The author of this novel with his wife
‘Did you need Gerald?’ she asked one evening.
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Aren’t I enough for you?’ she asked.
‘No,’ he said. ‘You are enough for me, as far as a woman is concerned. You are all women to me. But I wanted a man friend, as eternal as you and I are eternal.’
‘Why aren’t I enough?’ she said. ‘You are enough for me. I don’t want anybody else but you. Why isn’t it the same with you?’
‘Having you, I can live all my life without anybody else, any other sheer intimacy. But to make it complete, really happy, I wanted eternal union with a man too: another kind of love,’ he said.
‘I don’t believe it,’ she said. ‘It’s an obstinacy, a theory, a perversity.’
‘Well –’ he said.
‘You can’t have two kinds of love. Why should you!’
‘It seems as if I can’t,’ he said. ‘Yet I wanted it.’
‘You can’t have it, because it’s false, impossible,’ she said.
‘I don’t believe that,’ he answered.