This wee post is a tribute to Greta … the wonderful protagonist of D’s book … I keep accidentally typing Great instead of Greta and I think that’s fucking fabulous … ;-D
Greta the Great

Which Book?
The book in question is The Danish Girl by David Ebershoff. I started watching the film a few years ago but I’m not sure if I ever finished it. The book then found its way into my home. And I finally read it !! ;-D These few words are here so that I can express my thoughts before they escape me …
Tenderness
First and foremost, I’d like to thank the author for all the tenderness (*). With so much conflict in the world these days, I appreciate the acts of kindness woven into this book. There’s of course some discord — otherwise there’s no story — but to my mind the chaos was kept to a bare minimum. Cheers to that.
California Brat
Alrighty folks, I shall now try to pay tribute to Greta the Great. Please kindly bear in mind that none of the following is intended as an actual book review …
I loved Greta’s disdain of her pedigree. Greta was expected to marry w/in a woefully boring social circle in California and she was like: “Nope !!”
So she leaves California, adamant of her need to explore. She falls in love. She constructs an impossible marriage w/ a small town boy (*).
Wifery
Against all odds, Greta manages to make wifery work for her … yahoo !! ;-D This lasts for awhile. Then wifery takes a funky trajectory …
Tsunami Surf Punk
OK so let’s be clear that there’s no actual surfing in this book nor is there an actual tsunami. But figuratively speaking I found both in Greta’s wifery.
Lemme ‘splain. There’s a point in the book during which Greta finds herself negotiating unexpected swells, riptides, hidden impediments. Tenacity keeps her in the surf. She graciously gives up the best waves, allowing others a sweet ride. She drags her loved ones out of dangerous currents, using her body as a protective barricade. She gets slammed. She gets up. She cleans up. And she goes back out. Greta the Great is my Tsunami Surf Punk girlfriend !! ;-D
I was fearful that Greta’s soul might eventually take a dark turn. When that didn’t happen (whew !! ;-D), I wondered whether the author had shaped Greta’s character based on some fabulous Surf Betty in his own life. I came across the interview below which was fun and entertaining, but I was deflated to find so little discussion about Greta …
Until finally … this Boom Club Mama stood up and asked about Greta … this doesn’t happpen until roughly 57 minutes in … I am forever grateful to her !! ;-D

Boom Club Mama explains briefly that she and her book club loved Greta … by her enthusiasm, I think they loved Greta the Great as much as I did. ;-D As I recall, a bit of easy banter ensues it the interview, but still not much about Greta. So you know what ?! I just thought of this. I’m going to write a few paragraphs about Greta. Picking up where the book ends. With Liss G, Chuck P & Heather O in mind. Here we go …
Chapter 30
(Viv / June 2025)
The Empress Brittania carves through the Atlantic like a mermaid in her prime. She whispers “Atraverssiamo” to her passengers. Very few hear the whisper. Only the widows …
Greta has been relishing in her freedom to paint. Or draw. Or sip on endless cocktails. Or whatever. One night, summoned by an achingly beautiful Bach tune, Greta drifts towards its source.
Door ajar
Chords beckoning …
Corset popped loose
Ribcage freed …
Relief
Exaltation
Widowhood
At last.
Greta hugs her sketchbook to her chest. She breathes w/ Bach …
Crescendo. Decrescendo.
The candles follow suit …
Crescendo. Decrescendo.
An aging piano. A widow. A few candles. Only a widow can play Bach like this. Brilliance. Light. Wisdom. Freedom. Relief. Exaltation. Widowhood. At last.
Greta gently lowers herself to the wooden floor. Gingerly opens her sketchbook. Releases the pencil from the bun in her hair. Tresses of locks succumb to gravity. Legato. Pianissimo. Sketch. Now.
Atraverssiamo …
The widow plays w/ the trepidation of an injured prey animal. Damaged. Fearful. As though one wrong keystroke will cost her her life. She’s not yet aware that widowhood is liberating her. Corset popped. Ribcage free. One stanza. At a time.
The piano feels at one w/ the widow. It bolsters its core. It sings w/ awe. It hammers w/ new-found joy.
Atraverssiamo …
Greta’s eyes adjust to the candlelight. The widow’s feet work the piano pedals with exquisite grace. Hold. Mute. Pause. The ankles peek out of embroidered shoes. Elegant. Strong. Weathered.
- The first rule about marriage is that you don’t talk about marriage.
Atraverssiamo …
A tear trickles out of the widow’s right eye. A squint. A diamond. Another. From the left eye. A sparkle. A drop on the keyboard. Another. Slippery runs. Imperfect chords. Enchanted Bach. A widow’s Bach. Still bloody. From the vice grip of wifery. Corset off. Ribcage expanded. At last.
- The second rule about marriage is that you don’t talk about marriage.
Greta sketches
The widow breathes
Empress Brittania swims.

– The Cult