Emilie Ekdahl: My husband died a year ago today. He wanted us to go on as usual, and we have gone on as usual, though everything has been different. We draw the theater over our heads like a security blanket. Our dressing rooms are bright and warm. The stage enfolds us in friendly shadows. Playwrights tell us what to say and think. We laugh, cry and rage. People sit there in the dark, kindly disposed towards us. They're remarkably loyal, though we often give them stones instead of bread. Most of the time we're simply playing. Almost always. We play because we enjoy it. And if we don't enjoy it, we sulk and blame the circumstances - never ourselves. That's how it is. So I pass my life in wonderful self-deception, with a keen eye for others' faults while glossing over my own. I don't know what I really am, as I never cared to find out the truth about myself. But I do care about myself, which is something different. And I don't care about reality, either. It's drab and uninteresting. It doesn't concern me, unless, in one way or another, it concerns the part I'm playing.