Some of my readers may wonder why I have not discussed at all in these memoirs the side of my life that must have seemed most important to me, as a woman: love. It was in fact the melody of my life, though in a rather different key than usual. The only truly great love my heart has known is my only child, my daughter.

But my book was intended to paint a picture of my work in film and the theater, which audiences have a right to know something about; that is to say, a picture of me that belongs to the public. And, in fact, my daughter should have appeared in my book. For the experience of having a child means so immeasurably much for an actress's development, for her personal and artistic aura, so much that I can sense an indefinable lack in an actress who has never had a child.

I had two reasons for deciding not to mention her. First, I wanted to retain the right to protect the most important parts of my life for myself—that's how selfish a person can be. Second, if I had even started to talk about my daughter, I worry that there would not have been the least room left for anything else. If I were to try to convey the smallest part of the happiness and joys she has brought me from the first moment she was able to feel and think, then my book would be as extensive as the Bible.

I have long since retired from public performances, but that does not mean that my existence is static. My artistic impulses have found expression in a long-cherished love for painting. I have created a new form of painting, not with a brush and pigments but rather with colorful fabrics, from which I piece together people and animals, landscapes and flowers. Two Danish art dealers have put on exhibitions of my work, and fate has once more smiled on me and granted me new success.

And thus, after many wonderful experiences and many tempests, my life has found harmony. Whoever is able to hear the melodies of silence is able to enjoy symphonies of unfamiliar beauty.