now and then, to the stories they had to tell—of her visits to the hospital, the hospice, the homeless shelter, the anorexia clinic. I could think only of one thing: how I had taken her from them all. And I found myself appealing, to a god in whom I do not believe, that I not be judged too harshly for my sin.
27 January 1998
Of course my critical faculties were somewhat impaired. I was drained from the previous days’ exertions, and overwrought with emotion and nerves. At some distance now, I perceive it differently. In a way she was not taken from the people but delivered to them. For she became that night a pure emblem, of goodness and suffering. A people can own an emblem, far better than a flesh-and-blood human being.
Her “death” changed the nation, so the leader-writers and columnists averred. It consigned the stiff upper lip to the annals of history. The Prime Minister spoke of her with a catch in his throat. The Queen broke protocol and bowed to the coffin.
The Queen broke protocol . How amazing it is to me to write those words.
There was a witch hunt, of course. The press and the public identified the culprits. She was hounded by the photographers, the paparazzi, and they were the ones to blame. They drove her to her erratic and risk-taking behavior, which culminated inevitably in her death.
She wasn’t slow to see the irony there. “Are the press blaming themselves?” she said.
But she took strength from the outpouring, which reached far beyond the bounds of our shores. Two billion people, so it is estimated, watched the funeral.
28 January 1998
Did I act for the best? I have teased apart that moral knot so many times and still it tangles up. All I can say in the end is, I hope so. I hope I did not do wrong. Ultimately the answer lies with her. If she makes a life for herself then I was right to facilitate it. But I will not be around to see. On the other hand, were I not under sentence of death, I could not have done what I did. To carry the burden of secrecy and responsibility over decades would have made it unfeasible for me, and too risky for her.
So it goes around. One would hope that closeness to death brings some heightened sagacity. Perhaps when I start to feel very wise I will know that the end is near.
There are times when I wake in the night, as if from a nightmare. I can’t recall a single dream anymore. If I do dream of anything it is surely her. I find myself falling into daytime reveries. I find myself yearning to call. We agreed that we would not, except in some extreme situation, pick up the telephone. “Even if I have an emergency, Lawrence,” she said, “I know I’ve got to find a way to cope for myself, after all . . .” She did not finish the thought but we both knew what she meant. It wasn’t that she was embarrassed by the prospect of my—of any—demise. Death has been deemed a kind of perversion and has been suitably sequestered from polite society. But not by her. “You’ve been the most terrific help already, you know.” She kissed me on my bald pink head and giggled helplessly. “Oh God, Lawrence, what can I say? Anything I say to thank you sounds so ridiculous.” It had, in fact, sounded as if I’d been awfully helpful getting the picnic packed, bringing the car around.
She hadn’t her brown lenses in. We were sitting on the couch together in the little white wooden house in North Carolina, and I was wrapped up entirely in the ultramarine of her irises. Her eyes are worthy of a sonnet. They are the most beautiful eyes I have ever seen.
“Are you afraid?” she asked me.
I shrugged. I’ve been too distracted to think about it, I said.
“I would be afraid,” she said. “Whenever I’ve thought about killing myself, I knew I’d never go through with it because I’d be too scared.”
She can be as frank as a child.
“But you must be afraid,” she said.
I conceded her point. Yes, when I allow myself to dwell.
She talked to me then of the
27 January 1998
Of course my critical faculties were somewhat impaired. I was drained from the previous days’ exertions, and overwrought with emotion and nerves. At some distance now, I perceive it differently. In a way she was not taken from the people but delivered to them. For she became that night a pure emblem, of goodness and suffering. A people can own an emblem, far better than a flesh-and-blood human being.
Her “death” changed the nation, so the leader-writers and columnists averred. It consigned the stiff upper lip to the annals of history. The Prime Minister spoke of her with a catch in his throat. The Queen broke protocol and bowed to the coffin.
The Queen broke protocol . How amazing it is to me to write those words.
There was a witch hunt, of course. The press and the public identified the culprits. She was hounded by the photographers, the paparazzi, and they were the ones to blame. They drove her to her erratic and risk-taking behavior, which culminated inevitably in her death.
She wasn’t slow to see the irony there. “Are the press blaming themselves?” she said.
But she took strength from the outpouring, which reached far beyond the bounds of our shores. Two billion people, so it is estimated, watched the funeral.
28 January 1998
Did I act for the best? I have teased apart that moral knot so many times and still it tangles up. All I can say in the end is, I hope so. I hope I did not do wrong. Ultimately the answer lies with her. If she makes a life for herself then I was right to facilitate it. But I will not be around to see. On the other hand, were I not under sentence of death, I could not have done what I did. To carry the burden of secrecy and responsibility over decades would have made it unfeasible for me, and too risky for her.
So it goes around. One would hope that closeness to death brings some heightened sagacity. Perhaps when I start to feel very wise I will know that the end is near.
There are times when I wake in the night, as if from a nightmare. I can’t recall a single dream anymore. If I do dream of anything it is surely her. I find myself falling into daytime reveries. I find myself yearning to call. We agreed that we would not, except in some extreme situation, pick up the telephone. “Even if I have an emergency, Lawrence,” she said, “I know I’ve got to find a way to cope for myself, after all . . .” She did not finish the thought but we both knew what she meant. It wasn’t that she was embarrassed by the prospect of my—of any—demise. Death has been deemed a kind of perversion and has been suitably sequestered from polite society. But not by her. “You’ve been the most terrific help already, you know.” She kissed me on my bald pink head and giggled helplessly. “Oh God, Lawrence, what can I say? Anything I say to thank you sounds so ridiculous.” It had, in fact, sounded as if I’d been awfully helpful getting the picnic packed, bringing the car around.
She hadn’t her brown lenses in. We were sitting on the couch together in the little white wooden house in North Carolina, and I was wrapped up entirely in the ultramarine of her irises. Her eyes are worthy of a sonnet. They are the most beautiful eyes I have ever seen.
“Are you afraid?” she asked me.
I shrugged. I’ve been too distracted to think about it, I said.
“I would be afraid,” she said. “Whenever I’ve thought about killing myself, I knew I’d never go through with it because I’d be too scared.”
She can be as frank as a child.
“But you must be afraid,” she said.
I conceded her point. Yes, when I allow myself to dwell.
She talked to me then of the
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