Jude And Willem Quotes

Who am I? Who am I?” “You’re Jude St. Francis. You are my oldest, dearest friend. You’re the son of Harold Stein and Julia Altman. You’re the friend of Malcolm Irvine, of Jean-Baptiste Marion, of Richard Goldfarb, of Andy Contractor, of Lucien Voigt, of Citizen van Straaten, of Rhodes Arrowsmith, of Elijah Kozma, of Phaedra de los Santos, of the Henry Youngs. You’re a New Yorker. You live in SoHo. You volunteer for an arts organization; you volunteer for a food kitchen. You’re a swimmer. You’re a baker. You’re a cook. You’re a reader. You have a beautiful voice, though you never sing anymore. You’re an excellent pianist. You’re an art collector. You write me lovely messages when I’m away. You’re patient. You’re generous. You’re the best listener I know. You’re the smartest person I know, in every way. You’re the bravest person I know, in every way. You’re a lawyer. You’re the chair of the litigation department at Rosen Pritchard and Klein. You love your job; you work hard at it. You’re a mathematician. You’re a logician. You’ve tried to teach me, again and again. You were treated horribly. You came out on the other end. You were always you.” "And who are you?" "I'm Willem Ragnarsson. And I will never let you go.

Sometimes he wakes so far from himself that he can’t even remember who he is. “Where am I?” he asks, desperate, and then, “Who am I? Who am I?” And then he hears, so close to his ear that it is as if the voice is originating inside his own head, Willem’s whispered incantation. “You’re Jude St. Francis. You are my oldest, dearest friend. You’re the son of Harold Stein and Julia Altman. You’re the friend of Malcolm Irvine, of Jean-Baptiste Marion, of Richard Goldfarb, of Andy Contractor, of Lucien Voigt, of Citizen van Straaten, of Rhodes Arrowsmith, of Elijah Kozma, of Phaedra de los Santos, of the Henry Youngs. “You’re a New Yorker. You live in SoHo. You volunteer for an arts organization; you volunteer for a food kitchen. “You’re a swimmer. You’re a baker. You’re a cook. You’re a reader. You have a beautiful voice, though you never sing anymore. You’re an excellent pianist. You’re an art collector. You write me lovely messages when I’m away. You’re patient. You’re generous. You’re the best listener I know. You’re the smartest person I know, in every way. You’re the bravest person I know, in every way. “You’re a lawyer. You’re the chair of the litigation department at Rosen Pritchard and Klein. You love your job; you work hard at it. “You’re a mathematician. You’re a logician. You’ve tried to teach me, again and again. “You were treated horribly. You came out on the other end. You were always you.

But mostly, I missed watching you two together; I missed watching you watch him, and him watch you; I missed how thoughtful you were with each other, missed how thoughtlessly, sincerely affectionate you were with him; missed watching you listen to each other, the way you both did so intently.

Are you happy? he once asked Jude (they must have been drunk). I don't think happiness is for me, Jude had said at last, as if Willem had been offering him a dish he didn't want to eat. But it's for you, Willem.

He steps back, still looking. In the painting, Willem's torso is directed toward the viewer, but his face is turned to the right so that he is almost in profile, and he is leaning towards something or someone and smiling. And because he knows Willem's smiles, he knows that Willem has been captured looking at something he loves, he knows Willem in that instant is happy. Willem's face and neck dominate the canvas and although the background is suggested rather than shown, he knows that Willem is at their table. He knows it from the way that JB has drawn the light and shadows on Willem's face. He has the sense that if he says Willem's name that the face in the painting will turn toward him and answer; he has the sense that if he stretches his hand out and strokes the canvas he will feel beneath his fingertips Willem's hair, his fringe of eyelashes. But he doesn't do this, of course, just looks up at last and sees JB smiling at him, sadly. "The title card's been mounted already," JB says, and he goes slowly to the wall behind the painting and sees its title - "Willem Listening to Jude Tell a Story, Greene Street"-and he feels his beneath abandon him; it feels as if his heart is made of something oozing and cold, like ground meat, and it is being squeezed inside a fist so that chunks of it are falling, plopping to the ground near his feet.

and he goes slowly to the wall behind the painting and sees its title; WILLEM LISTENING TO JUDE TELL A STORY, GREENE STREET ...and he feels his breath abandon him

That night, before bed, he goes first to Willem's side of the closet, which he has still not emptied. Here are Willem's shirts on their hangers, and his sweaters on their shelves, and his shoes lined up beneath. He takes down the shirt he needs, a burgundy plaid woven through with threads of yellow, which Willem used to wear around the house in the springtime, and shrugs it on over his head. But instead of putting his arms through its sleeves, he ties the sleeves in front of him, which makes the shirt look like a straitjacket, but which he can pretend—if he concentrates—are Willem's arms in an embrace around him. He climbs into bed. This ritual embarrasses and shames him, but he only does it when he really needs it, and tonight he really needs it.

He steps back, still looking. In the painting, Willem’s torso is directed toward the viewer, but his face is turned to the right so that he is almost in profile, and he is leaning toward something or someone and smiling. And because he knows Willem’s smiles, he knows Willem has been captured looking at something he loves, he knows Willem in that instant was happy. Willem’s face and neck dominate the canvas, and although the background is suggested rather than shown, he knows that Willem is at their table; he knows it from the way JB has drawn the light and shadows on Willem’s face. He has the sense that if he says Willem’s name, the face in the painting will turn toward him and answer; he has the sense that if he stretches his hand out and strokes the canvas, he will feel beneath his fingertips Willem’s hair, his fringe of eyelashes. But he doesn’t do this, of course, just looks up at last and sees JB smiling at him, sadly. “The title’s card’s been mounted already,” JB says, and he goes slowly to the wall behind the painting and sees its title—Willem Listening to Jude Tell a Story, Greene Street—and he feels his breath abandon him; it feels as if his heart is made of something oozing and cold, like ground meat, and it is being squeezed inside a fist so that chunks of it are falling, plopping to the ground near his feet.

Jude, do you ever want to be with someone?” “I never thought I would.” “But that’s not what I asked.” “I don’t know, Willem,” he says, unable to look at Willem’s face. “I guess I just don’t think that sort of thing is for someone like me.

Willen," Jude said, and was quiet. "I think I turned out pretty normal, all things considered, don´t you?" and Willem had heard the strain, and the hope, in his voice.

And, of course, there is the person you come back to: his face and body and voice and scent and touch, his way of waiting until you finish whatever you're saying, no matter how lengthy, before he speaks, the way his smile moves so slowly across his face that it reminds you of moonrise, how clearly he has missed you and how clearly happy he is to have you back. Then there are the things, if you are particularly lucky, that this person has done for you while you're away: how in the pantry, in the freezer, in the refrigerator will be all the food you like to eat, the scotch you like to drink. There will be the sweater you thought you lost the previous year at the theater, clean and folded and back on its shelf. There will be the shirt with its dangling buttons, but the buttons will be sewn back in place...And there will be no mention of it, and you will know that it was done with genuine pleasure, and you will know that part of the reason—a small part, but a part—you love being in this apartment and in this relationship is because this other person is always making a home for you, and that when you tell him this, he won't be offended but pleased, and you'll be glad, because you meant it with gratitude. And in these moments—almost a week back home—you will wonder why you leave so often, and you will wonder whether, after the next year's obligations are fulfilled, you ought not just stay here for a period, where you belong.

And so home he goes, and he waits and waits for Willem to appear to him. But he doesn’t, and finally he sleeps.

Sometimes he wakes so far from himself that he can’t even remember who he is. “Where am I?” he asks, desperate, and then, “Who am I? Who am I?” And then he hears, so close to his ear that it is as if the voice is originating inside his own head, Willem’s whispered incantation. “You’re Jude St. Francis. You are my oldest, dearest friend. You’re the son of Harold Stein and Julia Altman. You’re the friend of Malcolm Irvine, of Jean-Baptiste Marion, of Richard Goldfarb, of Andy Contractor, of Lucien Voigt, of Citizen van Straaten, of Rhodes Arrowsmith, of Elijah Kozma, of Phaedra de los Santos, of the Henry Youngs. “You’re a New Yorker. You live in SoHo. You volunteer for an arts organization; you volunteer for a food kitchen. “You’re a swimmer. You’re a baker. You’re a cook. You’re a reader. You have a beautiful voice, though you never sing anymore. You’re an excellent pianist. You’re an art collector. You write me lovely messages when I’m away. You’re patient. You’re generous. You’re the best listener I know. You’re the smartest person I know, in every way. You’re the bravest person I know, in every way. “You’re a lawyer. You’re the chair of the litigation department at Rosen Pritchard and Klein. You love your job; you work hard at it. “You’re a mathematician. You’re a logician. You’ve tried to teach me, again and again. “You were treated horribly. You came out on the other end. You were always you.” ― Hanya Yanagihara, A Little Life

Su muerte ya es difícil de asimilar, pero que muriera creyendo que nos debía disculpas es todavía peor; que muriera obstinándose aún en creer que todo lo que le habían enseñado acerca de sí mismo después de ti, después de mí, después de todos los que le queríamos- demuestra mi fracaso: he fracasado en lo único que importaba - Harold

One night, very late, he rubs Willem's shoulder and when Willem opens his eyes, he apologizes to him. But Willem shakes his head, and then moves on top of him, and holds him so tightly that he finds it difficult to breathe. “You hold me back,” Willem tells him. “Pretend we're falling and we're clinging together from fear.” He holds Willem so close that he can feel muscles from his back to his fingertips come alive, so close that he can feel Willem's heart beating against his, can feel his rib cage against his, and his stomach deflating and inflating with air. “Harder,” Willem tells him, and he does until his arms grow first fatigued and then numb, until his body is sagging with tiredness, until he feels that he really is falling: first through the mattress, and then the bed frame, and then the floor itself, until he is sinking in slow motion through all the floors of the building, which yield and swallow him like jelly. Down he goes…through the fourth floor...and then to the ground floor, and into the pool, and then down and down, farther and farther, past the subway tunnels, past bedrock and silt, through underground lakes and oceans of oil, through layers of fossils and shale, until he is drifting into the fire at the earth's core. And the entire time, Willem is wrapped around him, and as they enter the fire, they aren't burned but melted into one being, their legs and chests and arms and heads fusing into one. When he wakes the next morning, Willem is no longer on top of him but beside him, but they are still intertwined, and he feels slightly drugged, and relieved, for he has not only not cut himself but he has slept, deeply, two things he hasn't done in months. That morning he feels fresh-scrubbed and cleansed, as if he is being given yet another opportunity to live his life correctly.

...the real thing that distinguished him and Malcolm from Jude and Willem was not race or wealth, but Jude’s and Willem’s depthless capacity for wonderment: their childhoods had been so paltry, so gray, compared to his, that it seemed they were constantly being dazzled as adults.

He sometimes thought that the real thing that distinguished him and Malcom from Jude and Willem was not race or wealth, but Jude's and Willem's depthless capacity for wonderment: their childhoods had been so paltry, so gray, compared to his, that it seemed they were constantly being dazzled as adults.

Se on ensimmäinen suudelma, jonka hän on elämänsä aikana antanut omasta aloitteestaan, ja hän toivoo sen kertovan Willemille kaiken, mitä hän ei voi sanoa, edes pimeässä, edes aamun harmaassa kajossa: kaiken mitä hän häpeää, kaiken mistä hän on kiitollinen. Tällä kertaa hän pitää silmät kiinni ja kuvittelee, että pian itsekin pääsee sinne, minne ihmiset menevät suudellessaan, harrastaessaan seksiä: maahan jossa hän ei ole koskaan käynyt, paikkaan jonka hän haluaa nähdä, maailmaan joka toivottavasti ei ole häneltä ikuisesti kielletty.

He loved knowing that in those moments, he was making Jude happy, loved knowing that Jude wanted affection and that he was the person who was allowed to provide it.

Willem listening Jude tell a story

—Pero tu vida tiene tanto sentido como la mía —le dijo Willem—. Tú también eres maravilloso. ¿No lo sabes, Jude?

I don’t think happiness is for me, Jude had said at last, as if Willem had been offering him a dish he didn’t want to eat. But it’s for you, Willem.

he feels, as he increasingly does, that his life is something that has happened to him, rather than something he has had any role in creating.

Willem had always been careful not to express too much interest in exploring the many cupboarded cabinet in which Jude had secreted himself.

- Al menos no está aquí Willem para verlo- dijimos Aunque, si tú hubieras estado allí,¿ no habría estado él también? -Harold

Willem listening to Jude tell a story, Greene Street.

Willem listening to Jude tell a story.

I don't think happiness is for me, Jude had said at last, as if Willem had been offering him a dish he didn't want to eat. But it's for you, Willem.

But Jude was always there. He had never had a girlfriend or a boyfriend, and he had always spent the night in their room, his presence beneath Willem's bunk as familiar and constant as the sea

—¿Dónde estoy? —pregunta desesperado—. ¿Quién soy? ¿Quién soy? —Eres Jude St. Francis. Eres mi más viejo y querido amigo. —¿Y quién eres tú? —Yo soy Willem Ragnarsson. Y no dejaré que te vayas.

«Ma Jude, tu stai male. Dobbiamo trovare qualcuno che ti aiuti». «Non c’è niente che possa aiutarmi, devo solo aspettare che passi». «Che cosa posso fare?» «Niente. Però, Willem... puoi restare qui con me, per un po’?»

And in an essential way, this was what he was most ashamed of: not his poor understanding of sex, not his traitorous racial tendencies, not his inability to separate himself from his parents or make his own money or behave like an autonomous creature. It was that, when he and his colleagues sat there at night, the group of them burrowed deep into their own ambitious dream-structures, all of them drawing and planning their improbable buildings, he was doing nothing. He had lost the ability to imagine anything. And so every evening, while the others created, he copied: he drew buildings he had seen on his travels, buildings other people had dreamed and constructed, buildings he had lived in or passed through. Again and again, he made what had already been made, not bothering to improve them, just mimicking them. He was twenty-eight; his imagination had deserted him; he was a copyist. It frightened him. JB had his series. Jude had his work, Willem had his. But what if Malcolm never again created anything? He longed for the years when it was enough to simply be in his room with his hand moving over a piece of graph paper, before the years of decisions and identities, when his parents made his choices for him, and the only thing he had to concentrate on was the clean blade stroke of a line, the ruler's perfect knife edge.

He would have taken Willem’s looks, of course, but he would have killed something small and adorable to have looked like Jude, to have had a mysterious limp that was really more of a glide and to have the face and body that he did.

I won’t say a word. I’ll see you tomorrow. And Jude—” But he didn’t, or couldn’t, say anything else. “I know,” he said. “I know, Willem. I feel the same way.” “I love you,” said Willem, and then he was gone before he had to respond.

Y aunque me siento mal por mí, por nosotros- por supuesto- me siento sobre todo mal por JB, privado de vuestra compañía y obligado a vivir la vejez solo, con nuevos amigos, sin duda, pero acusando la ausencia de todos vosotros -Harold

Grazie a quelle parole, Willem poté rammentare a se stesso che la loro relazione non era una missione di salvataggio, tutto sommato, ma un’estensione della loro amicizia, nella quale lui aveva salvato Jude, ma Jude aveva fatto altrettanto.

—No, Jude —le dice Andy—. Si destrozas esta relación, si sigues mintiendo a la persona que te quiere, que te quiere de verdad, que ha sabido verte tal como eres, solo podrás echarte la culpa a ti. Tú serás el único responsable. Y no lo serás por lo que eres, o por lo que te han hecho, o por las enfermedades que tienes o por el aspecto que crees tener, sino por tu comportamiento, porque no has confiado lo bastante en Willem para hablar con sinceridad con él, para tratarlo con la misma generosidad y confianza que él siempre te ha demostrado. Sé que crees que lo estás librando de algo, pero no es cierto. Eres egoísta. Eres egoísta, obstinado y orgulloso, y vas a estropear lo mejor que te ha ocurrido en la vida. ¿No lo entiendes?

Years later, Willem would recount this conversation—its contours, if not its actual, literal content—for Malcolm as proof of his own incompetence, his own failure. How might things have been different if he spoke only one sentence? And that sentence could have been “Jude, are you trying to kill yourself?” or “Jude, you need to tell me what’s going on,” or “Jude, why do you do this to yourself?” Any of those would have been acceptable; any of those would have led to a larger conversation that would

Willem escuchando a Jude contar una historia, piensa, y ante él aparece el cuadro: la cara de Willem, su sonrisa, pero no está mirándolo a él, mira para otro lado. ¿Y si el Willem del cuadro estuviera buscándolo?, piensa. De pronto siente la urgencia de colocarse a la derecha del cuadro, de sentarse en una silla en lo que sería la línea de visión de Willem, de no dejarlo nunca solo. Allí está Willem, eterno prisionero de una conversación de un solo interlocutor. Y allí está él, vivo y también prisionero. Piensa en Willem solo en el cuadro, esperando noche tras noche en el museo vacío a que él le cuente una historia.

He was about to speak when Jude put down the water glass he'd been using as a pastry cutter and looked at him. 'I'm really sorry, Willem,' he said, so softly that Willem almost couldn't hear him. He saw Willem looking at his hand and pulled it into his lap. 'I should never -' He paused. 'I'm sorry. Don't be mad at me.

Sometimes he wakes so far from himself that he can't even remember who he is. 'Where am I?' he asks, desperate, and then, 'Who am I? Who am I?' And then he hears, so close to his ear that it is as if the voice is originating inside his own head, Willem's whispered incantation. 'You're Jude St. Francis. You are my oldest, dearest friend. You're the son of Harold Stein and Julia Altman. You're the friend of Malcolm Irvine, Jean-Baptiste Marion, of Richard Goldfarb, of Andy Contractor, of Lucien Voigt, of Citizen van Straaten, of Rhodes Arrowsmith, of Elijah Kozma, of Phaedra de los Santos, of the Henry Youngs. You're a New Yorker. You live in SoHo. You volunteer for an arts organization; you volunteer for a food kitchen. You're a swimmer. You're a baker. You're a cook. You're a reader. You have a beautiful voice, though you never sing anymore. You're an excellent pianist. You're an art collector. You write me lovely messages when I'm away. You're patient. You're generous. You're the best listener I know. You're the smartest person I know, in every way. You're the bravest person I know, in every way. You're a lawyer. You're the chair of the litigation department at Rosen Pritchard and Klein. You love your job, you work hard at it. You're a mathematician. You're a logician. You've tried to teach me, again and again. You were treated horribly. You came out on the other end. You were always you. On and on Willem talks, chanting him back to himself, and in the daytime - sometimes days later - he remembers pieces of what Willem has said and holds them close to him, as much as for what he said as for what he didn't, for how he hadn't defined him. But in the nighttime he is too terrified, he is too lost to recognize this. His panic is too real, too consuming. 'And who are you?' he asks, looking at the man who is holding him, who is describing someone he doesn't recognize, someone who seems to have so much, someone who seems like such an enviable, beloved person. 'Who are you?' The man has an answer to this question as well. 'I'm Willem Ragnarsson,' he says. 'And I will never let you go.

He sometimes thought that the real thing that distinguished him and Malcolm from Jude and Willem was not race or wealth, but Jude’s and Willem’s depthless capacity for wonderment: their childhoods had been so paltry, so gray, compared to his, that it seemed they were constantly being dazzled as adults. The June after they graduated, the Irvines had gotten them all tickets to Paris, where, it emerged, they had an apartment—“a tiny apartment,” Malcolm had clarified, defensively—in the seventh. He had been to Paris with his mother in junior high, and again with his class in high school, and between his sophomore and junior years of college, but it wasn’t until he had seen Jude’s and Willem’s faces that he was able to most vividly realize not just the beauty of the city but its promise of enchantments. He envied this in them, this ability they had (though he realized that in Jude’s case at least, it was a reward for a long and punitive childhood) to still be awestruck, the faith they maintained that life, adulthood, would keep presenting them with astonishing experiences, that their marvelous years were not behind them. He remembered too watching them try uni for the first time, and their reactions—like they were Helen Keller and were just comprehending that that cool splash on their hands had a name, and that they could know it—made him both impatient and intensely envious. What must it feel like to be an adult and still discovering the world’s pleasures?

No,' Andy says. 'If you ruin this, Jude-if you keep lying to someone who loves you, who really loves you, who has only ever wanted to see you exactly as you are-then you will only have yourself to blame. It will be your fault. And it'll be your fault not because of who you are or what's been done to you or the diseases you have or what you think you look like, but because of how you behave, because you won't trust Willem enough to talk to him honestly, to extend to him the same sort of generosity and faith that he has always, always extended to you. I know you think you're sparing him, but you're not. You're selfish and you're stubborn and you're proud and you're going to ruin the best thing that has happened to you. Don't you understand that?

-¿Eres feliz? -le preguntó una vez a Jude (debían de estar borrachos). -No creo que la felicidad sea para mí -le respondió él por fin, como si Willem le hubiera ofrecido un plato que no quería probar-. Pero sí lo es para ti, Willem. Mientras los técnicos lo zarandean, se le ocurre que entonces debería haberle preguntado a Jude qué quería decir con eso: por qué era para él y no para Jude.

And then he hears, so close to his ear that it is as if the voice is originating inside his own head, Willem’s whispered incantation. “You’re Jude St. Francis. You are my oldest, dearest friend. You’re the son of Harold Stein and Julia Altman. You’re the friend of Malcolm Irvine, of Jean-Baptiste Marion, of Richard Goldfarb, of Andy Contractor, of Lucien Voigt, of Citizen van Straaten, of Rhodes Arrowsmith, of Elijah Kozma, of Phaedra de los Santos, of the Henry Youngs. “You’re a New Yorker. You live in SoHo. You volunteer for an arts organization; you volunteer for a food kitchen. “You’re a swimmer. You’re a baker. You’re a cook. You’re a reader. You have a beautiful voice, though you never sing anymore. You’re an excellent pianist. You’re an art collector. You write me lovely messages when I’m away. You’re patient. You’re generous. You’re the best listener I know. You’re the smartest person I know, in every way. You’re the bravest person I know, in every way. “You’re a lawyer. You’re the chair of the litigation department at Rosen Pritchard and Klein. You love your job; you work hard at it. “You’re a mathematician. You’re a logician. You’ve tried to teach me, again and again. “You were treated horribly. You came out on

The thing he hadn’t realized about success was that success made people boring. Failure also made people boring, but in a different way: failing people were constantly striving for one thing—success. But successful people were also only striving to maintain their success. It was the difference between running and running in place, and although running was boring no matter what, at least the person running was moving, through different scenery and past different vistas. (...) Jude and Willem had something he didn’t, something that was protecting them from the suffocating ennui of being successful, from the tedium of waking up and realizing that you were a success and that every day you had to keep doing whatever it was that made you a success, because once you stopped, you were no longer a success, you were becoming a failure.

When he opened his eyes again, Jude was sitting on the edge of the bed and smiling at him, and he was filled with affection for him: for how beatiful he was, for how dear he was, for how easy it was to love him. "Don't go," he said. "I have to," Jude said. "Five minutes," he said. "Five," Jude said, and slid beneath the covers, and Willem wrapped his arms around him, careful no to wrinkle his suit, and closed his eyes.

And then he hears, so close to his ear that it is as if the voice is originating inside his own head, Willem’s whispered incantation. “You’re Jude St. Francis. You are my oldest, dearest friend. You’re the son of Harold Stein and Julia Altman. You’re the friend of Malcolm Irvine, of Jean-Baptiste Marion, of Richard Goldfarb, of Andy Contractor, of Lucien Voigt, of Citizen van Straaten, of Rhodes Arrowsmith, of Elijah Kozma, of Phaedra de los Santos, of the Henry Youngs. “You’re a New Yorker. You live in SoHo. You volunteer for an arts organization; you volunteer for a food kitchen. “You’re a swimmer. You’re a baker. You’re a cook. You’re a reader. You have a beautiful voice, though you never sing anymore. You’re an excellent pianist. You’re an art collector. You write me lovely messages when I’m away. You’re patient. You’re generous. You’re the best listener I know. You’re the smartest person I know, in every way. You’re the bravest person I know, in every way. “You’re a lawyer. You’re the chair of the litigation department at Rosen Pritchard and Klein. You love your job; you work hard at it. “You’re a mathematician. You’re a logician. You’ve tried to teach me, again and again. “You were treated horribly. You came out on the other end. You were always you.

The thing he hadn't realized about success was that success made people boring. Failure also made people boring, but in a different way: failing people were constantly striving for one thing - success. But successful people were also only striving to maintain their success. It was the difference between running and running in place, and although running was boring no matter what, at least the person running was moving, through different scenery and past different vista. And yet here again, it seemed that Jude and Willem had something he didn't, something that was protecting them from the suffocating ennui of being successful, from the tedium of waking up and realizing that you were a success and that every day you had to keep doing what made you a success, because once you stopped, you were no longer a success, you were becoming a failure.

Pero sobre todo echaba de menos veros a los dos juntos: ver cómo lo observabas y cómo él te observaba a ti, lo atentos que erais el uno con el otro, lo irreflexiva y sinceramente afectuoso que te mostrabas con él; echaba de menos ver cómo os escuchabais con mucha atención. Willem escuchando a Jude contar una historia, el cuadro que JB pintó, no puede ser más real, capta exactamente tu expresión. Yo sabía a qué aludía el cuadro aun antes de leer el título.

On these days, he succumbed to a sort of enchantment, a state in which his life seemed both unimprovable and, paradoxically, perfectly fixable: Of course Jude wouldn't get worse. Of course he could be repaired. Of course Willem would be the person to repair him. Of course this was possible; of course this was probable. Days like this seemed to have no nights, and if there were no nights, there was no cutting, there was no sadness, there was nothing to dismay.

Years later, Willem would recount this conversation - its contours, if not its actual, literal content - for Malcolm as proof of his own incompetence, his own failure. How might things have been different if he spoke only one sentence? And that sentence could have been ‘Jude, are you trying to kill yourself?’ or ‘Jude, you need to tell me what’s going on,’ or ‘Jude, why do you do this to yourself?’ Any of those would have been acceptable; any of those would have led to a larger conversation that would have been reparative, or at the very least preventative.

It had been a long, sunny, sleepy day, and Jude was in one of his light moods, when he was almost carefree, and even as he asked, Willem experienced a predictive melancholy at ruining such a perfect moment, one in which everything—the pink-bled sky above them and the way the knife sliced so cleanly through the vegetables beneath them—had conspired to work so well, only to have him upset it. “Don’t you want to borrow one of my T-shirts?” he asked Jude. He didn’t answer until he had finished coring the tomato before him, and then gave Willem a steady, blank gaze.

Of all of them, only Jude had secrets, real secrets, and while Willem had in the past been frustrated by what had seemed his unwillingness to reveal them, he had never felt that they weren’t close because of that; it had never impaired his ability to love him. It had been a difficult lesson for him to accept, this idea that he would never fully possess Jude, that he would love someone who would remain unknowable and inaccessible to him in fundamental ways. And yet Jude was still being discovered by him, even thirty-four years after they had met, and he was still fascinated by what he saw.

Jude si allunga verso di lui, e lo bacia. È la prima volta i vita sua che ha preso lui l'iniziativa, e spera così di comunicare a Willem tutto quello che non riesce a dirgli a parole, neppure al buio e nella luce grigia dell'alba; tutto ciò di cui si vergogna, o di cui si sente grato. Stavolta tiene gli occhi chiusi, immaginando che presto anche lui potrà andare negli stessi luoghi cui approdano tutte le persone che si baciano, o che fanno sesso: quella terra che non ha mai visitato, quel posto che vuole assolutamente vedere, quel mondo che, lo spera con tutto se stesso, non gli rimarrà interdetto per sempre.

He had never discussed it with Jude, but in the years to come, he would see him in all sorts of pain, big pains and little ones, would see him wince at small hurts and occasionally, when the discomfort was too profound, would see him vomit, or pleat to the ground, or simply blank out and become insensate, the was he was doing in their living room now. But although he was a man who kept his promises, there was a part of him that always wondered why he had never raised the issue with Jude, why he had never made him discuss what it felt like, why he had never dared to do what instinct told him to do a hundred times: to sit down beside him and rub his legs, to try to knead back into submission those misfiring nerve endings. Instead here he was hiding in the bathroom, making busywork for himself as, a few yards away, one of his dearest friends sat alone on a disgusting sofa, making the slow, sad, lonely journey back to consciousness, back to the land of the living, without anyone at all by his side. "You're a coward," he said to his reflection in the bathroom mirror. His face looked back at him, tired with disgust. From the living room, there was only silence, but Willem moved to stand unseen at its border, waiting for Jude to return to him.

«¿De qué tiene que preocuparse?», les preguntaba JB cuando veían a Malcolm angustiado por algo. Pero Jude sabía la respuesta. Se preocupaba porque estar vivo significaba preocuparse, porque la vida era aterradora y una incógnita. Ni siquiera el dinero que Malcolm tenía podía inmunizarlo por completo. La vida le apremiaría y él tendría que tratar de responder, como los demás. Todos —Malcolm con sus casas, Willem con sus novias, JB con sus cuadros y él con sus cuchillas— buscaban consuelo en algo que solo les pertenecía a ellos, algo para ahuyentar la aterradora enormidad y la inverosimilitud del mundo, el implacable paso de los minutos, de las horas, de los días.

He gave Jude the bunch of herbs, which he was still holding, and Jude thanked him, pinching its little purple flowers between his fingers to release its perfume. 'I think it's a kind of perilla,' he said, and held his fingers up for Willem to smell. 'Nice,' he said, and they smiled at each other. And so Jude began, and he followed, and he made it through without going sharp. And at the end of the song, just after the last note, Jude immediately began singing the next song on the list, 'For Unto Us a Child Is Born,' and after that, 'Good King Wenceslas,' and again and again, Willem followed. His voice wasn't as full as Jude's, but he could tell in those moments that it was good enough, that it was maybe better than good enough: he could tell it sounded better with Jude's, and he closed his eyes and let himself appreciate it. They were still singing when the doorbell chimed with their breakfast, but as he was standing, Jude put his hand on his wrist, and they remained there, Jude sitting, he standing, until they had sung the last words of the song, and only after they had finished did he go to answer the door. Around him, the room was redolent of the unknown herb he'd found, green and fresh and yet somehow familiar, like something he hadn't known he had liked until it had appeared, suddenly and unexpectedly, in his life.

He hefts it out and sees that it is marked only with his name, and slowly opens it. Inside it is everything: every letter he had ever written Willem, every substantial e-mail printed out. There are birthday cards he'd given Willem. There are photographs of him, some of which he has never seen. There is the Artforum issue with 'Jude with Cigarette' on the cover. There is a card from Harold, written shortly after the adoption, thanking Willem for coming and for the gift. There is an article about him winning a prize in law school, which he certainly hadn't send Willem but someone clearly had. He hadn't needed to catalog his life after all - Willem had been doing it for him all along.

Sometimes he wakes so far from himself that he can't even remember who he is. 'Where am I?' he asks, desperate, and then, 'Who am I? Who am I?' "And then he hears, so close to his ear that it is as if the voice is originating inside his own head, Willem's whispered incantation. 'You're Jude St. Francis. You are my oldest, dearest friend. You're the son of Harold Stein and Julia Altman. You're the friend of Malcolm Irvine, Jean-Baptiste Marion, of Richard Goldfarb, of Andy Contractor, of Lucien Voigt, of Citizen van Straaten, of Rhodes Arrowsmith, of Elijah Kozma, of Phaedra de los Santos, of the Henry Youngs. "You're a New Yorker. You live in SoHo. You volunteer for an arts organization; you volunteer for a food kitchen. "You're a swimmer. You're a baker. You're a cook. You're a reader. You have a beautiful voice, though you never sing anymore. You're an excellent pianist. You're an art collector. You write me lovely messages when I'm away. You're patient. You're generous. You're the best listener I know. You're the smartest person I know, in every way. You're the bravest person I know, in every way. "You're a lawyer. You're the chair of the litigation department at Rosen Pritchard and Klein. You love your job, you work hard at it. "You're a mathematician. You're a logician. You've tried to teach me, again and again. "You were treated horribly. You came out on the other end. You were always you. "On and on Willem talks, chanting him back to himself, and in the daytime - sometimes days later - he remembers pieces of what Willem has said and holds them close to him, as much as for what he said as for what he didn't, for how he hadn't defined him. "But in the nighttime he is too terrified, he is too lost to recognize this. His panic is too real, too consuming. 'And who are you?' he asks, looking at the man who is holding him, who is describing someone he doesn't recognize, someone who seems to have so much, someone who seems like such an enviable, beloved person. 'Who are you?' "The man has an answer to this question as well. 'I'm Willem Ragnarsson,' he says. 'And I will never let you go.

Sometimes he wakes so far from himself that he can’t even remember who he is. “Where am I?” he asks, desperate, and then, “Who am I? Who am I?” And then he hears, so close to his ear that it is as if the voice is originating inside his own head, Willem’s whispered incantation. “You’re Jude St. Francis. You are my oldest, dearest friend. You’re the son of Harold Stein and Julia Altman. You’re the friend of Malcolm Irvine, of Jean-Baptiste Marion, of Richard Goldfarb, of Andy Contractor, of Lucien Voigt, of Citizen van Straaten, of Rhodes Arrowsmith, of Elijah Kozma, of Phaedra de los Santos, of the Henry Youngs. “You’re a New Yorker. You live in SoHo. You volunteer for an arts organization; you volunteer for a food kitchen. “You’re a swimmer. You’re a baker. You’re a cook. You’re a reader. You have a beautiful voice, though you never sing anymore. You’re an excellent pianist. You’re an art collector. You write me lovely messages when I’m away. You’re patient. You’re generous. You’re the best listener I know. You’re the smartest person I know, in every way. You’re the bravest person I know, in every way. “You’re a lawyer. You’re the chair of the litigation department at Rosen Pritchard and Klein. You love your job; you work hard at it. “You’re a mathematician. You’re a logician. You’ve tried to teach me, again and again. “You were treated horribly. You came out on the other end. You were always you.

Even he knew he had more in common with Asian Henry Young, with Malcolm, with Willem, or even with Jude, than he had with them. Just look at him: at Court Square he disembarked and walked the three blocks to the former bottle factory where he now shared studio space with three other people. Did real Haitians have studio space? Would it even occur to real Haitians to leave their large rent-free apartment, where they could have theoretically carved out their own corner to paint and doodle, only to get on a subway and travel half an hour (think how much work could be accomplished in those thirty minutes!) to a sunny dirty space? No, of course not. To conceive of such a luxury, you needed an American mind.

Willem se preguntaba a veces si quería a alguien más que a Jude. Era su persona, por supuesto, pero también lo reconfortante que resulta vivir con él, tener a su lado a alguien a quien conocía desde hacía tanto tiempo y que sabía que siempre lo aceptaría tal como era pasara lo que pasase. Su trabajo de actor, su propia vida, estaba llena de disfraces y de farsas. Todo lo relacionado con su físico y su contexto cambiaba sin cesar: el pelo, el cuerpo, la cama donde dormiría por la noche. A veces tenía la impresión de que estaba hecho de un líquido que pasaba sin cesar de una botella de vivos colores a otra, y que con cada trasvase perdía o dejaba algo atrás. Su amistad con Jude, en cambio, le permitía sentir que había algo real e inmutable en su ser, que pese a todas las apariencias había en él algo auténtico, algo que Jude veía aunque él no lo hiciera, como si el mero hecho de tener a Jude por testigo lo volviera real.

ahora piensa con afecto en ese período, porque en muchos sentidos fue una época maravillosa. En diciembre nominaron a Willem para un premio importante por su papel en La manzana envenenada, y en enero se lo concedieron. Luego lo nominaron para un premio aún más importante y prestigioso, y de nuevo lo consiguió. Él estaba en Londres por motivos de trabajo la noche que Willem lo recogió, pero puso el despertador a las dos de la madrugada para ver la ceremonia por internet; cuando pronunciaron el nombre de Willem gritó fuerte, y vio cómo sonreía radiante, besaba a Julia -a quien había llevado de acompañante- y subía los escalones del escenario, donde dio las gracias a los cineastas, al estudio,a Emil, a Kit, al mismísimo Alan Turing, a Roman, a Cressy, a Richard, a Malcom, a JB, y «a mis suegros, Julia Altman y Harold Stein, por haber hecho que me sintiera siempre como un hijo y, de un modo especial, a Jude St. Francis, mi mejor amigo y el amor de mi vida, por todo».

-Sé qué quieres decir […], pero tal vez fueron realmente años felices para él. Era libre; tenía un trabajo que le gustaba, promocionaba a jóvenes bailarines, había dado un nuevo rumbo a la compañía y estaba preparando una de sus coreografías más importantes. Él y el bailarín danés… -Erik Bruhn. -Exacto. Él y Bruhn seguían juntos, o al menos lo estuvieron un tiempo más. Tenía lo que probablemente jamás había soñado: dinero, fama, libertad de creación, amor, amistad, y todavía era lo bastante joven para disfrutar de ello. […] A mí me parece una vida feliz. Los dos se quedaron callados un rato. -Pero estaba enfermo -dijo Willem al fin. -Entonces no -le recordó Jude.- Al menos no de forma manifiesta. -No, tal vez no. Pero se estaba muriendo. Jude le sonrió. -Oh, morir -dijo restándole importancia-. Todos moriremos algún día. Él solo supo que la muerte le llegaría antes de lo previsto. Pero eso no significa que no fueran unos años felices para él o que no tuviera una vida feliz.

¿Dónde estoy? ¿Quién soy? ¿Quién soy?" "Eres Jude St. Francis. Eres mi más viejo y querido amigo. Eres el hijo de Harold Stein y Julia Altman. Eres el amigo de Malcolm Irving, de Jean-Baptiste Marion, de Richard Goldfarb, de Andy Contractor, de Lucien Voigt, de Citizen van Straaten, de Rhodes Arrowsmith, de Elijah Kozma, de Phaedra de los Santos y de los Henry Young. Eres de Nueva York. Vives en el SoHo. Haces voluntariado en una organización dedicada a las artes y en un comedor público. Practicas natación. Eres un repostero excelente. Sabes cocinar. Eres un gran lector. Tienes una magnífica voz. Eres coleccionista de arte. Me escribes unos mensajes preciosos cuando estoy fuera. Eres paciente. Eres generoso. De todas las personas que conozco, eres la que mejor sabe escuchar. Eres abogado. Eres el presidente del departamento de litigios de Rosen Pritchard and Klein. Te encanta tu trabajo; trabajas mucho. Eres matemático. Eres lógico. Has intentado enseñarme matemáticas una y otra vez. Te trataron muy mal, pero saliste de aquello. Siempre has sido tú mismo." "¿Y quién eres tú?¿Quién eres tú?" "Yo soy Willem Ragnarsson. Y no dejaré que te vayas.

Who am I? Who am I? You’re Jude St. Francis. You are my oldest, dearest friend. You’re the son of Harold Stein and Julia Altman. You’re the friend of Malcolm Irvine, of Jean-Baptiste Marion, of Richard Goldfarb, of Andy Contractor, of Lucien Voigt, of Citizen van Straaten, of Rhodes Arrowsmith, of Elijah Kozma, of Phaedra de los Santos, of the Henry Youngs. You’re a New Yorker. You live in SoHo. You volunteer for an arts organization; you volunteer for a food kitchen. You’re a swimmer. You’re a baker. You’re a cook. You’re a reader. You have a beautiful voice, though you never sing anymore. You’re an excellent pianist. You’re an art collector. You write me lovely messages when I’m away. You’re patient. You’re generous. You’re the best listener I know. You’re the smartest person I know, in every way. You’re the bravest person I know, in every way. You’re a lawyer. You’re the chair of the litigation department at Rosen Pritchard and Klein. You love your job; you work hard at it. You’re a mathematician. You’re a logician. You’ve tried to teach me, again and again. You were treated horribly. You came out on the other end. You were always you. And who are you? I'm Willem Ragnarsson. And I will never let you go.

Who am I? Who am I?” “You’re Jude St. Francis. You are my oldest, dearest friend. You’re the son of Harold Stein and Julia Altman. You’re the friend of Malcolm Irvine, of Jean-Baptiste Marion, of Richard Goldfarb, of Andy Contractor, of Lucien Voigt, of Citizen van Straaten, of Rhodes Arrowsmith, of Elijah Kozma, of Phaedra de los Santos, of the Henry Youngs. You’re a New Yorker. You live in SoHo. You volunteer for an arts organization; you volunteer for a food kitchen. You’re a swimmer. You’re a baker. You’re a cook. You’re a reader. You have a beautiful voice, though you never sing anymore. You’re an excellent pianist. You’re an art collector. You write me lovely messages when I’m away. You’re patient. You’re generous. You’re the best listener I know. You’re the smartest person I know, in every way. You’re the bravest person I know, in every way. You’re a lawyer. You’re the chair of the litigation department at Rosen Pritchard and Klein. You love your job; you work hard at it. You’re a mathematician. You’re a logician. You’ve tried to teach me, again and again. You were treated horribly. You came out on the other end. You were always you.” "And who are you?" "I'm Willem Ragnarsson. And I will never let you go.

—Dejadme en paz —vocifera, pero su energía se evapora y se siente débil y hambriento—. Dejadme en paz —dice de nuevo, pero sus palabras son flojas e inútiles, tan inútiles como sus brazos y sus piernas, y enseguida deja de intentarlo. —Jude, mi pobre Jude —susurra Harold—. Cariño. Y al oír esa palabra él se echa a llorar, porque nadie lo ha llamado nunca «cariño», no desde el hermano Luke. Willem lo intentaba a veces —«cariño», lo llamaba, o «mi amor»— y él lo detenía; esas expresiones de afecto son palabras degradantes, depravadas, para él. —Cariño dice de nuevo Harold, y él quiere que pare y no pare nunca—. Hijo mío. Y él llora, llora por todo lo que ha sido, por lo que podría haber sido, por todas las viejas heridas, por las viejas dichas, llora por la vergüenza y la alegría de acabar siendo un niño, con todos los caprichos, las necesidades y las inseguridades de un niño, por el privilegio de portarse tan mal y ser perdonado, por el lujo de recibir ternura, de recibir afecto, de que le sirvan una comida y le obliguen a comérsela, por ser capaz, ¡por fin!, de creer en las palabras de consuelo de un padre, de creer que es especial para alguien, pese a todos sus errores y su odio, por culpa de todos sus errores y su odio.

You’re dreaming of miracles, Willem,” Idriss would say if he knew what he was thinking, and he knew he was. But then again, he would think, what about his life—and about Jude’s life, too—wasn’t it a miracle? He should have stayed in Wyoming, he should have been a ranch hand himself. Jude should have wound up—where? In prison, or in a hospital, or dead, or worse. But they hadn’t. Wasn’t it a miracle that someone who was basically unexceptional could live a life in which he made millions pretending to be other people, that in that life that person would fly from city to city, would spend his days having his every need fulfilled, working in artificial contexts in which he was treated like the potentate of a small, corrupt country? Wasn’t it a miracle to be adopted at thirty, to find people who loved you so much that they wanted to call you their own? Wasn’t it a miracle to have survived the unsurvivable? Wasn’t friendship its own miracle, the finding of another person who made the entire lonely world seem somehow less lonely? Wasn’t this house, this beauty, this comfort, this life a miracle? And so who could blame him for hoping for one more, for hoping that despite knowing better, that despite biology, and time, and history, that they would be the exception, that what happened to other people with Jude’s sort of injury wouldn’t happen to him, that even with all that Jude had overcome, he might overcome just one more thing?

«Sei Jude St Francis. Sei il mio amico più caro, l’amico di una vita intera. Sei il figlio di Harold Stein e di Julia Altman. Sei l’amico di Malcolm Irvine, di Jean-Baptiste Marion, di Richard Goldfarb, di Andy Contractor […]. Sei un ottimo nuotatore. Sai cucinare. Adori leggere. Hai una voce bellissima, anche se non canti più. Sei un pianista eccellente. Collezioni opere d’arte. Mi scrivi messaggi bellissimi, quando sono fuori per lavoro. Sei paziente. Sei generoso. Sei il miglior ascoltatore che io conosca. Sei la persona più intelligente che io conosca, e la più coraggiosa, da tutti i punti di vista. Sei un avvocato. Dirigi l’ufficio contenzioso allo studio legale Rosen, Pritchard e Klein. Ami il tuo lavoro, e non ti risparmi di certo. […] Sei stato trattato in un modo orribile. Ma ne sei uscito, e sei sempre rimasto te stesso». Willem continua, all’infinito, finché la sua cantilena non riconduce Jude dentro se stesso: durante la giornata successiva – e a volte anche molti giorni dopo – gli tornano in mente frammenti di ciò che Willem ha detto, e se li tiene stretti, grato per le parole che ha usato e anche per quelle che ha evitato di usare, e per i tanti modi in cui non lo ha voluto definire. Ma di notte è troppo terrorizzato e sperduto per poter fare affidamento su quei ricordi. La sensazione di panico che prova è troppo reale e travolgente. «E tu, chi sei?» chiede a quell’uomo che lo tiene stretto descrivendogli una persona che Jude non è in grado di riconoscere, una persona che sembra abbia tutto e sia invidiata e amata dal mondo intero. «Chi sei, tu?». Ma l’uomo ha una risposta pronta anche per questa domanda. «Sono Willem Ragnarsson» dice. «E non ti lascerò andare, mai».

He took a breath. He could feel his anxiety fade; he could feel himself returning to who he was. 'But would you sing with me?' Every morning for the past two months, they had been singing with each other in preparation for Duets. In the film, his character and the character's wife led an annual Christmas pageant, and both he and the actress playing his wife would be performing their own vocals. The director had sent him a list of songs to work on, and Jude had been practicing with him: Jude took the melody, and he took the harmony. 'Sure,' Jude said. 'Our usual?' For the past week, they'd been working on 'Adeste Fideles,' which he would have to sing a cappella, and for the past week, he'd been pitching sharp at the exact same point, at 'Venite adoremus,' right in the first stanza. He'd wince every time he did it, hearing the error, and Jude would shake his head at him and keep going, and he'd follow him until the end. 'You're overthinking it,' Jude would say. 'When you go sharp, its because you're concentrating too hard on staying on key; just don't think about it, Willem, and you'll get it.' That morning, though, he felt certain he'd get it right. He gave Jude the bunch of herbs, which he was still holding, and Jude thanked him, pinching its little purple flowers between his fingers to release its perfume. 'I think it's a kind of perilla,' he said, and held his fingers up for Willem to smell. 'Nice,' he said, and they smiled at each other. And so Jude began, and he followed, and he made it through without going sharp. And at the end of the song, just after the last note, Jude immediately began singing the next song on the list, 'For Unto Us a Child Is Born,' and after that, 'Good King Wenceslas,' and again and again, Willem followed. His voice wasn't as full as Jude's, but he could tell in those moments that it was good enough, that it was maybe better than good enough: he could tell it sounded better with Jude's, and he closed his eyes and let himself appreciate it. They were still singing when the doorbell chimed with their breakfast, but as he was standing, Jude put his hand on his wrist, and they remained there, Jude sitting, he standing, until they had sung the last words of the song, and only after they had finished did he go to answer the door. Around him, the room was redolent of the unknown herb he'd found, green and fresh and yet somehow familiar, like something he hadn't known he had liked until it had appeared, suddenly and unexpectedly, in his life.