The author once imagined this book as simple as an alphabet. A would stand for a tale linked to a person whose name starts with A or to America. B should have carried a Latin weight because the memoirs were written in German, but drifting in that direction would blur the sense of letters and words. C follows, and so on.
Yet the idea did not land that way. Was there a deeper truth hidden from readers, a book that was almost concept art, ahead of its time? The answer is elusive. Marlene Dietrich’s The Alphabet of My Life unfolds as a coherent text without conventional chapters, not a literal dictionary as some dubious sources claim.
And that notion resonates with the writer here.
A plan forms to craft a compact dictionary or perhaps a broader alphabet of Dietrich’s life. The writer remembers a slim notebook from late Soviet school days, tiny and toy-like, and imagines assembling it for Dietrich’s memory. A grand dictionary or a full, expansive life alphabet would be beyond reach, yet a focused compilation is within grasp.
In the realm of America, the tale shifts to a moment when Dietrich became an American citizen. The sense of belonging mingles with longing for home. The speaker recalls the movement toward new shores, the ship acting as a fragile bridge to a homeland where a mother tongue still whispers. The listener senses the fatigue of speaking in a foreign language and the constant travel that comes with a new identity.
Daily life reveals Dietrich as a figure who does not chronicle every day. The idea of recording life in a diary feels almost trivial to someone who moved through the 20th century as a notable presence. Fame can take over, pushing life along like a saw cutting through ice, leaving behind bright lakes named Superior, Michigan, Huron, Erie, and Ontario as reminders of what was once vast.
A misplaced scene appears. Dietrich recalls a minor role in the early days, a moment that contrasts with the grand arc of ABCs of Life. The entrance of the main actress is staged with precision and beauty. She descends a broad staircase, and on stage there is a table where four people play bridge. Only two words are hers to utter, a quiet declaration of passing. The dress she wears is simpler than expected, and the embroidery reveals a thwarted surprise, since the back of the garment is adorned while the front remains plain. The rehearsal reveals a practical truth about performance and image.
When asked about records of a life lived in the public eye, the reply is clear. Diaries feel insufficient in the glare of relentless attention, where each appearance sparkles like a cold diamond. The voice might say the moment is enough to be seen, heard, and felt, without the need for a daily log.
Notes about letters accumulate here, with a focus on R and X. A remark from Dietrich during an initial exchange with a novelist about a major work touches a larger truth: one of the greatest novels of the time provokes a reply that is keen and perceptive. Later, a veteran writer will craft lines that blur memory and feeling, a love that feels almost impossible to pin down, spoken in a way that lingers in the mind beyond the moment of utterance.
Paustovsky enters the scene, and the Russian heart swells with admiration. A recalled image shows Dietrich kneeling before the writer, a gesture of respect and awe. She cannot utter words in Russian, so she kneels, attempting to bridge the gap with reverence and silence. The moment becomes a vivid illustration of crossing cultures through art and encounter.
Rilke gives Dietrich a quiet anchor. The actress is drawn to logocentric poetry from a young age, and she enshrines his lines within memory. The idea of discovering a new god in poetry is described as a personal revelation, a moment that brightens the mind and invites the mouth to recite the verses aloud.
Death enters a quiet frame of reference. The year 1992 marks the end of Dietrich’s life, a farewell to a figure who left an indelible mark on stages and screens. A long career is interrupted by a later accident that ends touring and public performances. The world carries on even as a beloved luminary departs.
As the glaciers of a vast era retreat, their traces remain in land and memory. Some places keep their lakes, others reveal peaks of ancient rock, and the landscape itself bears strange, curling forms that hint at distant origins.
When glory fades, the small moments and the unseen observers still circle. In Paris, not long before the end, a sudden intrusion by a curious photographer evokes a stark image. A secretary recalls a late evening call, a room entered, and a voice caught between fear and restraint. The incident ends with a choice to reach for safety and silence rather than let the intrusion prevail.
In a life that sees many private moments exposed to the public, an ordinary scene can become a test. A person sits, a television hums, and the world outside seems to press close. The intrusion of a stranger, the breaking of privacy, all test character and resilience—moments that reveal the enduring humanity beneath the public persona.
And so the narrative returns to the sense that every role holds meaning, even if some seem smaller or more fragile than others. A sense of humility emerges in the voice that writes about a dress with missing embroidery, a life whose path veers in unexpected directions. The memory keeps returning to a question of what hearts feel when beauty meets circumstance, and how each turn reveals a new facet of a life lived in the glare and in the quiet, away from the cameras.