Henry has told no one, not even Rosalind, that there are moments, listening from the back of a West Indian bar, when the music thrills him, and in a state of exaltation he feels his pride in his son - inseparable from his pleasure in the music - as a constricting sensation in his chest, close to pain. It’s difficult to breathe.  At the heart of the blues is not melancholy, but a strange and worldly joy. Ian McEwan, on love

Henry has told no one, not even Rosalind, that there are moments, listening from the back of a West Indian bar, when the music thrills him, and in a state of exaltation he feels his pride in his son - inseparable from his pleasure in the music - as a constricting sensation in his chest, close to pain. It’s difficult to breathe.  At the heart of the blues is not melancholy, but a strange and worldly joy.

Ian McEwan, on love

Notes

  1. theinterlocutor posted this