The brown color is so enveloping, velvety, cozy. The color of chocolate, hue of dark wooden shelves, color of bindings of antique books, varied tints of brown eyes.
I associate this color with luxury, the grace of musical instruments, with huge libraries, winding railings of giant staircases in old mansions, picture frames and frigate masts with their majestic galjoen figures.
[text ID: THE operative fallacy here is that we believe that unconditional love means not seeing anything negative about someone, when it really means pretty much the opposite: loving someone despite their infuriating flaws and essential absurdity. “Do I want to be loved in spite of?” Donald Barthelme writes in his story “Rebecca” about a woman with green skin. “Do you? Does anyone? But aren’t we all, to some degree?”
We don’t give other people credit for the same interior complexity we take for granted in ourselves, the same capacity for holding contradictory feelings in balance, for complexly alloyed affections, for bottomless generosity of heart and petty, capricious malice. We can’t believe that anyone could be unkind to us and still be genuinely fond of us, although we do it all the time. end ID]
