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[07 Apr 2020|05:36pm] |
This isn't a diary, not in the accepted sense of the term.
I've no intention of sitting down dutifully each day to record tedious details of what I had for breakfast, which gown I ordered from my seamstress, and who said what to whom in the course of rehearsals. It's surely the height of vanity to assume anyone will want to read about your petty, unimportant little life a hundred years from now. I don't want anyone to read this document ever, for if they do I'll surely be locked up somewhere out of harm's way and people will go around shaking their heads and saying: "poor Christine, such a shame, but of course I always had the suspicion she wasn't quite right in the head--never had her feet on the ground, you know, even as a young girl."
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