Who are you going to be with when you die? Do you think you’ll be with anyone? Will you have settled down? Have had children, maybe? I can imagine it: an older child. Attentive. Serious. Mopping your brow. Looking after you. Holding you and singing songs from your childhood, or whatever. Wouldn’t that be something?
And what about you? Are you going to outlive your husband?
Definitely. He’s twenty years old than me, you know … Unless I’m the sort who dies young – I can’t tell. Who dies of turbo-cancer aged forty-six, like one of my aunts did. And these things pass down the family line … They are inherited … And as for you: you’ll die age eighty-six, full of years, a distinguished intellectual career behind you. Having written many celebrated books, all lined up on your shelf. And translations. A whole oeuvre …
Work in Progress 