To the Bright Edge of the World

by Eowyn Ivey

If it weren’t for his poor education, quick temper, and taste for liquor, I have no doubt he would be a Colonel already.

He said Allen always expects the best of his men and never sets them to a task he would not do himself.

And here is my most callow admission—it wounds my pride to think Allen’s men know him better than I might ever hope to.

Ah, and this is the trouble with a diary. We are allowed to stand too long before its mirror and gaze at ourselves, where we unavoidably find vanity and fault.

Books have always been my most reliable teacher, but Allen is correct that some skills are better understood in practice, by hands and eyes.

It is something I love very much about him. He goes not in search of obstacles, only the paths around them. Anything seems possible.

I am loath to go—I’ve always had the irrational thought that if one consults a physician, it only confirms an illness that might otherwise be ignored away—but I will go nonetheless.

Only a few times in my life have I had such intensity of emotion as to feel as if the moment were not entirely real, and I was overcome in such a way just this morning.

It made me uneasy. I have no desire to bring Sophie into such low talk. How could I tell of her intelligence, her humor, her gentleness, to a man like this? She is too good for his ears.

I suspect he knows far more than he lets on, not that he is secretive, but instead simply a man of few words.

It is, however, one of the benefits of her friendship, if I am prepared to call it that—it requires very little of me. All I must do is nod now and then, and she will continue on like a well-cranked musical box.

A lot of shoulda, woulda, couldas. When a man gets to be 70-some years old, there is no time left for sniveling.

I have aimed not to think on it. A commander will make poor decisions when hampered by thoughts of home. Yet now, with it fresh in mind, I think of nothing else.

Yet what of love? That is another, more solid thing; it is not tricked by fine lights or spirits. It is more of earth and time, like a river-turned stone.

Such icy stillness. Our breath turns to hoarfrost in our beards, hair. Our eyelashes stick together in clumps of frost. Our lungs ache with cold. The others look to me like creatures with fur of snow; no doubt I to them as well.

Why do I find it impossible to speak my mind in these instances? I am always hopeful that I have misheard or misunderstood, and then I am held by anger and indecision—if I say anything at all, I fear a torrent of emotion will burst forth that will cause embarrassment. I worry too much about offending or rousing conflict.

that day I was filled with more love than I ever could have imagined. And when my hands grew cold, you didn’t say we should leave the beach, but instead took them in your own and kissed each of my fingertips, and I was warmed by your breath.

Why, in our efforts to understand and observe life, must we so often snuff it out?

but more than that, it was the sound of your voice, gentle, so full of delight.—Didn’t

There you were: lovely, brave, & oblivious to me. I think it only served to kindle my affection.

Makes me see that there might be some sense to having children after all, just so your entire life and all your family’s contributions aren’t relegated to Goodwill in the end.

I exist in a suspended state between sleep and wakefulness, where nothing at all happens, yet all manner of possibilities exist.

There is a mythical element to our childhood, it seems, that stays with us always. When we are young, we consume the world in great gulps, and it consumes us, and everything is mysterious and alive and fills us with desire and wonder, fear, and guilt. With the passing of the years, however, those memories become distant and malleable, and we shape them into the stories of who we are. We are brave, or we are cowardly. We are loving, or we are cruel.

There is the feeling here that civilization is still just a speck, and it makes me feel small in a good way. Seattle made me feel small in a bad way, if that makes any sense.

No doubt that living in a small beautiful village is more rewarding… in the sense of "feeling small in a good way"

What comes next is a beautiful narrative explaining love!

But oh Allen. I see now that you are more than husband or lover, for you are my dearest friend. I have a freeness of emotion with you that I have never before experienced.

nothing is impossible. Take one step, and then another, and see where the path leads. Don’t think of the obstacles, only the way around them.

but inevitably I must go to bed, and here is where I find my loneliness.

He was surprised to learn that a man of my age & status would have only one wife, to which Samuelson offered that perhaps more wives only meant more trouble. This amused Ceeth Hwya.

Even before we arrive, I want you to have some sense of her. The photograph is a poor representation, as she is not best shown in a stodgy atmosphere. Hers is an uncontrived nature, a beauty in her eyes & laugh, a kind of light that shines out of her very being.

Father always said an artist must be at least half in love with his subject.

I dont like it much atall that the Colonel might die as hes a good man best kind there is. Hes the one who spurs us on, keeps us livin even when thers no food to speak of. He might loose his temper now an then but all good men do so.

There are so many other labels people like to assign. Where am I an insider, and where am I an outsider? It all depends on where I’m standing and who is trying to put me into which box.

So I guess I wonder, where is the line separating me into this culture or that culture, saying I have less or more? I’m just me, and like most people, I’ve had my heart broken a few times, but for the most part I have been happy.

I think there’s this tendency to lump people together, to think that all people who look like this or come from this background must think the same.

It’s humanity. We’re complicated and messy and beautiful.