(We sit down at the booth. A rather dark corner. Only a slight flickering candle on the table and some atrocious painting of a large Italian woman holding a loaf of bread on the wall, but wonderful because everything about it is painted black, rich brown, red; earth tones -- bread tones -- a hideous subject, but a stunning piece of work, like VanGhogh's potato eaters. The waiter hasn't come, the little candle flickers. I'm staring into it because I'm trying to avoid your eyes. I fiddle with my watch, my napkin, balance my spoon in my hand, feel the weight of gravity pressing down. Anything to avoid you.)

You (Looking up suddenly, after your own long silence): Listen, I think we should talk.
Me (Still fiddling with my napkin, looking down): Yeah.
You (Leaning forward, taking my hand): Look at me.

(Hesitantly I look up. I catch the blue of your eyes. It's like looking out at the ocean, with sunset. We stayed up late last night and there were tears, so your eyes are red-rimmed).

You: Now the things you did and said last night were inappropriate. You had no right to say half of them. You don't really know how the world works -- you barely know yourself and I can see that you're struggling. You're like a spider hanging by a thread in the wind -- it's strong material, tougher than silk and more elegant, but it's still a single thread. But I'm worried about your conceits: you live in your own place, you refuse to educate yourself, you're really very ignorant, but you think you have the right to pass judgement on people and on things, and you pass some terrible judgements.

Last night, you saw something beautiful and you clutched at it and you grabbed it, but it slipped out of your fingers, fell on the floor, shattered. Don't mourn the loss. After all, doesn't Epictetus say that if you love a jug, when it breaks you should love it even more, recognizing its nature and transient shape, form? You really need to think about the things you read and start figuring out how to apply them to your life. Now as for the things that you say on this journal: you can't just spill your guts out here. You have to be honest, but part of honesty is being fair -- if you write about how you hate everyone and how you want to be left alone, then everyone will hate you and abandon you at worst, and at best they'll look at you and they'll pity you. And you know what? I love you. You aren't pitiable -- you're absolutely beautiful. You're one of the most beautiful creatures I've known in the world. I don't mean that you're some kind of rare bird either, but I mean that everything I see, even things patched and torn, even broken grass stubble clutching out of the dirt, even the trees swaying in the midnight fog and the weeping willow on woodstock, sobbing night leaves in the mist -- each moment is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. When I hold my love in my arms, even if I see nothing in his face, I see his eyes and I look into him.

(You hold up your hand when I protest) Now I know you don't have a lover. And I know you're rather bitter. But someone once said that before you can love others you have to love yourself. I think, though, that you really love yourself too much. You need to start working on loving others -- on really loving others. And things. And places. If you don't wake up in the morning and think how beautiful it is to be alive, then no one is going to make the world beautiful for you. You are going to be alone and frail, perched on a rock, looking down from a pitiful height at the cold, dark depths of your soul. Put your energy and love into the world, let the world be your lover, and lovers will come. Lovers will throng from all corners of the sky, from the four edges of the ocean, from the future, from the present, from the past. Suddenly the world will ignite in the fire of love and everything will be light and a glut of colors spilling over like something bubbling and rich on the stove, like a hot vanilla pudding. Doesn't Plato say, after all, that the love of others is only a prelude to the love of the divine? And according to Spinoza, isn't the love of the divine simply the love of the world? And isn't the love of the world the love of life? Then life will be love, and love will be divine, and divinity will fill the whole world, and the world will fill with love. Life will be sweet.

You said last night that you don't have the power to redeem the suffering of others, but you don't realize how much power you have to redeem your own suffering. And if you make even yourself happy while you walk in the busy streets and stare up at the tall clutching sky-scrapers, haven't you illuminated at least your part of the world? Redeem yourself and you'll redeem others; in short, imitate Christ.

*

Dedicated to you, and with all apologies for last night.