Showing posts with label The History of Love. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The History of Love. Show all posts
Monday, February 4, 2013
The History of Love - THE DEATH OF LEOPOLD GURSKY
Leopold Gursky started dying on August 18, 1920.
He died learning to walk.
He died standing at the blackboard.
And once, also, carrying a heavy tray.
He died practicing a new way to sign his name.
Opening a window.
Washing his genitals in the bath.
He died alone, because he was too embarrassed to phone anyone.
Or he died thinking about Alma.
Or when he chose not to.
Really, there isn't much to say.
He was a great writer.
He fell in love.
It was his life.
The History of Love - Pg 186
(If you don't know what it feels like to have someone you love put a hand below your bottom rib for the first time, what chance is there for love?)
The History of Love - Pg 173
It wasn't that far so I decided to walk, and while I did I imagined rooms all over the city that housed archives no one has ever heard of, like last words, white lies, and false descendants of Catherine the Great.
The History of Love - Pg 143
sheva
The first time he saw the woman who would become his wife, my mother, reading a book on the grass of Kibbutz Yavne, wearing yellow shorts.
The History of Love - Pg 141
Now we'd known each other for two years, the side of my calf was touching his shins, and his stomach was against my ribs. He said, "I don't think it's end of world to be my girlfriend." I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. It took seven languages to make me; it would be nice if I could have spoken just one. But I couldn't, so he leaned down and kissed me.
The History of Love - Pg 139
Our breath made little clouds when we spoke. "I'll take you to the room where I lived with my grandfather," said Misha, "and teach you to skate on the Neva." "I could learn Russian." Misha nodded. "I'll teach you. First word. Dai." "Dai." "Second word. Ruku." "What does it mean?" "Say it first." "Ruku." "Dai Ruku." "Dai Ruku. What does it mean?" Misha took my hand and held it.
The History of Love - Pg 128
I considered my options. Either I could run away and never go back to school again, maybe even leave the country as a stowaway on a ship bound for Australia. Or I could risk everything and confess to her. The answer was obvious: I was going to Australia. I opened my mouth to say goodbye forever. And yet. What I said was: I want to know if you'll marry me.
The History of Love - Pg 98
His English was better than Tatiana's because he'd memorized the lyrics of almost all the Beatles songs.
The History of Love - Pg 94
"You have to stick up for yourself," he told me. "But it's bad to throw rocks."
The History of Love - Pg 84
And then, when the bottle was gone, I danced. Slowly at first. But getting faster. I stomped my feet and kicked my legs, joints cracking. i punded my feet and crouched and kicked in the dance my father danced, and his father, tears sliding down my face as I laughed and sang, danced and danced, until my feet were raw and there was blood under my toenail, I danced to only way I knew how to dance: for life, crashing into the chairs, and spinning until I fell, so that I could get up and dance again, until dawn broke and found me prostrate on the floor, so close to death I could spit into it and whisper: L'chaim.
The History of Love - Pg 76
A wave of happiness came over me. It felt giddy to be part of it all. To be drinking a cup of coffee like a normal person. I wanted to shout out: The plural of elf is elves! What a language! What a world!
The History of Love - Pg 73
If at large gatherings or parties, or around people with whom you feel distant, your hands sometimes hang awkwardly at the ends of your arms--if you find yourself at a loss for what to do with them, overcome with sadness that comes when you recognize the foreignness of your own body--it's because your hands remember a time when the division between mind and body, brain and heart, what's inside and what's outside, was so much less.
The History of Love - Pg 72
The labor of building a house, say, or preparing a meal was no less an expression than making the sign for I love you or I feel serious. When a hand was used to shield one's face when frightened by a loud noise something was being said, and when fingers were used to pick up what someone else had dropped something was being said; and even when the hands were at rest, that, too, was saying something.
The History of Love - Pg 71
Staring out the window, Litvinoff imagined the two thousand copies of The History of Love as a flock of two thousand homing pigeons that could flap their wings and return to him to report on how many tears shed, how many laughs, how many passages read aloud, how many cruel closings of the cover after reading barely a page, how many never opened at all.
The History of Love - Pg 66
Rosa hurried back to the cafe. Litvinoff was there waiting for her, and again they talked excitedly for hours: about the sound of the cello, silent films, and the memories they both associated with the smell of salt water.
The History of Love - Pg 63
Alma felt his hesitation. She leaned back and looked at hime with something like hurt, and then he almost but didn't say the two sentences he'd been meaning to say for years: Part of me is made of glass, and also, I love you.
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