by
Anne Serre
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[...] In short, it’s as if the whole world was incapable of understanding the distinctiveness of Guillaume and Anna’s love. It’s not the kind of romance you find in a film or a novel, between a man and a woman who love one another, are unfaithful, suffer, and part. It’s a loftier form of love than that, high up on a mountain ridge, as it were, and not contingent on anything, and certainly not on desire, for example. It’s above such things. True, they had made love a lot — and with what ardor, what joy and understanding! And true, too, this had played a major role in their affection for each other. But what really counted was hiking in the mountains together or going to see a giant anthill one day and standing there hand in hand among the rolling meadows. With no one else in the world would she have ventured along those dirt tracks; with no one else in the world would it have given her so much joy. [...]
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[...] What is it she’s so scared of losing in choosing one man over the other? Were she to return to Guillaume — dear me, there’s probably no chance of that now, too much harm has been done — she would lose that promise of a new life which had so attracted her that she had rushed straight in, her dress flapping about her legs and her hair streaming in the wind. But isn’t it an illusion to believe in a new life? Were she to choose Thomas, she would lose a previous life so warm and so tender that it was like being contained in a womb. And yet she had been expelled from that womb, it seems. Can you return to your origins? Not when you’ve been cast out like Eve, weeping, distraught, covering your face in shame in all those frescoes and paintings.
What now, then? Alone in the big, wide world like a tiny shoot? Heavens, it certainly looks that way, especially as the two men are motionless now, not moving at all, while they await her verdict. Neither of them exerts the slightest pressure any longer, neither of them shows himself, yet they must still be gazing down on her, since whenever she appeals to one of them for a bit of contact, just for a bit of contact, he immediately responds. Some of her more lighthearted friends suggest: a third man? They all burst out laughing, and Anna as well: a third man! Oh no! That’s quite enough of that lark! For pity’s sake, no more passion! [...]
Still, it’s strange that Guillaume didn’t do more to get her back. She’s baffled by this. He had suffered a terrible blow, of course, when she told him about her passion for Jude the Obscure: but after that? Why did he lend so much credence to her story? Why didn’t he just say to himself: I’ll place my body between them, I’ll lead Anna away, I’ll take her on a trip somewhere, move her out of harm’s way and get her back? In the past, the moment a tiny thunderstorm appeared on the horizon he would leap into action, with Anna under his arm; nothing, but nothing, could be allowed to jeopardize their great romance. So why hadn’t he intervened this time round? Had he immediately thrown in the towel — this man who never gave in? Had he panicked, overwhelmed by the novelty of the situation? Or had he simply grown a little tired of this relationship where there was never a cloud? Were she to question him about this, he would undoubtedly reply, “No, no, it’s not that at all.” But why had he made so little effort of late? Why had he made so little effort to please her and charm her? Did he think she’d be smitten with him forever? Yet it wasn’t like him to rest on his laurels. Impulsive, overflowing with life, Guillaume always wanted to explore new paths, to push on just for the pleasure of advancing and feeling himself at work. What on earth had happened in the secrecy of his soul that he should let go of Anna and allow her to escape? Might there have also been another woman? Or had he, too — since they were so well-aligned that even the most trivial incidents in their lives ran curiously parallel much of the time — found himself at a turning, a crossroads, at precisely the same moment as her? Perhaps he was just desperate to break away? Perhaps things weren’t so awful after all?
[...] She has always liked people who slave away at things. She likes it when they go to great lengths to realize their full potential in the execution of some colossal task, like Guillaume scaling some incredible peak. She has perhaps done this herself, in order to survive. So she watches Thomas making this considerable effort to convene his entire life and all of his dreams — without moving a finger, without batting an eyelid — while they stroll about, sit at a table together eating carpaccio, thumb through a book or two at a flea market, or admire a beautiful door in the street. It gives her food for thought and it moves her.
[...] no one likes to abandon a book they’re writing, you want to abide there, to be in that river forever. It was so beautiful to have found it, so unhoped-for, so grandiose. It’s not every day you find a book to write, a love affair to experience. In general, they’re things that elude you, you spend your time chasing after them, saddened to be exiled. [...]
[...] But after a while, doesn’t one feel something truer to life and more authentic establishing itself in your existence? Can a life without sorrow really be called a life?
Belan is the Chairman and CEO. When I first met him, after I’d been hired and flown to San Francisco, I was shocked when I saw his name.
My great-grandfather had been named Belan when he was born, but had been adopted later at the age of 21 and he changed his name.
We call him Leo Steven. But I never met him.
When I met this Belan, the CEO, this was the first thing I told him.
Belan was a family name. On my dad’s side.
Just as I started to launch into the story, he cut me off: Interesting. Huh. Well, about this strategy deck you’re working on…
I’d never met another person named Belan in my life, and I doubt he had either but that apparently didn’t matter to him at all. He was all business, all the time. I could feel the stress emanating off him like steam.
Leo Steven was adopted, in Powersville, Missouri, when he was 21.
- Willard Howard Taft was President.
Why would anyone adopt a 21 year old? Is that even possible? Man adopts man.
laughed out loud at that
More titles:
- Lexemic Lush Landscape
- Marks on a Street in Rome
- The Berlin of the Mind
- Our Own Yellow Brick Road
- Why_You_Should_Hate_AI_FINAL_v2
The deck is such a mixture of content and styles that I fear no one title will be able to capture it.
My plan for the deck is to use it as a sort of intellectual grenade on the way out the door.
I showed Belan an early draft of the deck, maybe 90 slides, and he said "it's trying to get at something unimportant, but it's not there. I don't like all these little bits of unconnected trivia."
So I added 454 more slides.