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Ontem, um amigo perguntou se a minha noção de paixão permanecia intacta.


“ (…) ‘I love thee, my little rabbit.’
‘I love thee, too, and I am thy wife.’
‘Were they asleep?’
‘No’, she said. ‘But I could suport it no longer. And what importance has it?’
‘None’, he said, and felt her against him, slim and long and warmly lovely. ‘No other thing has importance.’
‘Put thy hand on my head,’ she said, ‘and then let me see if I can kiss thee.’
‘Was it well?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Take off thy wedding shirt.’
‘You think I should?’
‘Yes, if thou wilt not be cold.’
‘Qué va, cold. I am on fire.’
‘I too. But afterwards thou wilt not be cold?’
‘No. Afterwards we will be as one animal of the forest and be so close that neither one can tell that one of us is one and not the other. Can you not feel my heart be your heart?’
‘Yes. There is no difference.’
‘Now, feel. I am thee and thou art me and all of one is the other. And I love thee, oh, I love thee so. Are we not truly one? Canst thou not feel it?’
‘Yes.’ he said. ‘It is true.’
‘And feel now. Thou hast no heart but mine.’ (…) “


in Ernest Hemingway’s For Whom the Bell Tolls