By Emma Darwin
the math of affection is a poignant chronicle of 2 humans, separated via centuries, whose lives—amazingly, impossibly—become interwoven in a super tapestry of tragedy, reminiscence, and time. Following exchange yet in detail attached stories—of a curious, promiscuous youngster in her season of exile and awakening within the English nation-state in 1976, and a nineteenth-century soldier broken at the fields of Waterloo, suffering to discover his as far back as existence with the aid of a compassionate, awesome woman—Emma Darwin's breathtaking narrative brilliantly inspires the horrors of conflict, the soreness of loss, the warmth of ardour, and the long-lasting energy of affection.
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Extra resources for The Mathematics of Love: A Novel
Example text
You must not allow my naughty girl to tease you, Major,” said her mother, smiling, before resuming a low-voiced conversation with Mrs. Stamford. ” Her blue eyes were bright, her breast rose and fell. She put her hand on my arm. ” I was silent. If in my eyes she read my capitulation to her expressed desire, she was not altogether mistaken, although it was rather my own desire and the thought of her capitulation that had suddenly gripped me. To pull her down with me onto the rich Turkey carpet, wrench off her bodice, and bury my face in her round, white breasts, thrust aside her petticoats and take possession of her plump, pink flesh .
The rats’ll get you, Stephen, if you bawl, that’s what Mother Malpas said to me. She says rats like eating dirty little boys who shit their breeches. She took my breeches and my boots and put me in here. It’s cold. She shut the door. She wants the rats to get me. I didn’t mean to, I didn’t, I’m sorry. The latch sticked and she was asleep. She be cross if I wake her. I tried to wait. My ears hurt—she boxed them again. I’m a dirty little boy, she said, but she’ll beat me till I’m good. I mustn’t tell Vicar and Doctor not ever or they’ll know I’m bad and throw me on the Parish where they give dirty little boys what they deserve.
Smells like the cellar, cold things growing, rotten but growing. I mustn’t go to sleep, the rats might come and I wouldn’t know. They’ll eat me away to nothing, eat the flesh off my bones, my belly and throat, eat my ears and eyes, and I won’t know. I won’t know at all, just wake up in hell. I mustn’t go to sleep. Please, God, don’t let me go to sleep. [ 36 ] [ II ] I could by no means lay claim to a broken heart consequent on my withdrawing my suit to Mrs. Greenshaw, but my return to Suffolk also returned me to the conditions that had prompted me to contemplate matrimony in the first place.