I spent some time with the front step pansies this afternoon.
I can never decide which are more beautiful. The purple …
or the yellow …
Regardless, I’ve always loved pansies. Partly because they seem old-fashioned: they remind me of an old velvet chair or ball gown. And partly because of Hamlet. You know that part when Ophelia doles out flowers? “And there is pansies, that’s for thoughts.”
Somehow my yogurt ended up amongst the pansies.
And my book. I love Wuthering Heights almost as much as I love pansies. I have a soft spot for tragic, deeply romantic books and movies, and this is it:
“I cannot express it; but surely you and everybody have a notion that there is or should be an existence of yours beyond you. What were the use of my creation, if I were entirely contained here? My great miseries in this world have been Heathcliff’s miseries, and I watched and felt each from the beginning: my great thought in living is himself. If all else perished, and he remained, I should still continue to be; and if all else remained, and he were annihilated, the universe would turn to a mighty stranger: I should not seem a part of it. My love for Linton is like the foliage in the woods: time will change it, I’m well aware, as winter changes the trees. My love for Heathcliff resembles the eternal rocks beneath: a source of little visible delight, but necessary. Nelly, I am Heathcliff! He’s always, always in my mind: not as a pleasure, any more than I am always a pleasure to myself, but as my own being.”
Although, let’s talk about Cathy some time. Does anyone feel sympathy for her? Let me know.