Do you know that sometimes I feel like Jane Eyre against her Bertha Mason? Or that I’m the nameless narrator and she’s a Rebecca and we’re all trapped in a novel named after her.
Would modern psychiatry apply a personality disorder to Rebecca?
But this boat didn’t sink. Nor the house burn. Your wife’s not dead. But alive and acting the black Madonna. She calls to you to donate and donate and donate to her salvation. I fear you will always answer.