“Right, but surely you must have thought about what happens to them,
I mean as characters, I mean independent of their metaphorical meanings or whatever.”
“They’re fictions,” he said, tapping his glass again. “Nothing happens to them.”
“You said you’d tell me,” I insisted. I reminded myself to be assertive. I needed to keep his addled attention on my questions.
“Perhaps, but I was under the misguided impression that you were incapable of transatlantic travel.
I was trying... to provide you some comfort, I suppose, which I should know better than to attempt.
But to be perfectly frank, this childish idea that the author of a novel has some special insight into the characters in the novel...
it’s ridiculous. That novel was composed of scratches on a page, dear.
The characters inhabiting it have no life outside of those scratches.
What happened to them? They all ceased to exist the moment the novel ended.”
“No,” I said. I pushed myself up off the couch. “No, I understand that, but it’s impossible not to imagine a future for them.
You are the most qualified person to imagine that future. Something happened to Anna’s mother.
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