Westminster School of Art did not open until September. When I was a little rested, a little steadier, I climbed the curving little iron stairways at the backs of omnibuses and, seated above the people, rode and rode, watching the writhe of humanity below me. I had never seen human beings massed like this, bumping, jostling, yet as indifferent to each other as trees in a forest. I puzzled, wondering. What was the sameness with a…

read more

London was unbearable. August was exceptionally hot. Aunt Amelia lived in West Kensington—one of those houses in a straight row all alike and smeared with smug gentility. I felt the shackles of propriety pinch me before the door was shut. The six PG’s without one direct look amongst them disdainfully “took me in” at lunch. “Colonial!” I felt was their chilly, sniffy verdict. I hated them right away. Their hard, smooth voices cut like…

read more

The woman in the deck chair next to mine stroked a strand of red hair from her forehead with a freckled hand. “Oh, my head!” “Have my smelling bottle.” She took three long sniffs and then pointed the bottle across the deck. “Awful woman!” indicating a loud, lounging woman in noisy conversation with the Captain. “Discussing whisky! Irish against Scotch! Glad she prefers Irish, I should feel her preference for Scotch a desecration of…

read more