Those Degas paintings tell a story that's poignant and very dark,

There's a bit of a strange twist to my ending – I won't say what. I was anxious not to abandon the romance, the fairy tale, the magic in this ballet but at the same time I wanted to reach that from an everyday world, for him to create that romantic notion of an ideal woman for himself – not to go skipping through some fairy-tale woods and stumble across an enchanted swan-woman.

Life has to end. Love doesn't.

Miriam wished for so much in those final moments. Yet as she closed her eyes, it was not regret any longer but a sensation of abundant peace that washed over her. She thought of her entry into this world, the harami child of a lowly villager, an unintended thing, a pitiable, regrettable accident. A weed. And yet she was leaving the world as a woman who had loved and been loved back. She was leaving it as a friend, a companion, a guardian. A mother. A person of consequence at last. No. It was not so bad, Miriam thought, that she should die this way. Not so bad. This was a legitimate end to a life of illegitimate belongings.

What did it matter where you lay once you were dead? In a dirty sump or in a marble tower on the top of a high hill? You were dead, you were sleeping the big sleep, you were not bothered by things like that. Oil and water were the same as wind and air to you. You just slept the big sleep, not caring about the nastiness of how you died or where you fell.

She kept swimming out into life because she hadn't yet found a rock to stand on.