A Single Thread

by Tracy Chevalier

For it was a group; Violet could see that. An invisible web ran among the women, binding them fast to their common cause, whatever that might be.

“Ars longa, vita brevis.” Violet thought back to her Latin at school. “Art is long, life short,” she quoted her old Latin teacher.

the war in her gut between craving the new and clinging to the comfort of the familiar.

All listened politely; none really cared. They were simply waiting their turn to speak.

But she felt trapped: by the publican’s friendly overture; by her fear of showing her fear; by her concern that she had overreacted in front of an innocent man; by her desire not to be judged a silly girl on her own. So she did not leave, but stood, awkward and turning red, her heart thumping.

He was displaying the kind of friendliness that verged on hostility,

She wondered if Arthur ever felt uneasy walking on his own. She suspected not. Men walked through the world as if it belonged to them.

It was easy to talk to others and think you were somehow immune—but the spotlight fell on everyone at some time or another.

“Via trita, via tuta. The old way is the safe way, and I am not taking the old way.”

there was nothing worse for a parent than the loss of a child, and that her mother was having to carry the burden of that grief for the rest of her life. She can never be really happy again,

It was like watching someone punch a pillow that is so soft their fists make no impact.

She couldn’t add about the bell ringing or Arthur, or about the sense she had that she was building a life for herself there—building herself there. He wouldn’t understand; he was already built.

I am grateful that they provide a means for me to make some small lasting mark. And they give comfort to people, cushioning them so they can think about things other than aches and pains. I am glad to be able to do that. But that is what we women are trained for—to give to others, to make others comfortable, whatever we feel for ourselves. It can be tiring, thankless, to be so generous all of the time.

Afterward, she felt almost sated.

This line is perfect in what it doesn't say.

Violet understood her sigh. When a woman wants a cup of tea, usually she has to make it for herself, and for the others around her. There is no better taste than a cup of tea someone else has made for you.

I want to rebel meaningfully, not unconsciously.”