Guest Writer: Daron Woodson

I read a story once.

The main character is the narrator. He works in an office, like me. Some villain has slain his wife for a reason I don't remember.

It is a revenge story, and he is talking about his dead wife. Beaming about her. The author is trying to sell me an idea. The idea that this man loved his wife. That he really did.

The man says this and that. He says:

"She wasn't beautiful, but she was pretty."

I retroactively buy everything he's said about her, and everything he ever will. I believe he loves her. With that scrap of honesty, the author's sale is a success.

Who would not forgive a man for remembering his dead love more gloriously than that? Who would hold a superficial embellishment against a grieving husband? Surely he is entitled to an exaggeration of memory.

But none for this man!

"She wasn't beautiful, but she was pretty."

And so we the readers know that this man - this character - speaks the truth. The man saw his wife for what she was, and so, when he speaks of his love, we believe him. He says she was kind, and we know that she was. He says that she was silly, and brave, and usually patient, but not always.

And we know that she was.

What speechcraft!

My love, I wish that you were not beautiful. I wish you were not so lovely. To say so is flattery, surely. It's pretty words and brownie points and sweet nothings. It must be. To your mind, it must be.

I wish I could say:

"She isn't beautiful, but she is pretty."

That I could sell you my idea, like that forgotten master of his craft sold me his.

My love, you are beautiful. I wish I could say less.

My love, you are beautiful.