A few winters ago, I read a letter to an anthropologist who was seeing a man she didn�t love, a dentist who held unto her hand as if he still couldn�t believe his luck; she dismissed, You�re being melodramatic, child. Still so young, I pondered long, stung, and buried the letter.

All this passion was highly impractical, she cautioned. The noise was meaningless.

Later, nearly penniless from extravagant international phone bills, the anthropologist flew away, English-German dictionary in hand, to live with a carpenter who she had met on vacation in Germany six months ago.

<<