"You know," said Kyra, "you have a remarkable daughter."
"I know."
"She loves you very much."
"I know."
"Although she won't say it, she needs you."
"Did she tell you that?"
"We are all water to ice John."
John smiled. "You gonna tell me what that means?"
"A Papaism."
"A what?"
"One of Papa's sayings. Same message as Yellow. You see, whatever ice touches, it influences."
"I see . . ."
"But it is more than that. You see, ice doesn't just influence. It gives, wholly, of itself."
John sighed.
"I not preaching.
"Kiss me."
"No."
"Kiss me," repeated John.
"I like the heat . . . and, well, right now, you're like ice."
3 comments:
Ooohhh. Nice. Fire and Ice. I like where this SEEMS to be going.
TIGHT HUGS
hhHHH
:-)
LotL, if there is a particular chapter you'd like read, let me know. Mwah!
Wonderfully evocative chapter, reading the image of a chapel appeared in my mind, not the entire chapel but a once darkened corner and candles being lit one by one until the warm glow flickered upon pillars and face, lips pursed blowing out the fire that lit the others. Both wonderful and strange how a complete image, unrelated, can appear in the mind's eye this way, the only connection being the manner in which this is written, just a touch of fire to the wick and it could burn for an hour and a day. :-) I love the picture painted with those first few words, therein, in my mind, Heathcliff and Catherine became one in Kyra, visually, not of character, reminding of so many scenes within that classic tale of morning dew and coming across the moors. It reminded for in those few short words a complete picture was created, off movement and colour, it is one having seen it within I know I won't forget, much as had I seen a painiting or a photograph of it, with the ability to recall the detail and the feelings created while viewing. If I could paint people...
Your echoing from those first chapters of Kyra, the black and the melanic are the reasons why I think that she appears so clearly. No need to decipher why the comparison of her hair to a waterfall is so appealing, none would be immune to the loveliness of this phrasing. And in action, in response to his physical lacerations, the ones caused so that the outside mirrors what is within and the coming, bandaging, I love the symbolism, though not the correct word really, but I love how you have both of them operating on these two levels and aware of each other as they do it. The limitations set. By John's chaos, if you will, the lack of synchronicity within him. The Papaism *sigh of wow* means nothing else needed be said for this chapter, no comment necessary, which is why I ended up writing of chapels and Wuthering Heights. I know the response, and I know many including myself have said so so many times, but compelled I feel to say in each you have a book, of the calibre that means we remember the connection, by decades, generation upon generation, an essense that clings to the skin and never leaves. It is no stretch of the imagination to see a book shelf, lined, a book for each angle, one for Mary too. Repeated for so very few receive such extravagant blessings, so few are so richly talented, it cannot be the world at large and our descendants will not be able to touch a finger to a name or word written by you and feel print and paper beneath the pad. The one thought, like a gush of wind upon a dandelion blowing most away, is when you speak of the joy of writing, and then I feel almost ashamed for thinking of sleeves and the scent of paper, for the joy it brings to you is the beauty and the purpose of the gift in the first place.
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