The writings of William Trevor evoked hauntings of fallen beauty and melancholy. It is sheer brilliant that he could write fine threads of phrases, drowsy and nostalgic, even though he was telling the readers about a crime scene or, the most unromantic of words, bomb explosion.
Perhaps the drawing force could be that I feel a little affinity to Emily because, like me, she is an escapist. I could still remember a goodbye message written for me by a dear friend in college, that sometimes I shouldn’t live in too much fantasy and these words echoed over my head for years, almost in denial until I finally relented its truthfulness. The acceptance made me more gentle, more forgiving with myself at best.
Maggie Smith as Mrs. Delahunty in the film, My House in Umbria.
Now, the film is something else as well. Day dreams of an Italian villa parade through my mind. Most of all, the very image of an old woman with her novels struck hard. The very picture of solitude and pain accumulated over the years dealt in shots of glasses or walks in the countryside. The idea of cultivating an English garden. Again, the illusion, the painterly illusion.
I’ve written a book report of this book and film in our book cafe and still I write this. These words are mere trickles, the urging to speak more and reminisce again.