Being the French lieutenant’s woman
You know the type — the one who talks with loneliness in her eyes and walks with melancholia trailing behind. I have told you before how much I would love to live in Victorian England, breathing in the same dark and dreary air the Queen who mourned love for forty years breathed, wearing layer upon layer of black to cover my whole body, the parts that are uncovered showing skin the colour of snow just as it is coming down and before it turns into black snow.
Don’t we all want to be this kind of woman at some point in our life? The alluring, tragic bearing eyes kind of woman who can never belong to anyone, who does not want to belong to anyone, but simply wants to sustain a level of intense melancholia that fuels her everyday being.
A woman with eyes “a man could drown in.” Haven’t we all wanted to be figures standing, “motionless, staring, staring out to sea, more like a living memorial to the drowned, a figure from myth, than any proper fragment of the petty provincial day.”
So, have you?
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