The staff, stage managers, ushers all behaved as if they respected the actors.

I fear that even if it is beautiful in the abstract, that my doing it knowing that it’s beautiful and worse, knowing that I will very soon be documenting it, that in my pocket is a tape recorder brought for just that purpose—that all this makes this act of potential beauty somehow gruesome. I am a monster.

RIP, Rest in Peace, though what’s the point of that? What else’re the dead going to be doing? It’s a better message than Good Luck, don’t you think?

My first coherent thought was, “It’s raining. This must be Scotland.

Written By Diana Gabaldon

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