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Diana, Herself: An Allegory of Awakening

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Martha N. Beck

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“Have you ever felt your destiny unfolding, beloved? Have you experienced the intensity of the hunt, the fixation of attention that only fate can explain? Have you ever told yourself your feelings were excessive, but known that something huge and pivotally important was carrying you along like a riptide? You can fight that current all you want; you know it will still have its way with you. Or you can try swimming along with it, and grow amazed by your own power—until you pause and realize that you aren’t moving but being moved. You’re not in control, not at all, and that’s what makes the feeling so exquisitely exciting.”

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Book:Diana, Herself: An Allegory of Awakening
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“Just like any civilized person, you’ve spent practically your whole life torturing an innocent wild creature. Starved it, then force-fed it, cut it, cursed it, driven it to exhaustion. Imprisoned it with other creatures who tormented it.” “What?” Diana shakes her head in miserable confusion. “I don’t even kill spiders! I never wanted to hurt anything.” “The innocent wild creature to which I refer, my darling, is you.”

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Book:Diana, Herself: An Allegory of Awakening
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“The mirror image of suffering is the truth. Try it. Change the story. Change the course of your entire history. Right now.” “You want me to lie about my past?” Diana wipes tears from her face with the back of her hand. “No, to tell the story a truer way,” says Herself. “Any story can be told infinite ways, dear, but listen to me. Listen well. If a story liberates your soul, believe it. But if a story imprisons you, believe its mirror image.”

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Book:Diana, Herself: An Allegory of Awakening
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“There was nothing the matter out there. It was in here, with me. I decided I'd better go to work, maybe that would exorcise me. I fled from the room almost as though it were haunted. It was too late to stop off at a breakfast counter now. I didn't want any, anyway. My stomach kept giving little quivers. In the end I didn't go to work, either. I couldn't, I wouldn't have been any good. I telephoned in that I was too ill to come, and it was no idle excuse, even though I was upright on my two legs. I roamed around the rest of the day in the sunshine. Wherever the sunshine was the brightest, I sought and stayed in that place, and when it moved on I moved with it. I couldn't get it bright enough or strong enough. I avoided the shade, I edged away from it, even the slight shade of an awning or of a tree. And yet the sunshine didn't warm me. Where others mopped their brows and moved out of it, I stayed - and remained cold inside. And the shade was winning the battle as the hours lengthened. It outlasted the sun. The sun weakened and died; the shade deepened and spread. Night was coming on, the time of dreams, the enemy. ("Nightmare")”

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Book:Baker's Dozen: 13 Short Mystery Novels
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