Then they were walking along the stream together and he said, “Maria, I love thee and thou art so lovely and so wonderful and so beautiful and it does such things to me to be with thee that I feel as though I wanted to die when I am loving thee.”
“Oh,” she said. “I die each time. Do you not die?”
“No. Almost. But did thee feel the earth move?”
“Yes. As I died. Put thy arm around me, please.”
“No. I have thy hand. Thy hand is enough.”
He looked at her and across the meadow where a hawk was hunting and the big afternoon clouds were coming now over the mountains.
“And it is not thus for thee with others?” Maria asked him, they now walking hand in hand.
“Thou hast loved many others.”
“Some. But not as thee.”
“And it was not thus? Truly?”
“It was a pleasure but it was not thus.”
“And then the earth moved. The earth never moved before?”
“Nay. Truly never.”
“Ay,” she said. “And this we have for one day.”
He said nothing.
-- Ernest Hemingway, from "For Whom the Bell Tolls."
"The earth moved" has become the cliché to end all clichés but it was probably fresh and new in 1940 when Hemingway's work was first published. Me? I'm all about "And this we have for one day." Because that's all any of us ever really have... that one day. If we're lucky we'll have a succession of days, but in the end? It's that one day. I'm sure you have yours, Gentle Reader. I know I have mine. And I'm grateful for it.
Photo: Me -- Kyoto, Japan. 1975.