The Unselected Journals of Emma M. Lion: Vol. 4

by Beth Brower

“You could never do such a thing, Emma,” proclaimed Mary. “And neither could I. We’re both far too committed to hearing our own opinions.”

He sits on the stairs in the hall and rails against humanity. It makes me like humanity all the more. And Cousin Archibald less.

I have not as yet felt the need to write a last will and testament. Perhaps I should consider.

To compose oneself—such a strange phrase. As if one were a musical score. If I were, what would I be? Emma M. Lion in D Minor?

“What a perpetual disappointment is actual society…” To which I can only say, Mr. Emerson, I couldn’t agree more.

Felicity is the gift of a book.

Is it immoral to marry a man solely to gain a library? And if that man happens to be tremendously good looking, is it more or less of a sin?

“Of course I’m coming with you. Don’t be daft. My friends do not go to war alone.”

I wasn’t prepared for the haunting familiarity. For the road to remember me.

Then, without quite realising, I was speaking the dreaded soliloquy of mourning. Mentioning stupid childhood games and long, green afternoons, all in avoidance of not knowing how to say goodbye.

Bless a man who knows how to keep his own counsel when you can’t bear to speak.

Looking for quiet does not follow I was looking for solitude.”