Saturday, March 5, 2003
10 a.m.

The Assassin's Cloak is "an anthology of the world's greatest diarists." Its preface may well be as interesting as the wide variety of diary excerpts that follow it. For instance, it states that the most common question asked by and to diarists is "Why do you do it?" And here are two more comments that struck me:

"A diary is the most flexible and intimate of literary forms."

"Without the commonplace and the trivial the best diaries would be bereft of much that makes them compelling and enduringly fascinating."

The following excerpt, taken from the diary of Louisa May Alcott, author of Little Women, is one that has installed itself in my heart.

"My dear [sister] Beth died at three this morning, after two years of patient pain. Last week she put her work away, saying the needle was 'too heavy,' and having given us her few possessions, made ready for the parting in her own simple, quiet way. For two days she suffered much, begging for ether, though its effect was gone. Tuesday she lay in Father's arms, and called us round her, smiling contentedly as she said, 'All here!' I think she bid us goodby then, as she held our hands and kissed us tenderly. Saturday she slept, and at midnight became unconscious, quietly breathing her life away till three, then, with one last look of the beautiful eyes, she was gone.

A curious thing happened, and I will tell it here, for Dr. G. said it was a fact. A few moments after the last breath came, as Mother and I sat silently watching the shadow fall on the dear little face, I saw a light mist rise from the body and float up and vanish in the air. Mother's eyes followed mine, and when I said, 'What did you see?' she described the same light mist. Dr. G. said it was the life departing visibly.

For the last time we dressed her in her usual cap and gown, and laid her on her bed, — at rest at last. What she had suffered was seen in her face, for at twenty-three she looked like a woman of forty, so worn was she, and all her pretty hair gone.

On Monday Dr. Huntington read the Chapel service, and we sang her favorite hymn. Mr. Emerson, Henry Thoreau, Sanborn, and John Pratt, carried her out of the old home to the new one at Sleepy Hollow chosen by herself. So, the first break comes, and I know what death means, — a liberator for her, a teacher for us."