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- Элизабет Гилберт
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- Ешь, молись, люби
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I
have
a
history
of
making
decisions
very
quickly
about
men
.
I
have
always
fallen
in
love
fast
and
without
measuring
risks
.
I
have
a
tendency
not
only
to
see
the
best
in
everyone
,
but
to
assume
that
everyone
is
emotionally
capable
of
reaching
his
highest
potential
.
I
have
fallen
in
love
more
times
than
I
care
to
count
with
the
highest
potential
of
a
man
,
rather
than
with
the
man
himself
,
and
then
I
have
hung
on
to
the
relationship
for
a
long
time
(
sometimes
far
too
long
)
waiting
for
the
man
to
ascend
to
his
own
greatness
.
Many
times
in
romance
I
have
been
a
victim
of
my
own
optimism
.
I
married
young
and
quick
,
from
a
place
of
love
and
hope
,
but
without
a
lot
of
discussion
over
what
the
realities
of
marriage
would
mean
.
Nobody
advised
me
on
my
marriage
.
I
had
been
raised
by
my
parents
to
be
independent
,
self
-
providing
,
self
-
deciding
.
By
the
time
I
reached
the
age
of
twenty
-
four
,
it
was
assumed
by
everyone
that
I
could
make
all
my
own
choices
,
autonomously
.
Of
course
the
world
was
not
always
like
this
.
If
I
’
d
been
born
during
any
other
century
of
Western
patriarchy
,
I
would
’
ve
been
considered
the
property
of
my
father
,
until
which
time
he
passed
me
over
to
my
husband
,
to
become
marital
property
.
I
would
’
ve
had
precious
little
say
in
the
major
matters
of
my
own
life
.
At
one
time
in
history
,
if
a
man
had
been
my
suitor
,
my
father
might
have
sat
that
man
down
with
a
long
list
of
questions
to
establish
whether
this
would
be
an
appropriate
match
.
He
would
have
wanted
to
know
,
"
How
will
you
provide
for
my
daughter
?
What
is
your
reputation
in
this
community
?
How
is
your
health
?
Where
will
you
take
her
to
live
?
What
are
your
debts
and
your
assets
?
What
are
the
strengths
of
your
character
?
"
My
father
would
not
have
just
given
me
away
in
marriage
to
anybody
for
the
mere
fact
that
I
was
in
love
with
the
fellow
.
But
in
modern
life
,
when
I
made
the
decision
to
marry
,
my
modern
father
didn
’
t
become
involved
at
all
.
He
would
have
no
more
interfered
with
that
decision
than
he
would
have
told
me
how
to
style
my
hair
.
I
have
no
nostalgia
for
the
patriarchy
,
please
believe
me
.
But
what
I
have
come
to
realize
is
that
,
when
that
patriarchic
system
was
(
rightfully
)
dismantled
,
it
was
not
necessarily
replaced
by
another
form
of
protection
.
What
I
mean
is
-
I
never
thought
to
ask
a
suitor
the
same
challenging
questions
my
father
might
have
asked
him
,
in
a
different
age
.
I
have
given
myself
away
in
love
many
times
,
merely
for
the
sake
of
love
.
And
I
’
ve
given
away
the
farm
sometimes
in
that
process
.
If
I
am
to
truly
become
an
autonomous
woman
,
then
I
must
take
over
that
role
of
being
my
own
guardian
.
Famously
,
Gloria
Steinem
once
advised
women
that
they
should
strive
to
become
like
the
men
they
had
always
wanted
to
marry
.
What
I
’
ve
only
recently
realized
is
that
I
not
only
have
to
become
my
own
husband
,
but
I
need
to
be
my
own
father
,
too
.
And
this
is
why
I
sent
myself
to
bed
that
night
alone
.
Because
I
felt
it
was
too
soon
for
me
to
be
receiving
a
gentleman
suitor
.
That
said
,
I
woke
up
at
2
:
00
AM
with
a
heavy
sigh
and
a
physical
hunger
so
deep
I
didn
’
t
have
any
idea
of
how
to
satisfy
it
.
The
lunatic
cat
who
lives
in
my
house
was
howling
mournfully
for
some
reason
and
I
told
him
,
"
I
know
exactly
how
you
feel
.
"
I
had
to
do
something
about
my
longing
,
so
I
got
up
,
went
to
the
kitchen
in
my
nightgown
,
peeled
a
pound
of
potatoes
,
boiled
them
up
,
sliced
them
,
fried
them
in
butter
,
salted
them
generously
and
ate
every
bite
of
them
-
asking
my
body
the
whole
while
if
it
would
please
accept
the
satisfaction
of
a
pound
of
fried
potatoes
in
lieu
of
the
fulfillment
of
lovemaking
.
My
body
replied
,
only
after
eating
every
bite
of
the
food
:
"
No
deal
,
babe
.
"
So
I
climbed
back
into
bed
,
sighed
in
boredom
and
commenced
to
…
Well
.
A
word
about
masturbation
,
if
I
may
.
Sometimes
it
can
be
a
handy
(
forgive
me
)
tool
,
but
other
times
it
can
be
so
acutely
unsatisfying
that
it
only
makes
you
feel
worse
in
the
end
.
After
a
year
and
half
of
celibacy
,
after
a
year
and
a
half
of
calling
my
own
name
in
my
bed
-
built
-
for
-
one
,
I
was
getting
a
little
sick
of
the
sport
.
Still
,
tonight
,
in
my
restless
state
-
what
else
could
I
do
?
The
potatoes
hadn
’
t
worked
.
So
I
had
my
way
with
myself
yet
again
.
As
usual
,
my
mind
paged
through
its
backlog
of
erotic
files
,
looking
for
the
right
fantasy
or
memory
that
would
help
get
the
job
done
fastest
But
nothing
was
really
working
tonight
-
not
the
firemen
,
not
the
pirates
,
not
that
pervy
old
Bill
Clinton
standby
scene
that
usually
does
the
trick
,
not
even
the
Victorian
gentlemen
crowding
around
me
in
their
drawing
room
with
their
task
force
of
nubile
young
maids
.
In
the
end
,
the
only
thing
that
would
satisfy
was
when
I
reluctantly
admitted
into
my
mind
the
idea
of
my
good
friend
from
Brazil
climbing
into
this
bed
with
me
…
on
me
…
