Men write poems to the objects of our desire in order to lure them closer. How practical. In that case, you'd think men would write more poems to ladies' private parts. The ladies would hit us. Lips are a safe compromise, being as it were a stand-in or stepping-stone to the greater mysteries.
All the worry people expend over not existing after they die, yet nary a one ever seems to spare a moment to worry about not having existed before they were conceived. Or at all. After all, one sperm over and we would have been our sisters, and we'd never have been missed.
As had she, she supposed, but given that she was Aral's wife, very few men who weren't obviously insane had ever bothered her with unwanted advances. Although her own social obliviousness had doubtless also helped smooth things over.
The world demands I make good choices on no information, and then blames my maidenhood for my mistakes, as if my maidenhood were responsible for my ignorance. Ignorance is not stupidity, but it might as well be. And I do not like feeling stupid.
Any man can be kind when he is comfortable. I'd always thought kindness a trivial virtue, therefore. But when we were hungry, thirsty, sick, frightened, with our deaths shouting at us, in the heart of horror, you were still as unfailingly courteous as a gentleman at ease before his own hearth.
He smiled, recapturing her hand. A very wise woman once told me—you just go on. I've never encountered any good advice that didn't boil down to that, in the end. Not even my father's. I want to be with you always, so you can make me laugh myself well.