Two detective novels I read recently unexpectedly had passages on being in love.
“Let’s go for a little walk. I’ve got work to do to, but it can wait.”
She came along with me under the trees, leaning with carefully controlled lightness on my arm. The old street seemed beautiful and formal in the morning light.
I told her a story I remembered from my childhood. There had been a time, it said, when men and women were closer than twins and shared the same mortal body. I told her that when the two of us came together, I felt that close to her. And when she dropped out of sight, I felt that loss of a part of myself.
We walked slowly around the block, as if we had inherited the morning and were looking for a place to spend it. We were contented and grave, like two people performing a ceremony.
Thus Ross MacDonald, the Blue Hammer.
The other was a book by Andrea Camilleri the Age of Doubt. What a book! It had a rich vein of low humor, a throat-tightening description of what its like to fall crazy in love, and low and high tragedy. I am about to go on a guzzle of Camilleri’s stuff.