For an acclaimed actress, falling in love with novelist Philip Roth was first a joy and then a torment; after she made the bitter choice between him and her daughter, she writes, he disintegrated psychologically, making her the target of a vicious, irrational rage.
BY CLAIRE BLOOM

Our meeting was typical of us and ridiculously simple. I was walking up Madison Avenue in New York City to have tea with my yoga teacher; Philip Roth was walking down on his way to a session with his psychoanalyst. Philip was looking very professional behind his glasses, and bent over to kiss me on the cheek. I told him I was on my way to Hawaii to make the Hemingway film Islands in the Stream, with George C. Scott, who I predicted would be a monster, like most of the testerone-driven leading men I had recently had the pleasure of coming across. (He turned out to be a complete professional.) Philip silently pondered this for a moment, then said, quietly but firmly, "Not all men are."
We had first met in East Hampton, Long Island, in 1966. My husband, Rod Steiger, the actor, and I had taken a house for the summer months, and we had a good time there with our daughter, Anna, bicycle riding, swimming, performing a host of healthy summer activities. Neighbors invited us over for a drink: one of their houseguests was Philip. Roth was already a highly acclaimed young writer- the author of Goodbye, Columbus, a fine volume of short stories. I recognized his tense, intellectually alert face immediately form photographs. Tanned, tall and lean, he was unusually handsome; he also seemed to be well aware of his startling effect on women. I was immediately attracted to him and he would tell me years later that he had also felt the same toward me. We were both attached- Philip to a beautiful young socialite, Anne Mudge. I to Rod- but neither of us forgot the meeting.
A few days after our Madison Avenue encounter, I went to Philip's apartment for coffee; we sat checking each other out. I had dressed as attractively as possible, and was determined to be at my most charming and witty. Philip was very seriously considering me from behind his glasses, sizing me up in a manner particular to him, taking every detail in , with intense concentration on each intellectual, psychological, and sexual aspect of the woman in front of him. To have such a mind as Philip Roth's fixed on your every word and gesture is both daunting and extremely flattering; but it was difficult for me to read his intentions form the emotionally neutral and sober expression that followed every comment I made. Though he had it to an intense degree when the mood took him, his brand of seductiveness wasn't charm; it was intelligence, the sort that passes as acute sensitivity by dint of an astonishing facility for understanding. He made no effort to coneal the caustic and judgmental sides of his character; as a result, I felt that I would never be able to measure up to the high standards he demanded both of himself and of his friends- and especially of the women with whom he became involved. But, confoundingly, he also appear capable of great kindness and depth of feeling.
I gave Philip my address and took his. We agreed to write. I had to leave for Hawaii the following day. We exchanged several letters, and when I arrived back in New York on February 16, 1976, there were flowers at the hotel to greet my arrival. "Welcome, Philip" Very careful and correct.
A week after, we admitted we were in love with each other. Philip spoke first, and his voice was suffused with pain and a kind of suffering; it was as though it hurt him to declare his love for me. I stayed in his apartment that night and for the nights afterward. By now I had only 10 days left of my stay in New York.
To my surprise, I overheard Philip talking on the telephone; from his end of the conversation I gathered that it was with a close male friend; they arranged to leave together in a few days time for a vacation in the Caribbean. This arrangement was a great surprise to me after the eager tone of his letters and affection he had shown since my arrival. I had expected to spend the time I had left in New York with him. This was my first glimpse of Philip's rigidiity: he had arranged to go, and he was going. I suspected at the time that this trip might have been worked out before my arrival, perhaps as a safety valve to avoid becoming too emotionally involved; I thought it was even possible he now regretted it. But whether he did or not, he was going through with his original plan.
Soon after, I arrived back in London, where Harold Pinter invited me to appear on Broadway, under his direction, in a stage adaption of Henry Jame's great novella The Turn of the Screw; the title of the play was The Innocents. The chance to return soon to New York and be once again with Philip seemed to be nothing less than providential. I had always admire Pinter, both as playwright and director, and been fascinated, since my teenage years, by the James story of psychological terror and erotic possession.
But there was even more to delight me. The rehearsal period was to be held in London and Philip suggested that he join me there, and then we could return together to New York. Although it was a joy to have Philip so unexpectedly with me in London, some of the problems we would susequently have to face must have been almost immdiately apparent to us both.
My daughter, Anna, was now a young woman of 16. Emotionally fragile as a result of my second marriage to the theatrical producer Hillard Elkins, she was deeply distrustful of the strange new man in my life and full of anxiety. Those four weeks in London were both tense and happy. Philip and Anna viewed each other with civilized caginess and without much instant rapport. Knowing Philip better now, I can look back and honestly say that during this early attempt at family life he tried to treat Anna with understanding.
Philip and I returned to New York at the close of rehearsals for the opening of the play; Anna and my mother were to follow. I rented an apartment on New York'sUpper East Side. Anna and my mother would live there; I ostensibly would live with them; it was however, understood that I would spend my Sundays, when I would be free from performances, with Philip in Connecticut. Just how I would carry out this juggling act without a hitch. I wasn't entirely sure; somehow I hoped I could please everyone.
The Innocents, so well received in Boston and Philadelphia, opened to lukewarm reviews in New York. This near-perfect production, which would undoubtedly have run in London for 10 months, closed on Broadway after a run of only 10 days. I had allowed myself to be lulled into a false sense of security, and security has no place in the life of an actress. I had expected the play to succeed, and made my plans accordingly. I'd let my house in London and rented an expensive apartment in New York. My mother thought it best to return with Anna to London where my daughter could live with her for the moment; she suggested I try to sort my life out with Philip and join them later. The chasm that was to come between my family obligations and my desire to be with the man I loved was beginning to show itself.
The evening preceding their departure was wretched beyond words. Anna, furious and justifiably hurt, said that I had once again chosen a man over her, which made me feel compromised and guilty; I feared Anna was right- perhaps I was unconsciously sacrificing her in favor of Philip. I wanted dsperately to keep what I knew could be the first complete relationship of my life; I understood that my true chance of happiness was with Philip, and that I couldn't give him up.
To my great relief, a few months after we had begun our life together, Philip suggested that we try spending six months of the year in London, and other six in the United States. I knew what a difficult decision this must have been for a man of Phililp's temperament, that for a writer to change the place where he creates his work takes enormous courage. Philip was chained to his writing habits; he had never neglected to sit down at his typewriter, even in the first days of our relationship. I was deeply appreciative of this gesture. There was, however, one provision: he made it clear that he had no intention of living together in the same house as my daughter.
This mixture of kindness and cruelty, this coupling of generosity and selfishness, made me frantic with confusion. I told Philip that what he demanded of me was in impossibility; there was plenty of room in my London house of the three of us to live quite comfortably together. Eventually Philip agreed to see if some form of family life would be possible for him. We moved to London and at first all was peaceful. Philip found a studio to work in; Anna had her own space upstairs, and we occupied the lower half of the house. I have no doubt whatsoever that this new existence must have been strange for Philip, who was used to living alone; now he was forced to share his life with a mother and daughter whom he viewed as too needily interdependent.
One evening, while we were living in London, I returned home after the theater to find Philip in a paroxysm of silent anger. Anna and a college friend were in Anna's room on the top floor of the house, laughing and talking. He protested that their noisiness interfered with his concentration. I asked him why he hadn't gone upstairs to complain; he replied it was my job. I obediently walked into Anna's room and asked them to be quiet; the girls apologized and complied. When I came downstairs, Philip refused to talk to me. In the morning, after a strained breakfast, just as he was about to leave for his studio, he thrust a letter into my hand.
This missive, one of many I was to receive during the course of our years together, contained the following conditions: he wanted to continue his relationship with me, but under no circumstances would he again live in the same house with both me and my daughter; unless Anna agreed to move elsewhere, he would return to New York; we would spend the agreed six months of the year in Connecticut, but in London, I would be alone. He closed by repeating his intention not to end our relationship.

To read the rest of this article, purchase a copy of Claire Bloom's Leaving a Doll's House, published by Little, Brown & Company; 1996 by the author, or continue reading next page.