Have you ever come across a line and thought ‘that’s it, that’s the theme of which all others are variations’? I was reading the other day and these words appeared: Then he fell in love with a rich man’s daughter. That line has dogged my mind for days. I’ve tagged it ‘the headwaters of romance.’ And today this flowed out –The headwaters of romance? I can only point the way. Its a five-hundred year journey, up beyond the storehouses of snow and hail, up past the thick layer of wings and hooves, etched as a row of words on a polished rock that rests in the bend of the river that makes glad the city of God: ‘Then he fell in love with a rich man’s daughter.’ Those vowels and consonants are feathers a poor peasant boy, for example, fashions together to make wings to fly straight into a rich girl’s heart, or if not into at least close enough to melt. He will surely plummet, as thousands have, but as he does she will run to him and desire him all the
more, as thousands have, for love has never been
the sustained flight but the grand, soaring fall.