Faulkner is rolling in his grave, and my heart is bleeding

As if the world is laughing roaringly at me even though my heart is still bleeding, I wrote a very long post, and then my browser crashed, and the autosave was not timely enough and I lost everything...

Back to where the heart was bleeding, The Wild Palms, as you may know, is my favorite novel. What is happening in the Gulf of Mexico now is destroying my belief in many things, and most terribly, I feel as if the steamy and salty coastline of Mississipi and Louisiana that Faulkner gave his genius to, will no longer be the same.

Now, we are all forced to choose grief over nothingness. There is no choice, no Cyanide for everyone, we can only continue, but not because we want grief over a love that has no equal, we accept grief over a desire that has no equal.

What does love have to do with desire? Sometimes everything, sometimes nothing.

He crossed the hall to the bedroom door. There was still no sound save the wind (there was a window, the sash did not fit; the black wind whispered and murmured at it but did not enter, it did not want, did not need to). She lay on her back, her eyes closed, the nightgown (that garment which she had never owned, never worn before) twisted about her just under the arms, the body not sprawled, not abandoned, but on the contrary even a little tense. The whisper of hte black wind filled the room...

--The Wild Palms (1939), William Faulkner