Two days after the death of Diane Keaton, the world’s most private director finally spoke.

At 89 years old, Woody Allen broke decades of near silence to write what many are calling his last great work — not on film, but on paper.

His 1,500-word essay, published on October 13, 2025, in The Free Press, opens with a line that reads like the first sentence of a script he’ll never get to film:

“I thought I’d write her one more scene — but she left before I could finish it.”

From there, the piece unfolds like a memory: tender, regretful, and achingly human.
A love story that never really ended.

A GOODBYE, WRITTEN IN LONG SHADOWS

The essay begins in silence — the same way their story began.

Allen recalls the first time he met Diane Keaton in 1969, when she auditioned for his Broadway play Play It Again, Sam.

“She walked into the room like she didn’t belong in it,” he wrote. “And then, in one second, she owned it.
If Huckleberry Finn had been a beautiful young woman, it would have been Diane.”

That single line — part humor, part heartbreak — set the tone for the rest of the tribute: not just nostalgia, but devotion.

He admits he fell in love immediately, though he didn’t yet understand why.

“She wasn’t my type. She was too confident, too real, too alive. But she looked at me, smiled that crooked smile, and said something completely unrelated to the conversation — and I was lost.”

THE FILMS THAT TURNED INTO LOVE LETTERS

For nearly a decade, Diane Keaton wasn’t just Woody Allen’s muse — she was his mirror.

Between 1972 and 1993, they made eight films together, including Sleeper (1973), Love and Death (1975), Manhattan (1979), and Manhattan Murder Mystery (1993).

But it was Annie Hall (1977) — the film that earned Keaton an Academy Award for Best Actress — that immortalized their connection.

“Annie Hall was just us,” Allen wrote. “It wasn’t a character. It was Diane — her hats, her laughter, her chaos. I didn’t direct her. I followed her.”

He admits he still can’t watch the film without seeing “every missed chance and every quiet miracle.”

“When people said they loved Annie Hall, I never knew whether they meant the movie — or her.”

THE BREAKUP: ‘ONLY GOD AND FREUD KNOW WHY’

Their romance ended in the early 1970s, but Allen’s words reveal that, emotionally, it never really did.

“We had a few wonderful years together. And then — we didn’t. Why? Only God and Freud know.”

He writes of long walks through Central Park, of letters they never mailed, of jokes they still shared years later.

“We stopped being lovers but never stopped being something else. I don’t have a name for it.
Friends sounds too simple. Family sounds too forced. Maybe we were both.”

He confesses that after they split, he began writing movies “for one audience only — Diane.”

“I stopped reading reviews. I stopped caring what critics thought. The only opinion that mattered was hers.”

‘SHE WAS MY ONLY AUDIENCE’

Throughout the essay, Allen oscillates between grief and wit — a tone only he could balance.

“I’ve spent 60 years making movies for people who buy tickets,” he wrote. “But every line, every shot, every frame — I was always thinking, Will Diane laugh at this?”

He describes her not just as a muse, but as an instinct — someone whose presence shaped his entire creative rhythm.

“She had this gift for seeing beauty where I saw chaos. She could make a messy apartment into art, or a bad line into music.
I used to call her a hick. A hayseed. But she was a genius disguised as a klutz.”

He noted that Keaton, even when playing the fool, always had an air of rebellion.
“She was Annie Hall before Annie Hall existed,” he wrote.
“She just didn’t need to invent herself — she already was.”

THE LAST CONVERSATION

Near the middle of the essay, Allen finally shares what readers have been waiting for — his last conversation with her.

“The last time I spoke to her, she called me out of nowhere,” he wrote.
“I said, ‘Diane, you sound like a ghost.’ She laughed that loud laugh that always started before the punchline.
She said, ‘I’m not haunting you yet, Woody. Don’t give me that kind of power.’”

He admits she didn’t tell him she was sick — that even then, she carried her privacy like armor.

“She never mentioned illness. I think she knew I’d worry. Or maybe she just wanted to spare me another goodbye.”

The phone call ended the way they always did.

“‘Love you,’ I said.
She said, ‘You always did.’”

And that, he writes, was their final line.

A WORLD WITHOUT DIANE

In one of the essay’s most quoted passages, Allen writes:

“A few days ago, the world had Diane Keaton. Now it doesn’t.
The world is grayer because of that.
But her laughter — that big, uncontrollable, contagious laugh — still echoes in my head.”

He describes watching Annie Hall alone the night he learned she was gone, playing the final scene — the montage of happy memories — and realizing he was now living one.

“I always thought our movie was about love lost. I see now it was about love remembered.”

LOYALTY IN THE STORM

In a rare and deeply personal acknowledgment, Allen also reflected on Keaton’s loyalty during one of the darkest chapters of his life — the 1990s abuse allegations that fractured his public image.

He writes, simply:

“When the world turned its back, Diane didn’t.”

In 2018, Keaton publicly defended him, saying, “Woody Allen is my friend, and I still believe in him.”

Allen referenced that moment, calling it “an act of kindness I didn’t deserve, but one that defined her.”

“People say she had courage on-screen,” he added. “They never saw how much more she had off it.”

“THE LIGHT STILL FLICKERS”

The essay ends with a mix of love and resignation, his voice as fragile as the closing credits of a long, unmade film.

“The world feels dimmer,” he wrote.
“But her light — it still flickers in my mind. And when I think of her, I don’t see her as Annie, or Linda, or Carol. I see her walking toward me in 1969, smiling like she knows something I don’t.”

He adds one final line — understated, devastating, and pure Woody Allen:

“If there’s a heaven, I hope she’s late to it. She always kept me waiting.”

REACTIONS FROM HOLLYWOOD AND BEYOND

The essay, published less than 48 hours after Diane’s death, immediately went viral.

Within hours, the servers at The Free Press briefly crashed under traffic.
Fans called it “his last great screenplay.”
Critics called it “a eulogy disguised as a confession.”

Variety described it as “a love letter that transcends scandal, art, and time.”

The New York Times said simply:

“For the first time in years, Woody Allen wrote something everyone agrees is beautiful.”

Bette Midler posted:

“I can’t stop crying. Woody wrote what we all feel — that Diane was the heart of the movies we loved.”

Even younger stars like Emma Stone and Timothée Chalamet shared excerpts, calling it “a masterclass in vulnerability.”

A FINAL MASTERPIECE

Film historian Dr. Leonard Marcus summarized it best:

“Woody Allen spent his life writing dialogue. But this essay — this is the first time he’s ever truly written a goodbye.”

Whether viewed as love letter, elegy, or unfinished script, Allen’s piece has already entered the cultural canon — the closing scene of a partnership that helped define an era of American cinema.

Their story began with laughter, wove through heartbreak, and ended in silence.
But now, through Allen’s words, it’s found its last act.

THE UNWRITTEN SCENE

In the essay’s final paragraph, Allen leaves readers with an image that feels like both a memory and a dream:

“If I could write one more scene for her, it would be simple. We’d be sitting at a table in New York. She’d be wearing that ridiculous hat, smiling at me like she knew I’d mess up the ending.
And I’d tell her, ‘You were my favorite line.’”

For Woody Allen, it seems, the credits have finally rolled.
But for Diane Keaton — his muse, his mystery, his unfinished story — the light stays on, flickering somewhere between the reel and the heart.

“Some stories,” he writes,
“don’t end. They just echo.”