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137
The Solitary Summer
·
Elizabeth Von Arnim
20
Yet
he
is
right;
luncheon
is
a
snare
of
the
tempter,
and
I
would
perhaps
try
to
sail
by
it
like
Ulysses
if
I
had
a
biscuit
in
my
pocket
to
comfort
me,
but
there
are
the
babies
to
be
fed,
and
the
Man
of
Wrath,
and
how
can
a
respectable
wife
and
mother
sail
past
any
meridian
shallows
in
which
those
dearest
to
her
have
stuck?
So
I
stand
by
them,
and
am
punished
every
day
by
that
two-o'clock-in-the-afternoon
feeling
to
which
I
so
much
object,
and
yet
cannot
avoid.
It
is
mortifying,
after
the
sunshiny
morning
hours
at
my
pond,
when
I
feel
as
though
I
were
almost
a
poet,
and
very
nearly
a
philosopher,
and
wholly
a
joyous
animal
in
an
ecstasy
of
love
with
life,
to
come
back
and
live
through
those
dreary
luncheon-
ridden
hours,
when
the
soul
is
crushed
out
of
sight
and
sense
by
cutlets
and
asparagus
and
revengeful
sweet
things.
My
morning
friend
turns
his
back
on
me
when
I
reenter
the
library;
nor
do
I
ever
touch
him
in
the
afternoon.
Books
have
their
idiosyncrasies
as
well
as
people,
and
will
not
show
me
their
full
beauties
unless
the
place
and
time
in
which
they
are
read
suits
them.
If,
for
instance,
I
cannot
read
Thoreau
in
a
drawing-room,
how
much
less
would
I
ever
dream
of
reading
Boswell
in
the
grass
by
a
pond!
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