How come we live several different lives? Maybe I’m generalizing a bit. Maybe I’m the only one who feels like this. I will only die once and yet, during the time I’m allotted, I will have lived a series of related but clearly distinct existences.
At thirty, I wasn’t the same person I am now. At eight, I was a very individual little thing. I see my adolescence as quite autonomous in relation to what followed. The woman I am now is rootless, unattached, incomprehensibly alone. I used to have lots of people round me. I had become very sociable. Initially I was shy, then reserved, then sensible . . . finally mad.