She

I’ve always loved this passage. An old friend once surprised me with a package and tucked into the parcel was a handwritten note saying that it was a piece which in every respect was a true description of who I represented in his life.

I will forever be flattered.

She will have none of that. She is quick, mercurial, intemperate. She has a big mouth, a rash heart, a generous nature (always a liability, in my view), and if my way is always to opt out, to sit in the window seat with a book in my lap, pressing my face against the pane, then her great weakness, indistinguishable from her great strength, is a fatal, manic aptitude for saying yes. She gets herself and us, and me into trouble: into noble causes and silly disputes… into journeys and strange hotel beds and awkward situations, into putting my money where my mouth is and my name on fund-raising pitch letters for things that I believe in but otherwise, I don’t know, haven’t gotten around to yet. She is the curse and wolfman charm in my blood, calling me to shed my flannel shirt and my pressed pants with their sensible belt and lope on all fours into the forest.

Michael Chabon, Manhood for Amateurs

Paintings by Stella Im Hultberg.

 

She performed by Elvis Costello

Lyrics:
She may be the face I can’t forget
The trace of pleasure or regret
May be my treasure or the price I have to pay
She may be the song that summer sings
May be the chill that autumn brings
May be a hundred different things
Within the measure of a day

She may be the beauty or the beast
May be the famine or the feast
May turn each day into a heaven or a hell
She may be the mirror of my dreams
The smile reflected in a stream
She may not be what she may seem
Inside her shell

She who always seems so happy in a crowd
Whose eyes can be so private and so proud
No one’s allowed to see them when they cry
She may be the love that cannot hope to last
May come to me from shadows of the past
That I’ll remember till the day I die

She may be the reason I survive
The why and wherefore I’m alive
The one I’ll care for through the rough in ready years
Me, I’ll take her laughter and her tears
And make them all my souvenirs
For where she goes I’ve got to be
The meaning of my life is she
She… oh, she

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