The library in Stowe, Vermont where I found my fantastic collection of works by Checkov, as well as Anne Morrow Lindburgh's Diaries and letters. Looking through Lindburgh's writings later that day, I was saddened at how she accepted that being a woman was something less substantial than being a man. This was particularly evident in an entry about a discussion she had with the author of The Little Prince while waiting for her husband to arrive: "I am feeding the dogs when C. finally appears--it is almost 10. I drop back in relief, I am so glad he is there. We (St. -Ex. and I) both leap at him with the relief of thirsty travelers needing water. C. blows in like a sea breeze. But he is tired, driving all day in traffic. However, he takes his supper on a tray and over the tray carries on the torch of conversation, which immediately goes up a level, takes on a higher, less feminine tone." I sometimes wonder if what she thought of as "feminine" was really her more quiet, introspective nature as opposed to her husband's more extroverted personality. I know that often I feel inadequate during conversations because my thoughts are vague, diffused, like looking through a glass darkly. I've often wished I was more lively and able to carry the torch, like Charles Lindburgh.