July 30th, 1969: I knew there was something wrong yesterday. I could feel it in my primitive Welsh bones. […]
I’m still nightmared. What could life possibly be without her? Where would I go? What would I do? Everybody else pales by comparison. It’s no use picking up a mini-skirted chick of 18 — she wouldn’t last a week, if that.
I’d die, I suppose, a greatly accelerated death. Anyway, she’s all right. Bastards.
Richard Burton’s diary
(a dame like me)