so I am still jealous of his way with words, and his heart which is so much more constant than mine. I read about his love and longing and it is completely free of bitterness. My insecurities betray me. I am a creature of jealousies and erratic passions. I spend much of my life wondering if I can be liked at all. He seems so ploddingly solid on the earth. One foot in front of the next, one story following another and I admire him for it. And I wonder how he can be so good to me when there are a crowd of people hanging on his every word.