The late spring afternoon light fills the living room with a suffused golden radiance. A bright ray of sunshine mirrors a hypnotic shaft from the base of the lamp by the window. A steady, sleepy breeze billows through the deepening blue of a peaceful room. It is a lovely spring day and I am thirty-one years old and live in Manhattan. All life is a promise today. Allan has made an early supper of baked chicken and rice and corn on the cob. Sadie had scraps and is sleeping a deep sleep on my bed. The steady drone of traffic noises float across the room. The ceaseless muted din of engines, the occasional siren. The balminess of this day evokes my memories of other summers— of hot Florida days, and swimming and making love in cool darkened afternoon cottages— of deep naps that smell of the sea. In a while, I will brush my teeth and wash my face and put on fresh-ironed khaki pants and my blue pinstriped cotton shirt and a touch of patchouli oil to blend with this later afternoon dream and mingle it with dreams of other summers, and other days. And Allan and I will walk to Chelsea to meet Annie and her lover to see Marsha’s new play which opens tonight. And soon, very soon, I will find my lover. The truth of this summer’s golden promise is rich and ripe and sure. I am passing into an adult fullness, and my lover’s strong arms are not far from me.
And it seemed to him then that every human was always looking for himself, in bars, in railway stations, in offices, in mirrors, in love, especially in love… Love was not to give oneself, but find oneself, describe oneself.
James Jones, From Here to Eternity