"We are no longer the same, you wiser but not sadder, and I sadder but not wiser, for wiser I could hardly become without grave personal inconvenience, whereas sorrow is a thing you can keep adding to all your life long, is it not, like a stamp or an egg collection, without feeling very much the worse for it, is it not."
I got your books.
The Beckett one will take me ages to get through, but I found the bits you underlined. I think we both got sadder, and neither of us very much wiser. You had quite a collection of it before we ever met, I think, and had more than you could bear of it in the end. And I took some of yours for my own.
Collections of books and sadness sort of go together, don't they?
I just realised that I won't be able to see what I've written to you any more when I get too old for the lock.
I think that's probably a good thing. But it is still another kind of loss, isn't it? The growing up kind.
I think I might be falling in love with someone. I worry so much sometimes about what he doesn't know about me, and about what he'd think if he knew everything. And that makes me think that what he likes about me isn't real, which means that he could never love the real me. But if I think on it too much, it makes me blue, so I'd much rather write it down and be done with it. And you're as good a person to write to as any.
Your brother is still incredibly annoying, by the way. For someone who seems to have all the answers, he certainly is very stingy about giving them out.
I'm awfully good at failing. But he does have a point. Sometimes, we've got to pick ourselves up and try for it again, until we don't want to any more, and give up. Like you did.
When the books came, it was like I'd lost you all over again. And I missed you so much that it felt like I'd been punched in my stomach by it. It doesn't hurt as bad right now, though. And I miss you whenever I see your books on my shelf, but I'm also happy I have them. So there's that. And the idea that you were thinking of me after all, that I didn't send off those notes into nothingness, that helps too.
I Solemnly Swear That I Am Up To No Good
I got your books.
The Beckett one will take me ages to get through, but I found the bits you underlined. I think we both got sadder, and neither of us very much wiser. You had quite a collection of it before we ever met, I think, and had more than you could bear of it in the end. And I took some of yours for my own.
Collections of books and sadness sort of go together, don't they?
I just realised that I won't be able to see what I've written to you any more when I get too old for the lock.
I think that's probably a good thing. But it is still another kind of loss, isn't it? The growing up kind.
I think I might be falling in love with someone. I worry so much sometimes about what he doesn't know about me, and about what he'd think if he knew everything. And that makes me think that what he likes about me isn't real, which means that he could never love the real me. But if I think on it too much, it makes me blue, so I'd much rather write it down and be done with it. And you're as good a person to write to as any.
Your brother is still incredibly annoying, by the way. For someone who seems to have all the answers, he certainly is very stingy about giving them out.
I like this one too:
"Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better."
I'm awfully good at failing. But he does have a point. Sometimes, we've got to pick ourselves up and try for it again, until we don't want to any more, and give up. Like you did.
When the books came, it was like I'd lost you all over again. And I missed you so much that it felt like I'd been punched in my stomach by it. It doesn't hurt as bad right now, though. And I miss you whenever I see your books on my shelf, but I'm also happy I have them. So there's that. And the idea that you were thinking of me after all, that I didn't send off those notes into nothingness, that helps too.
Thank you, Regulus. Thank you.