Real Estate: A Living Autobiography

by Deborah Levy

It seemed to me all over again that in every phase of living we do not have to conform to the way our life has been written for us, especially by those who are less imaginative than ourselves.

There is a great deal of pain in life, and perhaps the only pain that can be avoided is the pain that comes from trying to avoid pain.

‘So what would you have on the menu for a starter?’ I asked them. They reckoned the perfect entrée for Café Girls & Women would be Vodka & Cigarettes.

This particular fellow was twenty years younger than myself and excellent company. Of all the arts, the art of living is probably the most important, something at which he was especially skilled. I reckoned he could offer me a few tips as I reached my sixtieth.

It was not something I dreaded. The loss of youthful beauty, for example. It was alright. It was okay.

My fifties had been a time of change and turbulence, energetic and exciting. A time of self-respect and perhaps a sort of homecoming. So there you are! Where have you been all these years?

I supposed that what I most value are real human relations and imagination. It is possible we cannot have one without the other. It took me a long time to discard the desire to please those who do not have my best interests at heart and who cannot live warmly with me. I own the books that I have written and bequeath the royalties to my daughters. In this sense, my books are my real estate.