She lay back on the pillows next to me. ‘I am Ophelia once again,’ she said. ‘I am floating in the water, with only “nettles, daisies and long purples” to hold me up, and I will never sink to “muddy death.” You can’t imagine how it is with me.’
” ‘How so?’ I asked. ‘I see you borne along forever, vital, precious, oh, so sweet –.’ I tried to stay awake, to listen to her.
” ‘Go on, sleep. Men want to sleep when it’s over. Women want to talk, at least sometimes. I am Ophelia drifting in “the weeping brook,” so light, so sure, “or like a creature native and endued unto that element.”

Anne Rice – Blackwood Farm

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