Our next contact occurred a month later: a two-hour phone call whose pretext was the clarification of certain passages in The Laurels, in effect a chance to start knowing one another. At the end of our conversation I painfully learned how deep I had already been drawn into Marie’s world: she mentioned that her next book was an account of her mother’s life as seen from the moment of her death. This death had not been mentioned in The Laurels. I was incredulous—I had longed to meet Marie’s mother. After we hung up, I immediately fell prey to the worst migraine headache of my life, spending four hours lying on my bed in darkness and pain, from which I finally emerged as soon as I realized I was indulging in “unjustified mourning”—a passion of love and grief for someone I had never even met.
Harry Mathews on Marie Chaix. [via The Paris Review]
I could do with a love story like that in my life.