Two

I think I said I was off for the weekend to the cliffs, undulated hills and green meadows of Devon and Somerset. The night is tenderly falling now on to London; I have an opened window behind me, breeze and all, and the chirping of birds finding their way trough the silence between tracks of my music. And as I was off for the weekend, I still have a row of three comments to make.

TWO
A Story for a Flight

During my flight back to London last week, I read a couple of stories by Charlotte Perkins Gilman. Have you heard about her? I had not... . She was American, a riding life between two centuries. Seemingly a well-known feminist, she killed herself in 1935, one year after her husband death.

Did not enjoy much The Yellow Wallpaper, but Turned is a breath-taking story. I have asked myself how I would react myself if I come back home after a business trip and my wife is gone with my kids because she found out something terrible about me? I would probably be gnawed inside, hopelessly tormented all the time... Would I kill myself? Seems like there would be not any place on Earth to relieve my regrets and clog the wounds. No religion could alleviate my bitter sorrow; no language would have the words required to apologize; no tenderness, to repair the damage.

But this man is after them and eventually finds them, his wife and the little, innocent Gerta embracing her son in her arms. Well, their son. "And the woman who had been his wife asked quietly: 'What have you to say to us?'". And end of the story.

                                                                Charlotte P. Gilman