Original subtitles

I've read them again and again, so many times, and

always with the certainty that in them she lives again.

Diary entry, May the 17th, 1956.

Though slow to start, summer is now well upon us, and

the foliage full with the sound of returning birds.

As usual, I shall retreat here to the secure comfort of

my books, my work, and the memory of my beloved Catherine.

It is here that Catherine still lives.

You won't have to pay any rent, you know. My allowance will take care of all that.

Shall you take me as your mistress?

Catherine! Catherine!

What would you say, my dear, were you to come through that door now?

Condemn the foolishness of an old man hanging on to his memories?

No, I think not.

I know that you quietly smile.

That you live on in me still.

...Do you want me to take your pyjamas?

Do you want me to take them off?

Listen, tomorrow's going to be a big day for me.

I'm waiting for the display proof from Paris,

and my little Mary's arriving from England.

And you know, the old man will find you very charming.

Desiree, I'm 33 years old.

...and there's some things that I want to do.

But it will only be for a few days.

..

This will be the most important book we'll publish this year.

And if it succeeds, perhaps we'll... ...we'll last out on the Château.

Can't you be serious about it, please?

Oh, it's only a book.

A book?

...I believe it is more important for them to uneasy you either way.

My Dearest Miss Bogey, I've been on the point of writing this letter for days.

My heart has been behaving in such a curious

fashion that I can't imagine it means nothing.

So, as I should hate to leave you unprepared,

I'll just try and jot down what comes to mind.

All my manuscripts, notebooks, papers and letters I leave to you.

Go through them one day, dear love.

In spite of everything, how happy we've been.

I feel no lovers have walked this earth more joyfully, in spite of all.

Farewell, my precious love. I am forever and ever, your Catherine.

Marie! Marie!

This is what we've been waiting for.

Why, it's not bad.

It should be more appreciative. After all, she's a fellow who's either.

Don't start that again. It's a very, very long time ago.

You've done well, André.

This is going to be a sensation.

Sorry about last night.

Oh. We've had a lot in our minds.

By the way, how's the play going?

It'll be all right on the night, but we've got a long, long way to go.

Didier won't be ready for Middleton, Marie, to see.

We'll have to entertain him somehow.

Will you help him, Marie?

Why don't we take him to the Petit Opéra?

Are they both?

Oui.

Let's go. Bye.

Bye.

Je ne serai pas là.

Oh, contez-moi.

Il est accablé de misère.

Comme la fleur, il naît et il se flétrit.

Au cœur même de la vie, nous sommes dans la Mort.

Oh, oh, oh, oh.

Oh, oh, oh, oh.

Oh, oh, oh, oh.

Hello. How nice to see you.

Oh, John, how good to see you again.

Oh, Mrs. Marie hasn't come with you, has she?

No, no, no. She's back at home looking after the family.

She really doesn't care to travel.

Ah, the promotion crew... how do you call it? The rough copy has arrived.

Right. So splendid. So, we have a lot to talk about.

So, make yourself comfortable.

Thank you so much. Thank you.

Bonjour, Monsieur. Bonjour, madame.

Monsieur?

S'il vous plaît.

Ah. Très bien. Parfait. Merci.

Je vous en prie.

Excusez-moi encore une fois.

John, I would like you to meet Ernesto Sculpture.

Très heureux, Monsieur. Enchanté.

Bernard Pleyer. He's a critic.

Elizabeth, friend of mine, piano player.

And Jean-Pierre.

Would you like to sit down here, please? Thank you so much.

Okay. Lisa?

Tea or coffee?

Je pourrais un thé avec citron, s'il vous plaît.

Et citron?

Oui, s'il vous plaît.

So her dead likeness, I do well believe,

excels whatever yet you looked upon.

Okay. Okay, okay.

Uh...

We'll come back and look at the finale after lunch.

After now, everyone.

Lunchtime.

Ah. Now.

Hermione.

We've got to make her look like a beautiful vision.

Isn't she supposed to come to life here?

Shouldn't we make them think

Leontes must feel remorse?

What the people want is a fairy tale.

It's supposed to be romantic.

But the queen's got older.

She suffered.

She must look like it.

You can't make the queen look her fright.

She's got to be beautiful.

Good.

Est-ce que tu viens?

Est-ce que tu veux que je t'apporte un sandwich ou autre chose?

Oui, oui.

N'importe quoi, merci.

This new edition does what my father always wanted to do.

I don't need to tell you how much he admired your ability as an editor.

That's very good.

He was always a very good friend to me.

It's beautifully done, and most impressive.

I think so.

You know, there's no need to explain to you what a passionate subject she is.

Yes, I only wonder sometimes whether it's right to make public

these fragments and pieces that

a writer like Catherine might not want to show the world.

But you've brought her to the attention of the world.

Yes.

And now I hope that these new pieces will help

everyone to understand her more completely.

Ah...

I will leave you to it.

You do read French?

Oh, yes, I think I can manage to get the hang of it.

I seem to spend half my life arriving at strange hotels.

Strange hotels.

The horror of them.

The impertinent,

slightly amused attitude of the hotel servant.

Waiting for that ominous, infallible thing to happen.

Which was bound to happen to every woman on earth who travelled alone.

Saba.

Must I suffer so?

I wasn't made for suffering.

Smile.

Whiskey?

Ah...

Would you care for a whiskey, John?

No, I'd rather have port if you have any.

Why haven't I got a real life?

A real home.

Why haven't I got two babies

who rush at me and clasp my knees?

I'm not a girl.

I'm a woman.

And all this love and joy

that fights for an outlet.

And all this life drying up.

Like milk in an old breast.

And all this suffering.

I really did try to do all I possibly could.

Of course I was longing to be with her all the time but it just wasn't possible.

After her death, you know,

quite a number of people accused me of having abandoned her.

You must understand that the doctor had it pressed on me.

That complete rest with Catherine was essential.

Any kind of excess,

if you understand what I mean,

would be completely detrimental to her state of health.

Her naturopathy was quite explicit.

No sex.

So you see, there was no question of my abandoning her.

On the contrary,

Catherine was such a delightful creature that whenever

we were alone together we found one another irresistible.

We simply couldn't help ourselves.

Of course, that isn't the kind of story that you want to talk about to everyone.

Oh, hello.

Er, John,

let me introduce Marie.

Marie Taylor.

How do you do?

I just wanted to thank you for the roses.

They were lovely.

Delighted.

Well, I must go back to the theatre.

We're in a bit of a flap.

That's Marie Taylor.

She's the designer.

She works here with a theatre group.

Is that all she does?

Well, she's my...

How could I say?

Companion.

Oh, of course I understand.

Catherine and I had lived together for years before we were married.

Didn't your father ever tell you?

Well then,

you must make yourself at home here.

Thank you very much.

It's just a small company for writers.

You're rehearsing something there now?

A Winter's Tale.

Ah, that was always one of Catherine's favourite plays.

I'm afraid we're not doing it much justice.

In fact, I'm sure we're not.

I can never help feeling rather sorry for poor old Leontes.

It used to be an artist community of sorts.

But since Andrew's father died,

he's been tied up in the publishing business

and it's all been rather neglected since.

Yes, I can imagine that publishing must be rather a demanding business.

Andrew mentioned that you had formed a community around you once.

Oh, that was a years ago now.

It wasn't an artist community, more a sort

of socialist centre to prepare young workers.

What were you socialists then?

The optimism of youth.

And the passion?

Oh, that was many years back.

I haven't read Catherine Mansell since I was in school.

One of our great writers.

Catherine once wrote a little verse about New Zealand.

From the other side of the world

from a little land with no history I, a woman with a taint of pioneer in my blood

something, something

and shadows

that blot out reality

and something about their stupid hands.

I, a woman with a taint

But you can plant trees about 9 feet in a eye,

but you aren't inspired by humans.

The best thing about life is being stuck around

Once you find a purpose maybe, maybe not.

Thinking about it when you can.

Now, what happens

after 4 years

You see, that is the very idea. We're not changing what Catherine wrote.

We're using what she wrote to look at the essential conflict within herself.

You see, we have the private thoughts of the woman and the public thoughts of the

writer. And it is these extremes, this contrast that's interesting to the modern public.

I'm so sorry. I've had rather a long day.

I think I'll be off to bed, if you don't mind.

No, no.

Please. Good night.

Good night.

My room is empty.

Well, we'll fill it up later.

Excuse me.

Dearest Bogie, I've been on the point of writing this letter for days. My heart has

been behaving in such a curious fashion that I can't imagine that it means nothing.

So, as I should hate to leave you unprepared,

I'll just try and jot down what comes to mind.

All my manuscripts, notebooks, papers and letters I leave to you.

Go through them one day.

Lady, allow.

Publish as little.

Oh, take this for you. The home for my wife and family.

Joey, can we go?

A tea with lemon juice.

Yes, Monsieur.

Here you are.

I'd like to ask you to set the table.

Here it is.

It won't be long, we have two.

Here it is.

Here it is.

Thank you.

I don't know why I have such a fancy with this little cafe.

It's not as if it has anything to distinguish it from hundreds of others.

It hasn't.

In certain lights, Madame looks quite transparent.

Shining out of her black shawl with an extraordinary effect.

When she's not serving, she sits on a stool with her face turned always to the window.

And then there's the waiter.

When he's not smearing over the tables or flicking a dead fly or two,

he stands, in his far too long apron, waiting.

I don't miss John at all now.

I don't want to go home.

I feel quite content.

Life with other people becomes a blur, it does with John.

But it's enormously valuable and marvellous when I'm alone.

The detail of life.

The life of life.

I've never been able to join in like that.

Catherine always could.

No matter where she was, she was always part of the life around her.

I remember in the stories at school.

At the bay.

At the garden party.

At the park.

But they're so full of life.

The characters.

Are they all made up then?

Oh, no, no.

Most of them are based on her own family, her father especially.

And all those women.

So wise about the men.

Are you in any of them?

Oh, dear me, I'm sure I am.

How's your play going, by the way?

Nothing's a waste of time.

Oh John, before I forget, here are the documents,

letters and photographs that you so kindly lent me.

As you will see, we used quite a number of the ones you fought to propagate.

Fine, thank you so much.

Now, for the promotion, I thought we'd announce

publication at the gathering, you know, a few friends and trade people.

And I was wondering if you would accept to say a few words.

Oh, I'm sure I can write something for you.

Oh, don't go to any trouble.

Oh, no, no, no, I promise to make it quite short.

Thank you. Now, you probably would like to look through this contract.

Oh, thank you. Yes, I suppose contracts do need to be revised after all these years.

How many copies do you propose for the first run?

Well, the standard 5,000 and probably 10,000 before the end of the year.

Well, that'd be much better, wouldn't it?

Well, are you coming, you two?

Well, it would seem that lunch is ready.

Oh, splendid. Come on, let's go.

And the allowance that Katherine had from her

father, we managed to move into a small cottage near Chichester. Dream house.

How lovely.

Well, we did have three months there.

Lovely, happy months. Katherine even believed that she was pregnant.

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ARTICLE EF3 PHOTOGRAPHY UNDER THE HEART OF THE WORLD.

John, I'm awfully sorry. Excuse me, but I must go.

I'm waiting for a very important call from Paris. Would you mind?

Thank you.

Lovely here in the country, isn't it?

New Zealand must seem a very long way away.

Oh, it's a funny place. We all say we love it.

So many of us leave, but still home. We never really get away.

Well, it seemed to me that Catherine didn't take New Zealand very seriously.

Otherwise, she'd have talked to me about it.

Perhaps it's something you don't really talk about.

I don't know. I remember some wonderful stories.

Lovely stuff about children and beaches.

Oh, of course, she used the place for coffee.

But it's strange.

I suppose you will think me a sentimental old fool.

But I must tell you that you do remind me of her very much.

Well, back to BBC One's film now, starring John Gielgud and Simon Ward.

The first story Catherine ever brought me in London was called Woman at the Store.

I thought it was brilliant. And it was set in that part of the savage country.

I think you were aware of it.

Oh, is that the way you pronounce it?

Oh, this must have changed so much.

It was so long ago.

It doesn't seem so very long ago to me.

Now I want to write recollections of my own country.

Yes.

I want to write about my own country until I exhaust my store.

Oh, the people we loved there.

Of them, too, I want to write.

Oh, I want for one moment to make our undiscovered

country leap into the eyes of the old world.

It must be mysterious as though floating.

It must take the breath.

I have a perfect passion for the island where I was born.

So you knew D. H. Lawrence and his wife?

Oh, yes. We used to see a lot of each other.

We even all lived together at one time.

Lawrence and I used to shoulder our rucksacks and sally forth into the countryside.

Happy days.

Well, not altogether, no.

Poor Catherine was ill already.

The long-dying blossom, Lawrence used to call her.

That's sad.

Yes, and we couldn't have children then, of course.

Now I've got several and even some grandchildren, too.

Four marriages, you said.

Yes, four marriages.

The last one two years ago.

These thrifty French, whose flower gardens are nothing but potential salad bowls.

There isn't a leaf in France that you can't faire une infusion avec,

not a blade that isn't bon pour la cuisine.

And what appalling furniture, never one comfortable chair.

If you want to talk, the only possible thing to do is to go to bed.

I quite understand the reason for what is called French moral laxity.

You're simply forced into bed.

Suppose a friend drops in for tea and asks if you believe in absolute evil.

How can you put your mind to these things

when you're sitting on four knobs and a square inch of cane?

My life with Catherine was blessed with much joy,

but harmed, no, not harmed,

but disturbed by painful separations.

Come in.

Catherine.

Oh, it's you, Marie. I was thinking of something else.

I was just passing. Is there anything you want?

No, no, nothing. I'm fine, thank you.

Oh, Marie.

I thought we might go for another walk tomorrow morning.

Our visit is rather challenging.

I don't know.

It's a pleasant trip.

He's like anybody else.

Thinks of himself.

He's like you.

You've been at dinner with him.

At what?

Well, how he's conducted his affairs since the death of his beloved Catherine.

How he's made his fortune out of her.

Fortune?

Oh, his farm, three more wives.

Huh?

I thought it was just publishers that made all the money.

Well, that's different.

Of course.

The man at the centre.

None of you are capable of putting a woman in the centre.

The way you describe it is as if John discovered Catherine.

As if he made her talent.

You're a bastard.

Don't defend me.

Don't defend me.

Don't defend me.

Let me see him.

It's enough for a pizza.

Oh, I can't call you Robin the Do we have to argue about this?

What are you doing?

Marie!

Marie! Marie!

What's wrong?

I had a dream.

I dreamt that Laurence and Freda came and told me you were gone.

In all our years together, Catherine and I had only one regret.

We were no children.

But by a second marriage with Violet,

I was blessed with two children, a boy and a girl.

And the little girl I called Catherine,

I always felt that those children were really hers.

My time with Violet was unhappily short, too.

She died, you know.

Just like Catherine.

Of tuberculosis.

At the age of 26.

So tragic.

So it was Catherine who couldn't have any children.

She must have had extraordinary courage,

travelling to the other side of the world so long ago,

staking everything and becoming a writer.

Yes, but in those days, New Zealand was still part of England.

She was returning to a great capital from her distant province.

She had no roots there.

But afterwards she became very dependent on me.

Never homesick?

Well, I think she sometimes dreamt of being back there,

but never without a return ticket.

There are moments when I think I'm wasting my time here.

If I was really brave, I'd go home.

And build something there.

Something new.

Off!

Can't even tie up a boat.

Maddy, careful!

It's a strong current.

Andre's family lived in it for generations.

Beautiful.

He still dreams of having it all done up.

And moving back.

War.

And time.

I won't have to pay any rent, you know.

My allowance will take care of all that.

I really cannot agree with a Raj about this.

Spiritual rubbish.

Shall you take me as your mistress?

I should think that might spoil everything.

Yes.

I think you're quite right.

Catherine.

Catherine.

So Catherine left you?

Her brother had arrived from New Zealand to enlist.

Chummy, she always used to call him.

She gave him enough money to go to Paris.

And soon afterwards, she went there too.

To meet a French writer.

A man called Carco.

She thought she was in love with him.

But I knew her better.

I knew she'd soon be back.

She only stayed four days with Carco.

Then she got ill and came back to me.

Then a few weeks later, when she seemed to be getting better.

She returned to Paris.

It was time to write.

And is he Chummy?

Oh, no, no.

He'd been sent to the front long before then.

I feel I'm shut behind many doors.

Hung about with memories and can't move for them.

And no, I cannot be calm.

The wind blows everything about. Everything's flapping.

Even my thoughts and ideas.

But I've suffered such agonies from loneliness and illness combined.

That I'll never be quite whole again.

But she was shattered when her brother died.

How could you leave her?

I had to go back.

To enlist?

No, I was a pacifist at the time.

I had to go and try and salvage my magazine in England.

But of course I came back to her as soon as I possibly could.

Were you jealous about her feelings for Chummy?

She said she felt as dead as he was.

It was in her flesh as well as in her blood.

Yes, yes, I suppose...

it was never the same between us after that.

She seemed to...

take herself away from me...

and at a distance.

What of all things seems so hard...

is how we swore never to let each other go again.

And then how soon we were gone.

This must be our last separation.

Then at times I get overwhelmed that it's all over.

That we've seen each other for the last time.

And that these letters will one day be published.

And people will read something in them.

In their queer finality.

That ought to have told us.

I just got your note about Je ne parle pas.

No, I certainly wouldn't agree to those excisions.

Even if there were 500 million copies in existence.

Shall I pick the eye out of the story for 40 pounds?

The outline would be blurred.

It must have those sharp lines.

I'd rather I wasn't there at all...

than sitting in the revue with a broken nose and one ear...

as though it had been through an editorial dogfight.

I can't cut it.

There are no superfluous words.

I mean every line of it.

This thing happens to fit six and a half pages...

and you can't cut it without making an ugly mess somewhere.

I hate the sort of license that English people give themselves.

To spread over and flop and roll about.

I feel as fastidious as if I wrote with acid.

I certainly wouldn't agree to those excisions.

The outline would be blurred.

It must have those sharp lines.

What on earth would have made me cut a word?

I wish I hadn't. I was wrong.

Oh, here you are.

Couldn't find you at the theatre.

What the hell has this man done?

You know, Mary, these are personal letters.

You shouldn't have taken them away from the office.

How can a pacifist be chief censor at the war office?

For Christ's sake!

He doesn't matter now.

Okay, come on, have lunch with us.

You can't just shut yourself away here, can you?

No, Marie, I didn't mean it.

Get out!

I'm sorry, John. I was in the kitchen.

You don't have many arrangements for me.

That's all right.

You know, it's a strange thing, Andre.

On my way here, I stopped the car to go and look at Catherine's grave.

And while I was there, I had a dreadful feeling...

that I was a robber.

Yes, that's exactly what I was.

I remember that in all the 33 years since Catherine's death,

I've never even paid a single penny towards the upkeep of her grave.

Well, contract signed.

It seems to be all right. Everything's fine.

Well, well, well, this calls for a drink.

Yes.

Well, I see that an editor's job isn't all that important.

It's all hardware.

Drink before lunch?

Mm-hm.

Here.

John, to health and happiness.

And to the new book.

So there I was with absolutely no idea how I was going to pay for the farm.

Merci.

How much was it in those days?

900 pounds.

I hadn't a single penny.

But the very next day, a cheque came through the post for a thousand pounds.

It was on Catherine's books.

It was so ironic.

The cheque was far bigger than anything I'd ever received for my work.

And ten times as big as Catherine had ever had

from her writings while she was still alive.

I couldn't help taking it as a sort of sign.

A sign of what?

Well, in some strange way that she was giving a blessing on my decision to remarry.

John, for the last few days I've been reading Catherine.

Her stories and also some letters.

Yes, we made an agreement to write to each other every

day so that one day we'd be able to look back at them.

And I read what you wrote and how you talked about her.

This romantic vision lover.

The nailing princess.

Always alone, refining for you.

Well, there was always some sort of strain,

of course, but we did love one another, truly.

You, the eternal lover, devoting your life to the posterity of your saintly wife.

What kind of truth is that?

I know it must be difficult for you to understand, but...

What did she do before she met you?

I don't know. She never talked about those times.

Because it wasn't important.

Well...

To risk two or three abortions at the beginning of the century wasn't important.

Jean, she was no saint. She was real.

She was funny. And she was tough and wise.

And she cared about her writing.

And her brother and her friends in New Zealand.

And not just about you. You and your letters.

And the way you've written about her.

You'd think that all she cared about was you.

And if she wrote with such passion, it was because of you.

And she knew she was dying.

I used to beg her. She wouldn't listen to me.

She would never stay in one place. She would never stay still.

There's plenty of time to stay still when you're dead.

It was you in a madman's story.

And in a man without a temperament, it was you.

All those cold-hearted, deceptive men.

Who haven't got a clue about what's happening in their women's heads.

It was you, wasn't it?

You know, you mustn't accuse me of misrepresenting Catherine.

I fulfilled her longing to be known as a writer.

Known as she is now to all the world.

Catherine would have thanked me for what I've done.

I'm sure she would.

I must put down here a dream.

I felt my whole body breaking up.

It sounded in my ears a low, confused sound.

There was a dim.

There was a sense of flashing green brilliance like broken glass.

When I woke up, I thought that there'd been a violent earthquake.

But all was still.

It slowly dawned on me the conviction that in that dream, I died.

And I don't care.

All these two years, I've been obsessed by the fear of death.

With this dream, it went.

I care no more.

It leaves me perfectly cold.

Alain.

Monsieur.

Vous avez vu mes outants de marée?

Monsieur, il parlait avec mademoiselle il y a quelques heures.

Lisa, vous avez vu Marie?

Non, je n'ai pas vu.

Good Lord, the opera! Is it as late as that already?

We must hurry, John.

It's all right, I shan't be a minute.

Let's go.

You're not going like this.

Why not?

You're not dressed.

Well then, I'm not going.

Why not?

I know the story.

That's not the point.

I bought the tickets.

Marie.

S'il te plaît.

Here I am.

You can finish dressing in the car.

Yeah.

Please.

Thank you.

Something strange and almost terrifying darted into Bertha's mind.

And this something blind and smiling whispered to her.

Soon these people will go.

The house will be quiet, quiet.

The lights will be out.

And you and he will be alone together in the dark room.

The warm bed.

For the first time in her life, Bertha Young desired her husband.

Oh, she'd loved him, she'd been in love with him, of course, in every other way.

But just not in that way.

And equally, of course, she'd understood that he was different.

They'd discussed it so often.

It had worried her dreadfully at first, to find that she was so cold.

But after a time, it had not seemed to matter.

They were so frank with each other, such good pals.

That was the best of being modern.

Dearest Bogie, I've been on the point of writing this letter for days.

My heart has been behaving in such a curious

fashion that I can't imagine that it means nothing.

So as I should hate to leave you unprepared,

I'll just try and jot down what comes to mind.

All my manuscripts, notebooks, papers, and letters I leave to you.

Go through them one day, dear love.

Publish as little as possible.

Tear up and burn as much as possible.

You understand I desire to leave as few traces of my camping ground as possible.

You know my love of tightness. Have a clean sweep, Bogey, and leave all fair, will you?

Hello.

As expected. Now John seemed to enjoy it. He didn't say much on the way back.

I've been reading.

Interesting. Did he edit all these books?

Well, that's normal. He was an editor and she was his wife.

Pity he didn't realize that before.

C'est a lie.

He seemed to take more care of her after she was dead.

What do you mean?

All her papers have the same theme. Solitude, love.

And her dependence on him.

It reads like a man's romantic vision of his wife.

She wasn't like that.

Oh, she certainly was not.

Three abortions and gonorrhoea for so long she

became sterile is hardly my vision of romantic.

Christ!

Another man!

That's not what I meant.

I was trying to talk about the woman.

Not the stuff you sell books for.

But Mary, you've just said it. That's the job of an editor.

Then you should put this in your new book.

Go through all this one day, my dear love.

Publish as little as possible.

Tear up and burn as much as possible.

You understand.

I wish to leave as few traces of my camping ground as possible.

Where did you get this?

Does it matter?

Publish it.

Everything underway?

John, you should be more careful of this.

You've read it, of course.

And?

Nothing.

My father knew of it.

Are you sure Catherine will be happy with what I've done?

I don't think it belongs in our book.

We've been in publishing a long time. It could be so easily misunderstood.

She so much wanted to be a great writer.

She is now.

Don't worry about this.

Catherine would thank you.

John, may I introduce Laura.

Laura.

He's a little red.

Ladies and gentlemen, please.

Dear friends, I would like to call your attention.

I would like to introduce John Milton Murray, my friend.

John.

In editing the journals and letters of Catherine Mansfield,

my task has been a delightfully simple one,

to select material of the greatest interest

to represent the true character of the writer.

My life with Catherine was blessed with much joy,

but disturbed by painful separations.

During the quite often long separations,

she wrote to me every day.

Her letters, their expressions of joy and sorrow,

combined now with the journals,

give a personal and moving portrait of the last years of her life.

Her one concern was to leave behind the testimony of her gifts as a writer.

To some of you, these letters and journals

may not seem as remarkable and beautiful as they do to me.

I have read them again and again,

so many times,

and always with the certainty

that in them she lives again.

I remember what we really felt.

The blanks, the silences, the anguish of continual misunderstanding.

Were we positive?

Eager?

Real?

Alive?

We were not.

We were a nothingness shot through with gleams of what might be.

Gleams of what might be.

What might be.