In today’s correspondence a poetry book detailing the lives of British Queens— with a note enclosed and a question: what does it mean to be a Queen?
I could reply and say— this precious stone set in a silver sea: a symbol, like a banner, for mens’ love. But these are not my words.
I could reply and say— glorying in the glories of my people, sorrowing with the sorrows of the lowest. But these are not my words.
I could declare— that each Queen is tissue paper thin, transluscent but combined, are my flesh. But I will not solidify my words,
instead I will command my secretary to write, with many kind thanks for the little book etc, but to say my thoughts on Queenship can only be ascertained by my actions.
