emotional turmoils, and had known herself capable not just of love (unrequited, for a guitarist in a band) but of disappointment, melancholy, dreamy optimism, and soulful, self-important philosophizing.
But not this. Never this. Even Anne, who claimed she’d always sensed this fire under the Nordic Jansen calm—“I saw you dance, babe, and I could see it then”— even Anne sometimes looked at her hair-swept, sweat-tossed lover and said, her own cheeks hot with surprise, “My God! There’s something in you, Flannery. There’s something, it’s so wild—where does it come from?” Then, to counter the hint of alarm in her voice, she added, “It’s wonderful.”
Flannery did not know what it was, or where it came from. Did everyone have this? Perhaps not. Did the measure of her passion relate in some way to the measure of her long years of repression? (They felt long to her; and she would soon be eighteen now, which showed just how old she was getting to be.) While all those other kids were playing doctor and nurse and feeling each other up in the cupboards, Flannery Jansen was reading peacefully at home, gathering all her resources for this moment, this intense future adventure with Anne, which would take her into the deepest throes of her shockingly savage body.
It terrified Flannery. Absolutely. She spent nights back in her dorm room blank with fear. What had been released in her? In Anne’s company she mostly felt all right about her expressiveness. No, not all right, she felt exultant: here she was, a new person, a woman, a sexual explorer bringing delight to the face she loved most in the world.
Alone, back in her room, she lost her confidence. Quiet again, the way she had always been before, the way she had known herself best, Flannery would sometimes feel completely, darkly convinced.
This can’t possibly be me.
And:
I’ve got to get out of here.
T hey tried to get back to work. It was something they both had to do as December uncoiled, snakelike, toward finals—and, worse, MLA. Anne was not only giving her paper there, she was going to be interviewed for academic jobs. Anxiety frequently threatened her like an angry swarm of bees.
Together, in Anne’s living room, which was also her bedroom, which was not altogether separate from her kitchen, they tried to work. Far from seeming cramped or enclosed, the room was open, spacious, full of light and novelty and the echoes of what they had done there. The walls were white. The angles were modern. A skylight slanted along the sloped ceiling, and Anne had arranged her bed so that the window’s trapezoid of winter sun fell on her bedspread. She lay on her side within that clutch of light, reading, head cradled in her eloquent hand. That hand: it was hard sometimes for Flannery to look at it without remembering its other talents.
“I can’t concentrate,” she said. She was sitting against a wall in the corner near two heaps of books: a pile for Revolution, for which she’d chosen to write about China, and a pile for Criticism, for which she’d chosen to write about Susan Sontag. Neither could hope to compete with the temptation of watching Anne read.
“Try.” Anne didn’t even look up.
A book spread across her knees, her head dipped misleadingly down. Flannery sneakily stared over at Anne on the bed. Those smart eyes (she could only glimpse the green) covering yards of words, translating all those ideas, moving in and out of real and imagined territories with confidence. The way Anne read was like the way she stepped down the street: sure of her carriage and her direction, while staying open to the new colors and languages around her. It was how Flannery had loved her first, after all. Then, as now, reading through some world that Flannery couldn’t even see. The title of the book was hidden.
“You know, I could spend my life watching you read.” Anne pursed her lips. “That would be tiresome.”
“For you, maybe. Not for me. For me, it
But not this. Never this. Even Anne, who claimed she’d always sensed this fire under the Nordic Jansen calm—“I saw you dance, babe, and I could see it then”— even Anne sometimes looked at her hair-swept, sweat-tossed lover and said, her own cheeks hot with surprise, “My God! There’s something in you, Flannery. There’s something, it’s so wild—where does it come from?” Then, to counter the hint of alarm in her voice, she added, “It’s wonderful.”
Flannery did not know what it was, or where it came from. Did everyone have this? Perhaps not. Did the measure of her passion relate in some way to the measure of her long years of repression? (They felt long to her; and she would soon be eighteen now, which showed just how old she was getting to be.) While all those other kids were playing doctor and nurse and feeling each other up in the cupboards, Flannery Jansen was reading peacefully at home, gathering all her resources for this moment, this intense future adventure with Anne, which would take her into the deepest throes of her shockingly savage body.
It terrified Flannery. Absolutely. She spent nights back in her dorm room blank with fear. What had been released in her? In Anne’s company she mostly felt all right about her expressiveness. No, not all right, she felt exultant: here she was, a new person, a woman, a sexual explorer bringing delight to the face she loved most in the world.
Alone, back in her room, she lost her confidence. Quiet again, the way she had always been before, the way she had known herself best, Flannery would sometimes feel completely, darkly convinced.
This can’t possibly be me.
And:
I’ve got to get out of here.
T hey tried to get back to work. It was something they both had to do as December uncoiled, snakelike, toward finals—and, worse, MLA. Anne was not only giving her paper there, she was going to be interviewed for academic jobs. Anxiety frequently threatened her like an angry swarm of bees.
Together, in Anne’s living room, which was also her bedroom, which was not altogether separate from her kitchen, they tried to work. Far from seeming cramped or enclosed, the room was open, spacious, full of light and novelty and the echoes of what they had done there. The walls were white. The angles were modern. A skylight slanted along the sloped ceiling, and Anne had arranged her bed so that the window’s trapezoid of winter sun fell on her bedspread. She lay on her side within that clutch of light, reading, head cradled in her eloquent hand. That hand: it was hard sometimes for Flannery to look at it without remembering its other talents.
“I can’t concentrate,” she said. She was sitting against a wall in the corner near two heaps of books: a pile for Revolution, for which she’d chosen to write about China, and a pile for Criticism, for which she’d chosen to write about Susan Sontag. Neither could hope to compete with the temptation of watching Anne read.
“Try.” Anne didn’t even look up.
A book spread across her knees, her head dipped misleadingly down. Flannery sneakily stared over at Anne on the bed. Those smart eyes (she could only glimpse the green) covering yards of words, translating all those ideas, moving in and out of real and imagined territories with confidence. The way Anne read was like the way she stepped down the street: sure of her carriage and her direction, while staying open to the new colors and languages around her. It was how Flannery had loved her first, after all. Then, as now, reading through some world that Flannery couldn’t even see. The title of the book was hidden.
“You know, I could spend my life watching you read.” Anne pursed her lips. “That would be tiresome.”
“For you, maybe. Not for me. For me, it
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