Gellhorn: A Twentieth-Century Life by Caroline Moorehead
IN THE LAST years of her life, Martha Gellhorn wished to see her friends just one way. She liked to meet them in the late afternoon or early evening, in her own flat, over drinks that could go on for many hours but that very seldom turned into dinner.
Scorpios, she wrote, referring to herself, were either “geniuses or miserable or both, well known to be very spiky characters… for whom life is not lined with smiling faces.”
What very few of them were ever allowed to see, however, was the degree of loneliness, self-doubt, and sense of failure that ran like a sad refrain through a lifetime of letters, and which grew more marked in the last years of her life.
This woman feels like a soul mate. How did I miss her for so long?
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