Every Single Night I'm Nervous.

You Know The Passage Where Scarlett Voices Her Happiness That Her Mother Is Dead, So That She Can't See What A Bad Girl Scarlett Has Become? Well, That's Me.

My Husband, Who's The Greatest Actor In The World, Can Do Anything. Look At What He Did In The Critic And Oedipus. In Every Role He Gets-he Did This In Richard The Third-there's Nothing He Can't Do, Nothing. Just Nothing.

In Britain, An Attractive Woman Is Somehow Suspect. If There Is Talent As Well, It Is Overshadowed. Beauty And Brains Just Can't Be Entertained; Someone Has Been Too Extravagant. This Does Not Happen In America Or On The Continent, For The Looks Of A Woman Are Considered A Positive Advertisement For Her Gifts And Don't Detract From Them.

I Shall Play Scarlett O'hara.

I Realize That The Memories I Cherish Most Are Not The First Night Successes, But Of Simple, Everyday Things: Walking Through Our Garden In The Country After Rain; Sitting Outside A Cafe In Provence, Drinking The Vin De Pays; Staying At A Little Hotel In An English Market Town With Larry, In The Early Days After Our Marriage, When He Was Serving In The Fleet Air Arm, And I Was Touring Scotland, So That We Had To Make Long Treks To Spend Weekends Together.