I thought of Julian, and how the centuries had interpreted and reinterpreted him, like a man walking across a stage pursued by different-coloured spotlights. Oh, he was red, no, more like orange, no, he was indigo verging on black, no, he was all black. It seems to me, if in a less dramatic and extreme way, that this is what happens when we look at anyone’s life: how they are seen by their parents, friends, lovers, enemies, children; by passing strangers who suddenly notice a truth about them, or by long-term friends who hardly understand them at all. And then they look at us, in a manner
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