Friday, May 1, 2015

the last book I ever read (Tennessee Williams: Mad Pilgrimage of the Flesh, excerpt fourteen)

from Tennessee Williams: Mad Pilgrimage of the Flesh: A Biography by John Lahr:

“I don’t understand my life, past or present, nor do I understand life itself,” he had written to his Key West friend Kate Moldawer that May. “Death seems more comprehensible to me.” On Christmas Eve, worried that their persistent telephone calls to Williams had gone unanswered, Moldawer and Gary Tucker, the director who had mounted the early versions of A House Not Meant to Stand, went to Williams’s house. He had locked himself inside three days earlier. The door had to be broken down. They found Williams on the floor, wrapped in a sheet, with pill vials and wine bottles around him. He was dehydrated, frail, and incoherent. He was rushed to a hospital, where, under a false name, he spent several days recovering. His Key West doctor told him that he could not continue much longer without prolonged hospitalization. “He just wouldn’t have it,” Uecker said. “You couldn’t tell him anything. He would only do what he wanted to do.”

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