I know a book has gotten inside me when I dream in its voice. Yesterday evening on the train, after rereading several passages from 'The Monk' I let my head rest against the rainy window and tried to settle the internal tempest it had raised; I fathomed passages that do not exist in the book's actuality, but that were so congruous with the story it was somewhat disconcerting. I awoke feeling that I had still been reading, when in fact the book was safely tucked in my knapsack.

In Solomon's 'Song of Songs' the beloved charges the Daughters of Jerusalem not to arouse or awaken love until it so desires. I began to understand the wisdom of that with gravity. I had to force myself to a quiet place back inside Plato's cave of unenlightenment now that I knew what the tenderness of a man's love could feel like, viscerally.
I feel a weird sense of grief now that this book is over; I continued to hold it for a while after I was finished with the last page because I did not want to lose its warmth.

Clearly there is a need in me that can't be self-satisfied by food, or sublimated by any of the usual means I have at my disposal. In the story, the love between Rebecca and Michael Christopher (the former monk) is a subtle but engrossing surprise to them both, born in a time of weariness, on an ordinary day when neither of them felt they could be surprised or blessed any more, so they weren't looking.

It's raining here today. It's melting the snow. I'm going to put some coffee on and try to be content.