Between the Shadow and the Soul

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,

or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.

I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,

in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms

but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;

thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,

risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.

I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;

so I love you because I know no other way than this: 

where I does not exist, nor you,

so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,

so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep. ” 

Sonnet XVII by Pablo Neruda

My feelings are a paradox

 “From these foolish embraces, which were not of very frequent occurrence,

I must allow, I used to wish to extricate myself; but my energies seemed

to fail me. Her murmured words sounded like a lullaby in my ear, and

soothed my resistance into a trance, from which I only seemed to recover

myself when she withdrew her arms.

In these mysterious moods I did not like her. I experienced a strange

tumultuous excitement that was pleasurable, ever and anon, mingled with

a vague sense of fear and disgust. I had no distinct thoughts about her

while such scenes lasted, but I was conscious of a love growing into

adoration, and also of abhorrence. This I know is paradox, but I can

make no other attempt to explain the feeling.” 

 Carmilla by Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu

The truth is too painful

“My gripe is not with lovers of the truth but with the truth itself. What succor, what consolation is there in the truth, compared to a story? What good is truth, at midnight, in the dark, when the wind is roaring like a bear in the chimney? When the lightning strikes shadows on the bedroom wall and the rain taps at the window with its long fingernails? No. When fear and cold make a statue of you in your bed, don’t expect hard-boned and fleshless truth to come running to your aid. What you need are the plump comforts of a story. The soothing, rocking safety of a lie.”

The Thirteenth Tale by Diane Setterfield