Superman
33
Argonauta
Eric, Peter, and Erin, three Lindbergh grandchildren, on the beach near Argonauta, the Lindberghs’ home on Maui, Christmas 1972
.
(Lindbergh Picture Collection, Manuscripts and Archives, Yale University Library)
The Garden of Eden is behind us, and there is no road back to innocence; we can only go forward. The journey we started must be continued. With our blazing candle of curiosity, we must, like Psyche, make the full circle back to wholeness, if we are ever to find it
.
— ANNE MORROW LINDBERGH,
Earthshine
S PRING 1962, D ARIEN , C ONNECTICUT
A nne grew thin with insight. The equation was simple; less body, less pain. As she turned fifty-six, her vigor was cerebral. She wore her collars high and her buttons closed, lightly tied with a long, limp bow.
Dearly Beloved
, published in the spring of 1962, received disappointing reviews. It was thrown into the stockpile of “women’s books,” viewed as a sequel to
Gift from the Sea
, lacking poignancy, substance, and drama. As Anne had feared, her “voices” fell flat, treated by critics as platitudes. Anne’s now familiar housewife-saint was greeted with a critical yawn.
She wrote to Helen that the book was a failure. It was praised by those who did not understand it and rejected by those who thought they did. Now that the storm of publicity was over, Anne hoped to find the cool light of objectivity. 1
Anne was right. Those who didn’t toss the book out, still didn’t seem to understand it. Virgilia Peterson of the
New York Times
saw it as a portrait of “three happy marriages” and called it nothing more than “flowers” arranged carefully in a jar. 2 The
Christian Science Monitor
, perhaps grasping the message of the story, brushed it off as something perverse. 3 But it was a commercial success; more than a hundred thousand copies in hardcover alone were sold and it immediately climbed to the top of the best-seller lists of the
Herald Tribune
and the
Times
. It stayed at the top of the
Times
’s list for nearly thirty weeks.
If the book did “fail,” it was because Anne had not told her story. While demanding total honesty of herself, she had let the book play at the edge. As usual, the story was clothed in beautiful imagery, which camouflaged its intent. At first its publication released Anne’s energy, spinning her back into domestic routine and spurring her to plan trips abroad with Charles. Then the poor reviews sent her back into retreat, and once again she sat alone in her room, wondering what she could possibly write next. In the winter of 1962–1963, she looked through her diaries, letters, and notes, hoping to find a kernel for another book. Writing, she wrote to Kurt, connected her to life in an essential way, fostering her growth and deepening her roots.” 4
Charles, now sixty years old, had grown solid and sturdy. No longer boyishly straight and “slim,” he was finally filling the potential of his form. Still able to outdistance his sons, he walked with brisk, long-legged strides, and his whitening hair and pale cheeks heightened the penetrating blue of his eyes.
In 1961, after seven years as a consultant to the air force, and after being disillusioned by the encroachment of technology on the woodlands and farmlands he had known as a boy, he was back to flying for Juan Trippe at Pan Am. Now a director as well as a consultant, he crisscrossed Europe and America several times a year, meeting Anne in Darien or in their newly built chalet in Vevey. Dressed in a navy pinstripe suit, with his clothes and sock-wrapped razor stuffed into a small bag, he would pull the brim of his gray fedora over his eyes and board a commercial plane. After heading straight for the back, he would sprawl out with his papers and books, attracting little attention from tourists or staff. And yet all the attendants had been alerted to his presence. They whispered in the cockpit,
33
Argonauta
Eric, Peter, and Erin, three Lindbergh grandchildren, on the beach near Argonauta, the Lindberghs’ home on Maui, Christmas 1972
.
(Lindbergh Picture Collection, Manuscripts and Archives, Yale University Library)
The Garden of Eden is behind us, and there is no road back to innocence; we can only go forward. The journey we started must be continued. With our blazing candle of curiosity, we must, like Psyche, make the full circle back to wholeness, if we are ever to find it
.
— ANNE MORROW LINDBERGH,
Earthshine
S PRING 1962, D ARIEN , C ONNECTICUT
A nne grew thin with insight. The equation was simple; less body, less pain. As she turned fifty-six, her vigor was cerebral. She wore her collars high and her buttons closed, lightly tied with a long, limp bow.
Dearly Beloved
, published in the spring of 1962, received disappointing reviews. It was thrown into the stockpile of “women’s books,” viewed as a sequel to
Gift from the Sea
, lacking poignancy, substance, and drama. As Anne had feared, her “voices” fell flat, treated by critics as platitudes. Anne’s now familiar housewife-saint was greeted with a critical yawn.
She wrote to Helen that the book was a failure. It was praised by those who did not understand it and rejected by those who thought they did. Now that the storm of publicity was over, Anne hoped to find the cool light of objectivity. 1
Anne was right. Those who didn’t toss the book out, still didn’t seem to understand it. Virgilia Peterson of the
New York Times
saw it as a portrait of “three happy marriages” and called it nothing more than “flowers” arranged carefully in a jar. 2 The
Christian Science Monitor
, perhaps grasping the message of the story, brushed it off as something perverse. 3 But it was a commercial success; more than a hundred thousand copies in hardcover alone were sold and it immediately climbed to the top of the best-seller lists of the
Herald Tribune
and the
Times
. It stayed at the top of the
Times
’s list for nearly thirty weeks.
If the book did “fail,” it was because Anne had not told her story. While demanding total honesty of herself, she had let the book play at the edge. As usual, the story was clothed in beautiful imagery, which camouflaged its intent. At first its publication released Anne’s energy, spinning her back into domestic routine and spurring her to plan trips abroad with Charles. Then the poor reviews sent her back into retreat, and once again she sat alone in her room, wondering what she could possibly write next. In the winter of 1962–1963, she looked through her diaries, letters, and notes, hoping to find a kernel for another book. Writing, she wrote to Kurt, connected her to life in an essential way, fostering her growth and deepening her roots.” 4
Charles, now sixty years old, had grown solid and sturdy. No longer boyishly straight and “slim,” he was finally filling the potential of his form. Still able to outdistance his sons, he walked with brisk, long-legged strides, and his whitening hair and pale cheeks heightened the penetrating blue of his eyes.
In 1961, after seven years as a consultant to the air force, and after being disillusioned by the encroachment of technology on the woodlands and farmlands he had known as a boy, he was back to flying for Juan Trippe at Pan Am. Now a director as well as a consultant, he crisscrossed Europe and America several times a year, meeting Anne in Darien or in their newly built chalet in Vevey. Dressed in a navy pinstripe suit, with his clothes and sock-wrapped razor stuffed into a small bag, he would pull the brim of his gray fedora over his eyes and board a commercial plane. After heading straight for the back, he would sprawl out with his papers and books, attracting little attention from tourists or staff. And yet all the attendants had been alerted to his presence. They whispered in the cockpit,
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