1. Bibliographical information
O’Brien, E. 1968. The love object. Great Britain: Hazell Watson & Viney Limited.
2. Number of pages
3. Short outline
The book tells us eight different short stories about women and their love, the object of their love and how they experience it.
Of course, they all experience it differently for some women are more sensitive and caring than others and the objects of their love are somewhat different as well.
One woman is the mistress of a married man, another one herself is married and another story tells us about a mother’s love for her daughter.
It’s a warm, exciting and catching novel that will touch you and make you realise that happiness can be found almost everywhere when you least expect it and especially in life’s little things.
I, for one, fell in love with it immediately.
4. Rewritten scene
I’ve chosen the first short story simply because I liked that one the most.
The narrator is a woman in her mid-thirties who tells us about her unconditional love for a married man.
I don’t really know if he loved her as well, but he must have had some sort of feelings of love for her.
In this scene, the married man tells his mistress that he doesn’t love her and that they should put an end to their relationship.
At that time, it suddenly occurred to me that possibly she loved me, so I told her this couldn’t go on.
She looked at me through her hair, which had fallen over her face, and then nodded. She really did love me.
“Listen, I adore you, you are the most intriguing and attentive woman I’ve ever met, but I don’t love you. I’ve got a wife and kids who I love very much and I can’t afford keeping myself in this position, not with my responsibilities and commitments. You must understand that I never meant to hurt you, it all started so light-hearted. But oh, what tangled webs we’ve woven.”
After those last words, she looked at me, silently, almost offended. I told her I hoped we could still remain close friends.
She didn’t say a single thing, she just kept staring straight ahead at the split between the curtains.
After quite a while, she eventually moved her head and tentatively said: “I think there’s frost outside”. I agreed and added that it would become winter soon.
She stood up and walked to the kitchen and for the first time in weeks she didn’t squeeze orange juice for me.
I went to the bathroom to shave myself, wondering if she’d hurt herself, perhaps kill herself, and left just before nine.
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