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At Twilight
At Twilight (in Short Story Collection Vol. 036 )
A breeze from the May world without blew through the class-room, and as
it lifted his papers he had a curious sense of freshness and mustiness
meeting. He looked at the group of students before him, half smiling at
the way the breath of spring was teasing the hair of the girls sitting
by the window. Anna Lawrence was trying to pin hers back again, but May
would have none of such decorum, and only waited long enough for her
to finish her work before joyously undoing it. She caught the laughing,
admiring eyes of a boy sitting across from her and sought to conceal her
pleasure in her unmanageable wealth of hair by a wry little face, and
then the eyes of both strayed out to the trees that had scented
that breeze for them, looking with frank longing at the campus which
stretched before them in all its May glory that sunny afternoon. He
remembered having met this boy and girl strolling in the twilight the
evening before, and as a buoyant breeze that instant swept his own face
he had a sudden, irrelevant consciousness of being seventy-three years
old.
Other eyes were straying to the trees and birds and lilacs of that world
from which the class-room was for the hour shutting them out. He was
used to it--that straying of young eyes in the spring. For more than
forty years he had sat at that desk and talked to young men and women
about philosophy, and in those forty years there had always been
straying eyes in May. The children of some of those boys and girls had
in time come to him, and now there were other children who, before
many years went by, might be sitting upon those benches, listening to
lectures upon what men had thought about life, while their eyes strayed
out where life called. So it went on--May, perhaps, the philosopher
triumphant.
A breeze from the May world without blew through the class-room, and as
it lifted his papers he had a curious sense of freshness and mustiness
meeting. He looked at the group of students before him, half smiling at
the way the breath of spring was teasing the hair of the girls sitting
by the window. Anna Lawrence was trying to pin hers back again, but May
would have none of such decorum, and only waited long enough for her
to finish her work before joyously undoing it. She caught the laughing,
admiring eyes of a boy sitting across from her and sought to conceal her
pleasure in her unmanageable wealth of hair by a wry little face, and
then the eyes of both strayed out to the trees that had scented
that breeze for them, looking with frank longing at the campus which
stretched before them in all its May glory that sunny afternoon. He
remembered having met this boy and girl strolling in the twilight the
evening before, and as a buoyant breeze that instant swept his own face
he had a sudden, irrelevant consciousness of being seventy-three years
old.
Other eyes were straying to the trees and birds and lilacs of that world
from which the class-room was for the hour shutting them out. He was
used to it--that straying of young eyes in the spring. For more than
forty years he had sat at that desk and talked to young men and women
about philosophy, and in those forty years there had always been
straying eyes in May. The children of some of those boys and girls had
in time come to him, and now there were other children who, before
many years went by, might be sitting upon those benches, listening to
lectures upon what men had thought about life, while their eyes strayed
out where life called. So it went on--May, perhaps, the philosopher
triumphant.
- GenresShort Stories
Unknown Binding
About the author
Susan Glaspell
233 books85 followersSusan Keating Glaspell (July 1, 1876 – July 27, 1948) was an American Pulitzer Prize-winning playwright, actress, director, novelist, biographer and poet. She was a founding member of the Provincetown Players, one of the most important collaboratives in the development of modern drama in the United States. She also served in the Works Progress Administration as Midwest Bureau Director of the Federal Theater Project.
Her novels and plays are committed to developing deep, sympathetic characters, to understanding 'life' in its complexity. Though realism was the medium of her fiction, she was also greatly interested in philosophy and religion. Many of her characters make principled stands.
As part of the Provincetown Players, she arranged for the first ever reading of a play by Eugene O'Neill.
Her novels and plays are committed to developing deep, sympathetic characters, to understanding 'life' in its complexity. Though realism was the medium of her fiction, she was also greatly interested in philosophy and religion. Many of her characters make principled stands.
As part of the Provincetown Players, she arranged for the first ever reading of a play by Eugene O'Neill.
Ratings & Reviews
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Displaying 1 - 6 of 6 reviews
May 5, 2016
I have arranged my thoughts into a haiku:
"As the twilight falls,
What's wasted and what's well spent
Mingle in dusk's light."
"As the twilight falls,
What's wasted and what's well spent
Mingle in dusk's light."
March 2, 2021
A poetic short story about the end of the road of one's life and the beginning. Beautifully put.
January 10, 2026
This tale unfolds in a space of suspension—between day and night, certainty and doubt, action and inaction. Susan Glaspell uses this liminal moment not as atmosphere alone, but as ethical terrain. Reading the story, I felt myself held in that uncertainty, unable to move decisively in any direction.
What struck me first was Glaspell’s restraint. She refuses melodrama, even though the emotional stakes are high. The characters exist in quiet conflict, circling truths they cannot quite articulate. That hesitation felt deliberate. Twilight becomes a metaphor for moral ambiguity—the hour when outlines blur and judgment falters.
The story’s emotional core lies in what remains unsaid. Glaspell trusts silence. Conversations trail off, gestures substitute for declarations. I found this deeply effective.
The story doesn’t ask us to resolve the tension; it asks us to recognise it.
What stayed with me was the sense of ethical fatigue. The characters are not ignorant of what should be done; they are weary of doing it. Glaspell captures the exhaustion that precedes compromise—the moment when ideals lose urgency under the weight of habit.
“At Twilight” resists closure. There is no revelation that cleanses the ambiguity. Instead, the story ends where it began: in uncertainty. That refusal felt honest. Life rarely grants clarity on schedule.
The story lingered with me because it names a state we often inhabit but rarely acknowledge—the space where moral choice is possible but deferred. Glaspell doesn’t condemn that deferral; she observes it.
And in that observation, she reveals how easily twilight can stretch into night.
Most recommended.
What struck me first was Glaspell’s restraint. She refuses melodrama, even though the emotional stakes are high. The characters exist in quiet conflict, circling truths they cannot quite articulate. That hesitation felt deliberate. Twilight becomes a metaphor for moral ambiguity—the hour when outlines blur and judgment falters.
The story’s emotional core lies in what remains unsaid. Glaspell trusts silence. Conversations trail off, gestures substitute for declarations. I found this deeply effective.
The story doesn’t ask us to resolve the tension; it asks us to recognise it.
What stayed with me was the sense of ethical fatigue. The characters are not ignorant of what should be done; they are weary of doing it. Glaspell captures the exhaustion that precedes compromise—the moment when ideals lose urgency under the weight of habit.
“At Twilight” resists closure. There is no revelation that cleanses the ambiguity. Instead, the story ends where it began: in uncertainty. That refusal felt honest. Life rarely grants clarity on schedule.
The story lingered with me because it names a state we often inhabit but rarely acknowledge—the space where moral choice is possible but deferred. Glaspell doesn’t condemn that deferral; she observes it.
And in that observation, she reveals how easily twilight can stretch into night.
Most recommended.
November 7, 2025
I read this story vis podcast. The story tells of a soon to retire college philosophy teacher looking back on his life and his own youth and how brief youth is and thinking back on all of the students he has interacted with and educated over the years. It tells of a man who has made teaching his life so that when he retires he doesn’t know what his life’s purpose will be or still is if he is not a teacher any longer. He also muses about the career opportunities he passed up and what could have been if he had made some different decisions during his teaching career
This entire review has been hidden because of spoilers.
September 3, 2025
At first, I wasn't thrilled with this story. But as it went, I liked Gretta and her insights that served as comfort for both the professor and the audience. We aren't replaced by our successors; we're fulfilled by them.
June 16, 2024
damn, isto foi escrito para mim
Displaying 1 - 6 of 6 reviews