I was once compared to a bottle of wine; I came to realize that the kind of wine itself wasn't revealed, just the price of that wine. A shameful comparison, mon frere; je suis une bouteille de champagne extrêmement rare. I have been thinking of what it is that life is, and how strange and awful it can seem, and how wonderful and delicate, and so hard to hold onto in the end.
Three days ago I came home to find a new statue of Ganesh upon my desk, on top of the copy of the Brother's Karamazov that my husband bought me, accompanied by a love letter written to remind me that Diwali was less than two months away. My husband adores Diwali-- I was absolutely touched by this gesture. Today he bought me a Brahma head to put on the mantle above our fireplace, which we filled with books yesterday (we needed the extra storage space). He has given me a number of loving gifts; a record player, a kalimba, Santeria candles, postcards from the Musee Orsay in Paris, knitting needles from Provence, a phrenology head as a wedding gift. In all the time that I have known him, he has never compared me to anything; he refuses to venerate me on a conceptual level, and loves me for all the things which make me human-- runny noses, headaches, bad moods, dreams that are totally flippant, irresponsible behavior. I love him so much that, much like what Holly Golightly said she would do, I gave up smoking for him.