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: I... wrote? John Bayley
: Yes, my darling, clever cat! You wrote books. Iris Murdoch
: Books... I wrote? John Bayley
: You wrote novels. Wonderful novels. Iris Murdoch
: I... wrote... John Bayley
: Such things you wrote. Special things. Secret things.
: [pep-talking herself
] Keep working, keep talking, keep the words coming. John Bayley
: Keep at it. Iris Murdoch
: I should feel like a deprived animal if I can't write. I'm like a starved dog. John Bayley
: No, keep at it. I'll keep you at it.
[turns on the desk lamp
] Iris Murdoch
: I feel... as if I'm sailing into darkness.
: [talking in front of Iris
] Horrible thing, to stand with your toes at the edge of the precipice. You can say anything you like, as long as you make it sound like it was a joke. Janet Stone
: Now don't, John, it's cruel. John Bayley
: No, you're wrong, it's not cruel. It's nothing. I mean, it's not understood. She's in her own world now. Perhaps it's what she always wanted. Janet Stone
: [smiles dotingly at Iris