These women whose lives I have so harshly judged have chosen the intimacy of parchment (well, paper but parchment sounds more sensuous to my ears) in the hopes that I will understand the choices they have made, the people they have become. Not, with the hopes that I would share such intimacies with them, we are not sharing secrets. So, I flippantly skim page after page (not more than ten per life) and put it in my return pile. Intimacy over lavender? Whisperings over the crumbs of a former mistress? (ok, that sounds slightly provocative) Still, I wonder without endeavoring to know more than ten random pages of these women’s lives what they can share with me? What they can teach me? Their lives did not touch me because I was not willing to root out the precious words from the rest.
Somewhere in the corner of Enoch Pratt, preferably in a dark corner, with the scent of musk, a faint scent, there lies the memoir for me. The one that says what I need to hear, when I need to hear it.