And in truth, she herself received
more from the living pages than she had ever done before. Now that her
own life had become so real, she discovered (probably something she
knew, deep down) that the truly great writers did not exaggerate the
intensity of human drama, or the power of their own emotions, but only
spoke honestly and without dilution of the worlds that they had known.
Dickens especially she loved, because he made her feel the joys and
terrors of children, who from the outset of life had experienced sorrow
and loss, when her own childhood had been so safe and full, the death of
her mother notwithstanding. And she, too, began to see Kalus
differently, and to understand some measure of the invisible pain he
felt.
At times it was almost too much, for both of them, to look at life so
closely in the midst of danger, and he would ask her to stop, or she
would set down the book she read silently to herself. Such was the
power of those days. With the intensity of Nature's relentless
backdrop, emotions were tested like ship's rigging in a gale. And
both knew, despite the woman's stubborn optimism, that it would take
more than all their courage for the ship to still float brokenly at the
morning of calm sea's return.
Invaluable time was passing, and Kalus' illness refused to heal.
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