Today I wrote the words that brought Woolson’s life to an end. There is still much to say about her death and its aftermath, as well as her legacy. But to type the following sentences today was deeply moving: “When the nurse returned a second time, the window was wide open. (It had been tightly closed with curtains drawn when Miss Holas had…
One of Woolson’s close friends was John Hay, a famous man in his day who has been largely forgotten in ours. A new biography of him has just been published by Simon & Shuster. The author, John Taliaferro, contacted me a while looking for a good portrait of Woolson, and he was kind enough to have an advance copy of the book sent…
I sit at my desk today, the sun shining on the banana trees outside my window, and think of Venice. I am now writing about Woolson’s last year of life. She got up at 4:30 in the morning to write. (I’m only getting up at 5:30.) She wrote until 4:00, after which she bathed in the Lido. In the evenings her gondolier (the…
Today some of Woolson’s observations on Saturdays in New York, when the ladies are out in force . . . Saturday in New York is a marked day, possessing such peculiar characteristics that any one could detect it by a glance at the streets even though just awakened from weeks of sickness with no idea of time or place. Let no one suppose,…