The Door

by Magda Szabó

In turning the key she put more trust in me than she ever did in God, and

One can tell instinctively what sort of flower a person would be if born a plant,

since it had become clear that if someone didn’t take over the housekeeping there would be little chance of my publishing the work I’d produced in my years of silence, or finding a voice for anything new I might have to say.

A room of ones own

She had a pure, impressive, soprano voice.

Until your attitude to a person is clear, any such defining term will be inaccurate.

Emerence explained that the cat was not a university professor amenable to reason, and that it was, unfortunately, in his nature to enjoy killing even when well-fed, the pigeon breeder wasted no breath suggesting she keep the beast under lock and key.

They had come to realise that the old woman’s character would always provoke anonymous accusations, the way magnetic mountains attract lightning.

She inspired trust because people knew they could open their hearts to her without expecting her own confidences in return; they would get only commonplace remarks and well-known facts.

Uff

I know now, what I didn’t then, that affection can’t always be expressed in calm, orderly, articulate ways; and that one cannot prescribe the form it should take for anyone else.