, Lewis says. I don’t feel my legs anymore. No more pain.
You’ll want it back, the teacher says. He balances his stick on the ground and leans forward, resting his chin on his hands. Don’t linger in hell, he says. Wake up!
In the fall of their second year, with nothing else to do, he decided to write a book proposal, and began reprinting every picture he’d
will everything turn out all right?
So what should I do?
The monk stops and draws his fists together in front of his stomach, his
hara,
the center of energy. Tell yourself,
don’t know,
he says to Lewis. Say it to yourself, over and over.
Don’t know. Don’t know.
Don’t speculate. Don’t make plans. Just accept it:
I don’t know.
Lewis lets out a long sigh.
So we’re back at the beginning.
No, Hae Wol says, giving him a playful, twisting smile. Not yet. When you’re back at the beginning,
then
you’ll really be getting somewhere.
That night he has a dream:
They are in Melinda’s apartment in Somerville, the one she had when they met, when she was in the second year of Harvard Business School. The dream begins at their third date, just as it really happened. Late spring, twilight, the sun’s last rays streaming through her bedroom window. He is sitting on the bed, and she is standing; they are having an intense conversation about some painter she admired in college, and in the middle of it she begins unbuttoning her shirt, still talking, dropping it to the floor, unhooking her bra, unzipping her jeans. He forces himself to maintain eye contact, because he understands, somehow, that that is what is required; but when he blinks he glimpses the rest of her. The light makes her skin glow like liquid gold. Every movement, every gesture, is like some beautiful kind of dance he’s never seen before; he wishes he could see it again, from the beginning; he wants to say,
stop there, start over
. He thinks he is having a religious experience. He thinks,
I have just become a photographer.
Good for you, she says, still standing there. You just passed the first test.
What test? he asks, trying to look incredulous.
You’d be surprised how few men can hold a conversation with a naked woman.
Stay still, he tells her. Stop moving. Her face blurs; her body vibrates in the air. What’s happening to you?
There’s this problem with you, Lewis, she says, her voice hollow, echoing, as if they’re on opposite ends of a much larger room. You trust me too much. You believe in surfaces. Think about it this way:
You could be making the biggest mistake of your
life this instant and you would never know.
But that’s what love is, isn’t it? he says. You have to take that risk, don’t you?
Not me, she says. That’s the difference between us, Lewis. I’ve read your papers.
What papers, he says. What are you talking about?
A bell is ringing somewhere in the distance, heavy shoes pounding on the stairs. The monk sleeping next to him reaches up and flips the light switch, and he covers his eyes, shuddering.
The morning is cold and overcast, the mountain hidden by low-hanging clouds. In the meditation hall he sleeps, his head fallen to his chest. A monk wakes him with a jab between the shoulder blades, and he struggles to his feet, barely able to stand.
Hae Wol passes him a note scribbled on the back of an envelope.
Demons are everywhere,
it says.
Don’t follow them. You’re not
the only one.
So I ask you again, the teacher says. What is love?
Today it is cloudy.
The teacher watches him for a moment, lips pressed together, and shakes his head.
Not enough? Lewis asks.
Not enough.
Lewis passes a hand over his eyes.
Love is just coming and going. Like a bad dream.
The teacher picks up his stick and taps him on the shoulder.
I give you thirty blows, he says. You understand emptiness. But emptiness is only half the story.
It’s the most incredible thing, Lewis says. I don’t feel my legs anymore. No more pain.
You’ll want it back, the teacher says. He balances his stick on the ground and leans forward, resting his chin on his hands. Don’t linger in hell, he says. Wake up!
In the fall of their second year, with nothing else to do, he decided to write a book proposal, and began reprinting every picture he’d
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