2
" And with that recitation, Adelaide Buchwald gave Jack Cavallero her
heart.
Impulsively,
gloriously,
openly,
she gave it to him, falling in love with someone she did not know,
wondering at the curve of his cheek, and the wave of his hair, and the way his
shirt draped over his shoulders.
He made her laugh. He dared to write poems. He risked looking foolish
in order to create something beautiful or strange.
She wanted to know the story of the scar on his abdomen. How had he
gotten that wound? How well had it healed?
She could see by looking at him that he had been
vulnerable.
That he had
lived.
Survived.
She wanted to see all his scars, see all of him, and she felt
suddenly,
intensely
certain
that he was a safe person to show her own scars to.
She thought, Maybe we have known each other always. Maybe our hearts
encountered each other somehow,
like two hundred years ago at a cotillion, with him in a frock coat and me
in whatever, some kind of elegant and complicated dress.
Or maybe our encounter was in another
possible world. That is,
in one of the countless other versions of this universe, the
worlds running parallel to this one,
we are already
in love. "
― E. Lockhart , Again Again
8
" In the theater,” Adelaide went on, wanting him to understand why she found this so interesting, “your audience doesn’t expect things to look real. Like, you can’t have a real car on the stage, anyway, can you? So instead, you make something obviously artificial. You just create the feeling. And maybe the thing you make, instead of looking real, feels true. "
― E. Lockhart , Again Again
