So she dug into the long, enclosed bookshelf that lay
half buried in a corner of the treasure room, until she found works of
fiction and philosophy which seemed appropriate. She then read to him
fragments of each, asking which he preferred.
He was cold to the idea at first, not understanding, and expressed no
preference. But she noticed that his eyes became puzzled and alert at
the first chapter of 'For Whom the Bell Tolls,' and that he seemed
to want to ask questions, but did not.
So she read him several chapters each day, until at last he began to
open up, and to ask her. Had men really lived that way? Why did Robert
Jordan not take the woman he loved far away from the war? And was it
really possible to feel the earth move beneath them when they made love?
And slowly, as always, quietly, the profound pain and beauty of true
literature began to work its haunting and healing magic upon him. His
thought no longer bounded by the physical reality around him, he found
in books a way to escape and look beyond himself, into worlds he had
never dreamed of, and to empathize with struggles and disillusioning he
had imagined did not exist outside himself. Simply put, he became
connected to the souls, singular and collective, of humanity.
And to know the woman held all these things in her mind and in her
heart, put him almost in awe of her.
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