Is there not an actual occult force in the existence of a general
grief? It swells to a tide whose invisible flow covers all the little
resistance of common, human joyousness. It is like a material miasma.
The gayest man breathes it, if he breathe at all; and the most
superficial cannot escape it.
Into that great world of woe my little book stole forth, trembling. So
far as I can remember having had any "object" at all in its creation,
I wished to say something that would comfort some few--I did not think
at all about comforting many, not daring to suppose that incredible
privilege possible--of the women whose misery crowded the land. The
smoke of their torment ascended, and the sky was blackened by it. I do
not think I thought so much about the suffering of men--the fathers,
the brothers, the sons--bereft; but the women--the helpless,
outnumbering, unconsulted women; they whom war trampled down, without
a choice or protest; the patient, limited, domestic women, who thought
little, but loved much, and, loving, had lost all--to them I would
have spoken.
For it came to seem to me, as I pondered these things in my own heart,
that even the best and kindest forms of our prevailing beliefs had
nothing to say to an afflicted woman that could help her much. Creeds
and commentaries and sermons were made by men.
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