I’m reading one of the very few Alexander McCall Smith’s books that I haven’t read — “The Careful Use of Compliments“. And as I’ve already raved maniacally mentioned casually how I love his writing, I’ll just leave you with these lines, selected from the 3 pages that took my breath away.
“He took her hand, stroking it gently.
Jamie pressed her hand to his chest.
He moved her hand across his chest. She felt the beating of his heart, somewhere below her fingers, and that felt the most intimate of all. She might possess him, but she might not touch his heart.
He turned and kissed her on the forehead. The back of his hand was upon her cheek.
She wanted only to lie there with him, close to him in the darkness, and drift off to sleep.”
There’s nothing sexual about it. Mr. McCall Smith doesn’t do porn. Just some random conversation between the philosopher and her boyfriend before they drifted off to sleep. And yet it proves so enthralling. Because that, exactly THAT, is what intimacy feels like. The ultimate bond between lovers. The essence of happiness. It beats gigantic diamond rings. Beats sizzling hot sex. Beats even a one-year trip around the world. Beats all those things put together. The random things people do — yet barely notice they’re doing it — when their love for each other is so intense, it seems to radiate from their beings like a halo. And no matter how tough life is, if there’s such moments to share, and there’s such a person for you to create those memories with, you’ll be alright. You WILL be alright.