– I wish I’d fought the hero-fight more consciously.
– Of course. And you wouldn’t say you’d been trivial, would you?
– Is it for me to say?
– Who else?
– Self-judgement, you mean?
– What else?
– You’re very sententious. Who are you?
– Oh, Gil – you know me.
– My mother. You must be my mother.
– Must? Why must I?
– Those films. All on the father’s side. Had my mother nothing to do with the making of me? Where was she?
– You might better ask, where wasn’t she?
– Nowhere to be seen. Not a shadow of her.
– Everywhere to be felt. The way you observed. The irony you brought to what you saw. All hers. Inescapably.
– Then who are you? You say I know you. Have I forgotten?
– Remember what McWearie said about the woman in the man?
– So that’s who you are!
– None other.
– Like in the old morality plays my father used to teach? Are you my Good Deeds? No? Well then, should I call you Lady Soul? Don’t laugh. Must I be more up-to-date? Are you my Anima?
– Oh, Gil, when will you stop naming everything? That is just a way of pushing it aside, of putting it in a prison. Just accept what I am. Don’t label me. Am I a stranger?
– Not now that I see you. A dear companion.
– Of course. Always a companion. Thank you for “dear.”
– And you’ve come to take me away?
– Where should I take you? I’m no cleverer than you are. What do you mean by “away”?
– I don’t know.
– And I don’t know, either. We’ll find out.
– Is this part of the hero-fight?
– Perhaps.
– And you’ll fight with me?
– Yes, my dear, but need it be a struggle?
– It always was.
– Perhaps not now. Shall we begin with acceptance?
– But for the moment –
– No moments here. Only Now.
Robertson Davies, Murther and Walking Spirits
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