Writers in love
I’m a novelist who has put great faith in introspection and self-knowledge. Recently, however, I am blinded, disoriented and unable to interpret my feelings. It feels almost like an illness.
I’ve had a boyfriend for the last two years with whom I have shared a great love. He is also a writer. Our habit has been to live in rotating European cities. We spend a few months here, a few months there. I have a home in one of these cities to which I often return. I get exhausted if I stay too long away. He on the other hand stays on without me in the other, distant cities until we are reunited, often somewhere else again. I would say that in contrast to me, he does not have a home — he does not feel the dominant pull of a single place. He is a strange, idiosyncratic man, with a constantly surprising, brilliantly perceptive, but also counterintuitive interpretation of life. He has very few friends, and both little ability and little need to form ties with others. Maybe for that reason, when he does form a bond, the intensity of his affection and the force of his powers of recognition are overwhelming. I am speaking in terms of my own sense of homecoming in finding him.