Up until a few days ago I was not aware of a writer by the name of Helen Hudson but she came into my sights through an old Time Magazine review I stumbled upon from a book called Meyer Meyer. The two excerpts quoted are perfect encapsulations of the world seen through the eyes of a lonely person. Sunday is " a great gap surrounded by walls, emptied of one week and not yet filled with the next." And "Christmas is a hateful time; the bunting was pretending to tie up a whole city into one cozy bundle. But the string was too slack. Odd pieces like Meyer kept falling out." Piercing in their melancholy accuracy. Who is Helen Hudson and why is she now seemingly forgotten? I don't particularly want to know who she was or what became of her, just yet. Mundane biographical details might cloud the elegance of those phrases. For now she is just an author with an acute insight into a feeling. One I recognize and have walked through without ever having such a specifically evocative description for it.