The Dangerous Age by Karin Michaëlis
page 42 of 141 (29%)
page 42 of 141 (29%)
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childhood.
The more I reflect upon life, the more clearly I see that I have not laid out my talents to the best advantage. I have no sweet memories of infidelity; I have lived irreproachably--and now I am very tired. I sit here and write for myself alone. I know that no one else will ever read my words; and yet I am not quite sincere, even with myself. Life has passed me by; my hands are empty; now it is too late. Once happiness knocked at my door, and I, poor fool, did not rise to welcome it. I envy every country wench or servant girl who goes off with a lover. But I sit here waiting for old age. Astrid Bagge.... As I write her name, I feel as though she were standing weeping behind my back; I feel her tears dropping on my neck. I cannot weep--but how I long for tears! * * * * * Autumn! Torp has made a huge fire of logs in the open grate. The burning wood gives out an intoxicating perfume and fills the house with cosey warmth. For want of something better to do I am looking after the fire myself. I carefully strip the bark from each log before throwing it on the flames. The smell of burning birch-bark goes to my head like strong wine. Dreams come and go. |
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