Clive’s idealistic dream is a disappointment – usually strong people become richer-preacher and ruder-cruder and more hermetically protected from the danger of going down. The weaker and more desperate people become more aggressive and despotic. They are ready to fight and they are ready to rob-grab. Clive was “rich”, but lives modestly as only a writer can – he was writing – “wasting himself”. What appears like a thick “rope” behind his head and back is not a rope but the part of the window. But Clive felt as if he was on the rope. He couldn’t just go on with life.


By his face he is crying. Together with nature life is going out. Together with life nature is going to nowhere. Together with thinking talking is transformed into fight. Together with fight hate is activated more and more. But Clive’s sense of torment is absolute. It’s unstoppable.

But a little joke helped – Clive’s oldest son Claude to openly admit that in their last intellectual verbal quarrel father had won. So, Clive repeats it to himself with pleasure of what Claude had said – “Set and game to father”.


And Clive repeated again what Claude said, Claude who was his pride. That is ages ago.


Clive is older and older…He knew that his son, probably, joked at him among friends, but it’s still pleasant to repeat after his son about the triumph of the father. Look at Clive’s child’s face. It’s happiness itself. It’s like a joy forever. It’s like eternal youth or even eternal childhood.


After Clive’s wife Molly fatefully cut her wrist in the bathtub he cannot forget it – not only the cruelty with which she did it, but with the desire to do when Clive was in next room. He heard, as if something wrong, and he was right… After this Clive’s face was transformed into something like a wet cotton. He lived in this state of mind for a while.


Many times Clive was positioning Molly’s photo next to his own reflection in the mirror – he, as if, became obsessed with seeing her simultaneously together with his own guilty features, a stupid ritual he couldn’t stop. Yes, there were moments when he behaved so desperately ugly – when he detested the world and couldn’t tolerate it, which had nothing to do with Molly – but with the world. Children don’t understand the burdens their fathers had to bear. And they don’t understand how fathers are in reality helpless, hopelessly helpless.


It was the last time Clive meets with his family, and he was especially disappointed – especially irritated with his elder son Claude. Lawyers are different from writers – they build thinking like it is a brick wall. They are unlike writers who create ideas as alive matter. Oh, artistic prose – lawyers don’t like it, for them it’s like psoriasis. They prefer victoriously chew and swallow bricks.


On this day Clive’s family visited him, and after lunch Clive gave a solemn speech and said goodbyes to his children. He knows that he will not live for much longer and that he will not live long enough to finish his last book. Clive never cried, but his particular “ephemeral” crying grimace is all he allowed himself. It’s his particular facial expression. But it’s a realistic expression of the human soul. It’s the human soul on his face. The truth of human soul on his face.


He remembers how he and his wife Molly were held in a barbwire fenced field, where many were killed by soldiers, but they were lucky and survived.


He again and again was imagining himself under autopsy by the scalpel of the pathologist… He was without panic.


John Gielgud with his beautifully, disproportionally complicated features (1904-2000)


John Gielgud with his multi configured face


John Gielgud towards his more mature age