"She was perfectly unconstrained and without irritation towards him now, and he was gradually discovering the delight there was in frank kindness and companionship between a man and a woman who have no passion to hide or confess."
- George Eliot, Middlemarch
I'm turning into my idea of a dinner mate from hell: "I don't want to go bohemian. I don't want my curls to drop and frizz. I don't want to straddle a motorbike in a dress. I don't want to go scratching mosquito bites at the length of my high-heel-aching legs."
So he came in the car. Sat with me in an air-conditioned French restaurant. And saw beyond the curls and dress and band-aided heels. My Middlemarch friend.
Wishing you plentiful of sincere and lasting Middlemarch friendships.
Assuming your wish also is directed at me I have to say: Thank you. But it won't be easy to find a soul-mate in a car. Nor a pretty boy soul-mate - or a pretty girl.
ReplyDeleteHowever if luck can strike in Ubud, it can over here.
There's no such thing as soul-mates, Coles. My friendship with my Middlemarch, as is with most anyone, leans heavily on activities done together: When we do things together simultaneously, we're activity-mates.
ReplyDeleteAnd if those activities are deep and sincere enough, and they take us to higher places on the actualization hierarchy, then maybe we might indirectly enrich each other's souls.
But the soul, the God within, is whole. It needs no mate. Just a vessel. And our activities and friendships and generous comments left on other people's blogs, are the things that make a vessel happy, and the soul within it snuggled comfortably.
Your comment alarmed me, though. I should blog about it. Thanks!