It was early
evening when my journey began. The train
was full, but not yet uncomfortably full, of people going home. It is important to insist - you will see why
in a moment - that I was under no illusion about them. If anyone had asked me whether I supposed them
to be specially good people or specially happy or specially clever, I should
have replied with a perfectly truthful No. I knew quite well that perhaps not ten percent
of the homes they were returning to would be free, even for that one night,
from ill temper, jealousy, weariness, sorrow or anxiety, and yet - I could not
help it - the clicking of all those garden gates, the opening of all those
front doors, the unanalysable home smell in all those little halls, the hanging
up of all those hats, came over my imagination with all the caress of a
half-remembered bit of music. There is
an extraordinary charm in other people's domesticities. Every lighted house, seen from the road, is
magical: every pram or lawn-mower in someone else's garden: all smells or stirs
of cookery from the windows of alien kitchens.
C.S. Lewis, Present Concerns,
"Hedonics", 1986
(1st published in Time
and Tide, 16 June 1945)
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