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Stella Benson's "Twenty" is a richly textured narrative that captures the complexities of youth and the tumultuous transition into adulthood. Written in a poetic and impressionistic style, the novel oscillates between surrealism and stark realism, using vivid imagery and fragmented prose to mirror the protagonist's internal struggles and societal disillusionments. Set against the backdrop of post-World War I England, the work encapsulates the existential questions of a generation reeling from conflict, showcasing Benson's keen insight into the psyche of women seeking freedom and identity in a rapidly changing world. Benson, a prominent figure in the early 20th century literary scene, was not only an acclaimed novelist but also a dedicated feminist and social activist. Her experiences traveling through various cultures and her own personal battles with mental health issues deeply informed her writing. "Twenty" emerges as a testament to her exploration of the female experience, revealing her concerns with personal autonomy and societal norms, as well as her desire to connect with others navigating similar predicaments. For readers interested in a profound and lyrical exploration of identity and freedom, "Twenty" is highly recommended. It invites individuals to reflect on their own journeys and the intricate layers of human emotion, making it an essential read for those captivated by the nuanced struggles of the coming-of-age narrative.
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Almost all the verses in this book have appeared before, the majority of them included in two books, I Pose and This is the End. Messrs. Macmillan, who published these, have been kind in raising no objection to re-publication. I have also to thank the Editors of the Athenæum, Everyman, and the Pall Mall Gazette for allowing me to reprint verses.
The title of the book has no reference to the writer’s age.
S.B.
CHRISTMAS, 1917
A key no thief can steal, no time can rust;
A faery door, adventurous and golden;
A palace, perfect to our eyes—Ah must
Our eyes be holden?
Has the past died before this present sin?
Has this most cruel age already stonèd
To martyrdom that magic Day, within
Those halls, enthronèd?
No. Through the dancing of the young spring rain,
Through the faint summer, and the autumn’s burning,
Our still immortal Day has heard again
Our steps returning.
THE SECRET DAY
My yesterday has gone, has gone and left me tired,
And now to-morrow comes and beats upon the door;
So I have built To-day, the day that I desired,
Lest joy come not again, lest peace return no more,
Lest comfort come no more.
So I have built To-day, a proud and perfect day,
And I have built the towers of cliffs upon the sands;
The foxgloves and the gorse I planted on my way;
The thyme, the velvet thyme, grew up beneath my hands,
Grew pink beneath my hands.
So I have built To-day, more precious than a dream;
And I have painted peace upon the sky above;
And I have made immense and misty seas, that seem
More kind to me than life, more fair to me than love—
More beautiful than love.
And I have built a house—a house upon the brink
Of high and twisted cliffs; the sea’s low singing fills it;
And there my Secret Friend abides, and there I think
I’ll hide my heart away before to-morrow kills it—