Sublime

Sibyl—if

The great, grey eye of the sky looked back at me, its mist-shrouded sun focusing all the white and silent distances that poured from every point of the compass, hill after pale hill, to stall at my feet.

The trouble was, I had been inadequate all along, I simply hadn’t thought about it.

The silence depressed me. It wasn’t the silence of silence. It was my own silence.

felt like a racehorse in a world without race-tracks or a champion college footballer suddenly confronted by Wall Street and a business suit,

balalaika

And I knew that in spite of all the roses and kisses and restaurant dinners a man showered on a woman before he married her, what he secretly wanted when the wedding service ended was for her to flatten out underneath his feet like Mrs Willard’s kitchen mat.

The trouble was, I hated the idea of serving men in any way. I wanted to dictate my own thrilling letters.