I just finished reading The Gargoyle and loved it.  It has stories within a story – good stories too.  And it has a supernatural bend but never takes that part too seriously.  The main character is a cynical old cuss right ’til the end, and I respect that in a main character.   The plot, in broad brush strokes, is about him spending time in a burn ward after a car accident and this chick, Marianne, shows up and starts telling him stories about their “history” together.  

So he’s trying to figure out which particular mental illness she has but is also starting to develop a connection and feelings for her.  On Christmas Day, right before he’s set to get out of the hospital, she brings in a huge feast for everyone to enjoy and he says this about love:

I once knew a woman who liked to imagine Love in the guise of a sturdy dog, one that would always chase down the stick after it was thrown and return with his ears flopping around happily.  Completely loyal, completely unconditional.  And I laughed at her, because even I knew that love is not like that.  Love is a delicate thing that needs to be cosseted and protected.  Love is not robust and love is not unyielding.  Love can crumble under a few harsh words, or be tossed away with a handful of careless actions.  Love isn’t a steadfast dog at all; love is more like a pygmy mouse lemur.

Yes, that’s exactly what love is: a tiny, jittery primate with eyes that are permanently peeled open in fear.  For those of you who cannot quite picture a pygmy mouse lemur, imagine a miniature Don Knotts or Steve Buscemi wearing a fur coat.  Imagine the cutest animal that you can, after it has been squeezed so hard that all its stuffing has been pushed up into an oversized head and its eyes are now popping out in overflow.  The lemur looks so vulnerable that one cannot help but worry that a predator might swoop in at any instant to snatch it away.

Marianne Engel’s love for me seemed built on so flimsy a premise that I assumed it would come apart the moment we stepped through the hospital doors…..but this Christmas Day had shown me that Marianne Engle’s love was not feeble.  It was strapping.  it was muscular, it was massive.  I thought it could fill only my room in the burn ward, but it filled the entire hospital.  More important, her love was not reserved only for me; it was shared generously with strangers….