never saw him or spoke to him again. We were divorced.
I have just reread The Age of Innocence . Poor Countess Olenska, so much more alive than everyone in New York. She was better than Newland Archer, to whom she couldnât give herself because she was married. It didnât matter to society that she had been wronged by her husband. They felt her life was over. Thanks to the modern age of divorce, my life is not. I am coming to see that as a blessing and not something to be ashamed of. I am starting to think that my life is a good thing to have. I do not believe that there were more happy marriages before divorce became socially acceptable, that people tried harder, got through their rough times, and were better off. I believe that more people suffered.
Divorce is in the machine now, like love and birth and death. Its possibility informs us, even when it goes untouched. And if we fail at marriage, we are lucky we donât have to fail with the force of our whole life. I would like there to be an eighth sacrament: the sacrament of divorce. Like Communion, it is a slim white wafer on the tongue. Like confession, it is forgiveness. Forgiveness is important not so much because weâve done wrong as because we feel we need to be forgiven. Family, friends, God, whoever loves us forgives us, takes us in again. They are thrilled by our life, our possibilities, our second chances. They weep with gladness that we did not have to die.
( Vogue , April 1996)
The Paris Match
T HERE ARE THINGS people do when they are first in love: they surprise one another with trips to Paris; they make reservations in impossibly expensive Paris restaurants; they have conversations about former lovers while they eat in those impossibly expensive Paris restaurants. All of these things can happen after years of marriage as well, but the chances are infinitely smaller.
Karl and I had been together a little more than a year. He arranged the trip and I made the reservations for a very late lunch. I canât remember how it all got started, but sitting in Taillevent, at such a beautiful table right in the center of the room, the conversation somehow turned to Mark. My relationship with Mark had been an amicable one that had come to a mostly amicable end. Karlâs question was if we had fought very often. Or maybe I asked Karl if he had fought with his ex-wife, and so in return he asked me about Mark.
The waiter came and handed me a wine list the size of a tombstone. I turned the pages for a moment, the way I might have turned the pages of a calculus exam, with some interest and not a single spark of comprehension. âWhite,â I said, and Karl, who doesnât drink, just shook his head.
âThe worst fight we ever had wasnât exactly a fight,â I said. âWe were playing a word game. When he told me about it I said I wanted to play, but then I couldnât figure out the answer and he wouldnât stop. He just kept playing it and playing it, and, I donât knowââ
The waiter came to take our orders. We ordered something. Some food.
âWhat?â Karl asked after the waiter had gone.
I remembered the fight very clearly. We were in the car, and Mark was driving, and when we got to a red light I opened the door, got out, and walked through the traffic to the curb, something I have never done before or since. âI thought I was going to kill him.â
âSo whatâs the game?â he asked.
âIt isnât hard. Thatâs whatâs so awful about it. Once I actually got it, it was simple.â
Karl sat back. He was beautiful in the rich light, beautiful between the damask draperies and the thick white tablecloth. He rested his fingers against the heavy fork beside his plate. âTell me how to play. Iâm good at these sorts of things.â
We hadnât been together long enough to know that we shouldnât talk about old lovers. We probably hadnât been together
I have just reread The Age of Innocence . Poor Countess Olenska, so much more alive than everyone in New York. She was better than Newland Archer, to whom she couldnât give herself because she was married. It didnât matter to society that she had been wronged by her husband. They felt her life was over. Thanks to the modern age of divorce, my life is not. I am coming to see that as a blessing and not something to be ashamed of. I am starting to think that my life is a good thing to have. I do not believe that there were more happy marriages before divorce became socially acceptable, that people tried harder, got through their rough times, and were better off. I believe that more people suffered.
Divorce is in the machine now, like love and birth and death. Its possibility informs us, even when it goes untouched. And if we fail at marriage, we are lucky we donât have to fail with the force of our whole life. I would like there to be an eighth sacrament: the sacrament of divorce. Like Communion, it is a slim white wafer on the tongue. Like confession, it is forgiveness. Forgiveness is important not so much because weâve done wrong as because we feel we need to be forgiven. Family, friends, God, whoever loves us forgives us, takes us in again. They are thrilled by our life, our possibilities, our second chances. They weep with gladness that we did not have to die.
( Vogue , April 1996)
The Paris Match
T HERE ARE THINGS people do when they are first in love: they surprise one another with trips to Paris; they make reservations in impossibly expensive Paris restaurants; they have conversations about former lovers while they eat in those impossibly expensive Paris restaurants. All of these things can happen after years of marriage as well, but the chances are infinitely smaller.
Karl and I had been together a little more than a year. He arranged the trip and I made the reservations for a very late lunch. I canât remember how it all got started, but sitting in Taillevent, at such a beautiful table right in the center of the room, the conversation somehow turned to Mark. My relationship with Mark had been an amicable one that had come to a mostly amicable end. Karlâs question was if we had fought very often. Or maybe I asked Karl if he had fought with his ex-wife, and so in return he asked me about Mark.
The waiter came and handed me a wine list the size of a tombstone. I turned the pages for a moment, the way I might have turned the pages of a calculus exam, with some interest and not a single spark of comprehension. âWhite,â I said, and Karl, who doesnât drink, just shook his head.
âThe worst fight we ever had wasnât exactly a fight,â I said. âWe were playing a word game. When he told me about it I said I wanted to play, but then I couldnât figure out the answer and he wouldnât stop. He just kept playing it and playing it, and, I donât knowââ
The waiter came to take our orders. We ordered something. Some food.
âWhat?â Karl asked after the waiter had gone.
I remembered the fight very clearly. We were in the car, and Mark was driving, and when we got to a red light I opened the door, got out, and walked through the traffic to the curb, something I have never done before or since. âI thought I was going to kill him.â
âSo whatâs the game?â he asked.
âIt isnât hard. Thatâs whatâs so awful about it. Once I actually got it, it was simple.â
Karl sat back. He was beautiful in the rich light, beautiful between the damask draperies and the thick white tablecloth. He rested his fingers against the heavy fork beside his plate. âTell me how to play. Iâm good at these sorts of things.â
We hadnât been together long enough to know that we shouldnât talk about old lovers. We probably hadnât been together
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