One might wonder if Sarah even considered taking that step, jumping. Or,
if she had debated it, whether she had done so with any real intent. The
beguiling notion of suicide often enters the minds of the insecure. Simple
yet arduous, irrevocable yet penultimate, the option has its merits and its
faults. It is one which, for those in a mind set as Sarah's, comes for a
fleeting instant, but in that instant accumulates such a value that the
thinker believes it must be done, and without a second thought.
But Sarah was forcing herself not to be fooled. First instincts can be misleading, as Sarah had learnt, almost taught herself, perhaps even deceived herself into believing. Actions required thought. Not only the moribund action of jumping as we believe to have seen Sarah consider, but every word, step, movement. Thoughts must be tamed, ordered, and manipulated by the thinker, until a conclusion is reached. But this must be done quickly, almost instantly. Sarah was one of the many who had not yet mastered this art, but she was one of the few who had tried, who was trying.
I will not say if it is a good thing or a bad thing, for I do not know, and neither did Sarah. No one can ever know, as once the process has begun it is nigh on impossible to stop. It consumes the mind, and perhaps even the soul, until the thinker is a new person, living another's life, a life which otherwise, would never have existed.
The French Lieutenant was a myth. Sarah knew this, but she had repressed it, begun to believe the stories which others told about her, begun to fall into the illusion which she had helped to create. She had forgotten why she had first stood, looking out to sea. But it did not matter anymore, for she had a new purpose. She was a player, and this was her game, though she wasn't sure who it was that defined the rules.
Did Sarah delineate these rules, the axioms of the world in which she lived? Or were they set down and enacted by society, with Sarah only able to follow and learn as she watched other players. However, when she played the game, she played it as though she had never known another. It was rare opponent who was capable of equalling her play, although I must admit that there are times when I am tempted to believe that Charles could eclipse her if he chose to play.
Sarah too was worried about Charles. Was he beginning to see through the illusion she had chosen to shroud herself in? She knew that he was curious about her, why else would he make such an effort to converse with her. Was he a potential opponent? From what Sarah had seen of Charles, she knew that her attempts at avoidance would not be enough to keep him away.
Sometimes Sarah became tired of being the French lieutenant's woman, tired of the effort it took to maintain the fantasy. She constantly marvelled at the ability of Lyme's inhabitants to have such whole-hearted belief in the stories they told about her. At other times she fell so deeply into the illusion that she couldn't ascertain fiction from reality. Had anyone asked (although no one ever did), Sarah could relate the life story of the French lieutenant. She knew his face, his dress, his history, the names of his friends and family, his innermost secrets and insecurities.
The French lieutenant did exist. He lived in Sarah's mind. And until she found another that was worthy of replacing him, to fill the void that existed in the innermost depths of her soul, someone who could remove the insecurities that plagued her…but there was no such man. The French lieutenant would haunt her forever.
But Sarah was forcing herself not to be fooled. First instincts can be misleading, as Sarah had learnt, almost taught herself, perhaps even deceived herself into believing. Actions required thought. Not only the moribund action of jumping as we believe to have seen Sarah consider, but every word, step, movement. Thoughts must be tamed, ordered, and manipulated by the thinker, until a conclusion is reached. But this must be done quickly, almost instantly. Sarah was one of the many who had not yet mastered this art, but she was one of the few who had tried, who was trying.
I will not say if it is a good thing or a bad thing, for I do not know, and neither did Sarah. No one can ever know, as once the process has begun it is nigh on impossible to stop. It consumes the mind, and perhaps even the soul, until the thinker is a new person, living another's life, a life which otherwise, would never have existed.
The French Lieutenant was a myth. Sarah knew this, but she had repressed it, begun to believe the stories which others told about her, begun to fall into the illusion which she had helped to create. She had forgotten why she had first stood, looking out to sea. But it did not matter anymore, for she had a new purpose. She was a player, and this was her game, though she wasn't sure who it was that defined the rules.
Did Sarah delineate these rules, the axioms of the world in which she lived? Or were they set down and enacted by society, with Sarah only able to follow and learn as she watched other players. However, when she played the game, she played it as though she had never known another. It was rare opponent who was capable of equalling her play, although I must admit that there are times when I am tempted to believe that Charles could eclipse her if he chose to play.
Sarah too was worried about Charles. Was he beginning to see through the illusion she had chosen to shroud herself in? She knew that he was curious about her, why else would he make such an effort to converse with her. Was he a potential opponent? From what Sarah had seen of Charles, she knew that her attempts at avoidance would not be enough to keep him away.
Sometimes Sarah became tired of being the French lieutenant's woman, tired of the effort it took to maintain the fantasy. She constantly marvelled at the ability of Lyme's inhabitants to have such whole-hearted belief in the stories they told about her. At other times she fell so deeply into the illusion that she couldn't ascertain fiction from reality. Had anyone asked (although no one ever did), Sarah could relate the life story of the French lieutenant. She knew his face, his dress, his history, the names of his friends and family, his innermost secrets and insecurities.
The French lieutenant did exist. He lived in Sarah's mind. And until she found another that was worthy of replacing him, to fill the void that existed in the innermost depths of her soul, someone who could remove the insecurities that plagued her…but there was no such man. The French lieutenant would haunt her forever.