Brett: “Oh, Jake, we could have had such a damned good time together.”
Jake: "Isn't it pretty to think so?"
-- THE SUN ALSO RISES
Someday I'm going to have to read this book.
I've never been a fan of Ernest Hemingway, who always epitomized the worst in American macho to me. I believe I read "The Old Man and the Sea" for a class once, or maybe I just watched the movie and read the Cliff Notes.
But I am familiar with the story of Jake Barnes and Lady Brett Ashley, of all the disillusionments life can throw into our path and all the things we do to block out the parts of the world we don't like.
Give it a chance and the world will break your heart. It'll yank that sucker right out of your chest and stomp it flat. You'll grow up dreaming of changing the world, and most of time you'll wind up hoping just to be able to sleep through the night.
The kid in the picture at the top was 16, and even though he had already suffered a few setbacks, I think he probably still thought he could conquer the world. A yearbook photographer came into his gym class and asked someone to do a demonstration on the vault.
He leaped, and even though they ran the picture because he had such a funny look on his face, he loved the picture. He loved the picture for the rest of his life, which was about six years from that point.
The kid never knew about Watergate, or the Iranian hostage crisis, or Monica Lewinsky, or Dubya, or 911, AIDS and a thousand other ways the world would have broken his heart. He was long gone by then, mutated into a person whose dreams were much smaller and much more reachable.
It happens to almost all of us. If you find an older person who still dreams the same dreams they did when they were young, who still views the world through the eyes of a child, you've discovered something very rare.
Wouldn't it be a great life if we all still believed what we did when we were kids?
There's only one answer to that:
Isn't it pretty to think so?
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7 comments:
No. It's official.
I would not have been attracted to you even when you were young.
(Not the best photo, either, but you posted it, so it must reflect the "inner" you.)
Oh, and by the way, you contemplate the lint in your navel far too often.
By then, you think it's pretty to think so.
Sharee
I thought my last response to you on the other topic had ended this.
You said you weren't attracted -- I said no problem. That should have been it.
But you keep coming back.
You rarely comment on the topics themselves, other than in passing. At least 75 percent of what you say is how you're not attracted to me.
We've never even dealt with the fact that I have no interest at all in you. You sound like someone with no sense of humor who takes herself way too seriously.
But you keep coming back, even in a post that had nothing to do with you.
I no longer believe you don't want me.
But you still can't have me.
He liked the way she frowned whenever she read his blog.
She didn't care for his words, but there was something in the way he wrote. He was powerful, a lion ready to pounce on issues.
For all her life, she had been the dominant one. The one other men felt their wills bend before. But he was different.
He stood tall, no effort showing, as he replied so calmly to her anguished attacks.
She wanted him. He knew that. But it was not to be. There was no question of whether to have her or not have her. He knew he wouldn't. He was committed, but he played along with her feelings, sensing she would capitulate at any moment.
All he had to do was nod, and she would be his. But he never gave her that sweet relief.
He kept that distance from her, and it drove her mad with desire.
For the first time in her life, she felt what men had expressed toward her, but she could not return: lust.
She craved him, every meaningful measure of him, and sulked when it became apparent she would never have him.
She imagined being with him, and leaning against his chest, purring in a soft voice.
"We could have had such a damned good time together,” she said.
He would not respond, even in her imaginings.
Instead, he'd separate from her, then glancing back as he slowly walked away, he'd glance back and reply, "Isn't it pretty to think so?"
Dave, at Harry's Bar & Grill
Very impressive, Dave.
Okay.
I've talked with my closet friends and even my therapist, and I was wrong to write what I did.
I was mean and petty.
I'm sorry.
Please forgive my stupidness.
It's quite clear that everyone else around me thinks I'm a jerk -- and I thought I was being clever and strong.
I don't "want" you, Mike. I'm sorry. I really am. I just don't have those type of "feelings" for someone I don't know.
But I am a little jealous.
You seem to have so much.
You have a loving wife to whom you're devoted. You have great kids and great friends.
My only son died in a car accident six years ago, but I have great friends.
I should be happy for that.
And I am, really.
They push me to be better, not bitter.
I am alone, though, and I guess my minor disagreements with political views and social issues boiled over into something it never should have.
I am sorry. Really, really sorry.
My ex-husband enjoyed the company of "truck-stop whores" to a real marriage. I've never really known what you write about all the time.
Maybe I am small and bitter.
I don't want to be.
I'll try harder.
I am sorry, though, for being such a fool.
And I'm still dealing with that and so my "posse" -- the group of women to whom I am accountable -- have asked me to really examine my heart.
I have.
I don't like making mistakes.
I don't like being bitchy and cruel.
And I guess that's all I have been.
It's not clever, even when you disagree with someone -- to be "snarky", as you would call it.
It's childish, and cruel, and mean-spirited, and frankly I'm better than that. I want to be better than that.
And I know you deserve better than that.
I won't bother you any more.
I'm really embarrassed by this whole thing, but I did promise to make things right with you and your readers.
I hope I have.
Sorry to have been such a bitch.
I guess I have some growing up and maturing yet to do myself.
Sharee
Sharee, that is extremely gracious of you to say what you did.
I am very sorry for the bad things that have happened to you; I cannot imagine anything worse in the world for a parent than to lose a child.
With what you said, you have proved you are a better person than I am, and I respect you for it.
I hope you will stay with us and continue reading and commenting. I promise not to pick on you anymore.
God bless you.
Wow.
I don't know to write.
I am totally overwhelmed and humbled by both Share and Mike.
Good blogs. Good, kind, honest, candid blogs.
The world could use more of that type of humility.
Ernie
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