In the throes of most exquisite yearning
Just finished “Speak, Memory” by Nabokov. I feel that I must invent words to describe how he makes me feel. He is like a most educated older friend that I meet time and time again over coffee, and he tells me with a gleam in his eye how silly I am. As I grow older the bashfulness and shame I feel dissipates until we simply share the joke of adolescence. Slowly, slowly I am starting to understand restraint and composure and how painfully risky they can be. I don’t want to deny the honest intensity of my feelings, but in this world of intrigue a game must be played to avoid looking and being foolish. Chicken. But also we must be honest about the fact that we are not the most important person in other people’s lives : and perhaps they do not give a fig for us if we don’t “put out”. We wait, and will perhaps wait forever … or at least until the fall, when a new beginning can be maneuvered? And this is the yearning : I realize that perhaps this exquisite boy may have adored me if I had played my cards right, and that this fragile possibility might be lost forever. My urge is to continue the pursuit. But this burgeoning restraint and “dignity” denies this. I must allow time to flow around me and place all events in their correct positions. I must become : serene.
