She wanted to tell him this one night, explain that her suicide would be a rational, muted thing, truer to her temperament than the lurching flash of normal life, but she has run out of time and, anyway, she knows what he would say. Bullshit, Joy, you can’t grant yourself a neat, aesthetic end. You won’t be able to pat yourself on the back afterwards. You can’t perfect death like it’s a room in need of redecoration, or a memorandum in need of redrafting. You’ll make The Lawyer, not The Times. Shakespeare isn’t around to write a play about your last day. History won’t miss you, but I will ….