The two lovers/murderers are now married – the freedom to enter such a union having been the reason for killing the husband in the first place – but they’re hideously unhappy. The weight of their murderous machinations has left them emotionally disfigured, and all the intense passion they once felt for one another has shrivelled to nothing.
This is uncomfortably close to a couple of episodes in my
own life. I never killed anybody physically, but I might as well have done for
all the scars I must have left on the lives of the innocent. And both resultant
relationships failed miserably, crushed by the weight of remorse and neurosis.
So why am I admitting this on a public blog? It isn’t about some notion of cathartic confession; what’s done is done and cannot be undone. I suppose it’s because this blog is all about me, both the outer and the inner versions. And because reading about Thérèse and Laurent’s descent into the pit has left me with the uncomfortable perception that I have never done anything good during my time on this earth, only bad. It isn’t quite true, but it’s still left me with an awful sense that I am ashamed of my life. That’s an unpleasant feeling. And of course, there is too little time left now to wholly redress the balance.
Maybe this is all about learning lessons over a much longer timescale than a mere single life. For now, I expect I’ll get over it.
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