The plane had no radio equipment, however, so contact with Markham would be impossible once she took off. Such a flight had never been accomplished because it meant flying against the prevailing winds… For the trip she borrowed an airplane- a single-engine Vega Gull with a 200-horsepower engine- that could fly up to 163 miles per hour and that was fitted with extra tanks so it could travel 3800 miles without refueling.
“After years of bush flying in Kenya and locating big game by air for safaris, Markham returned to England, where she… to try for the prize of flying solo from London to New York.
Octavo, original green cloth, original dust jacket.įirst edition, signed and dated June 1942 by Markham, the first aviator to fly solo across the Atlantic from London to North America. In the 1930s, she became an African bush pilot, and in September 1936, became the first person to fly solo across the Atlantic from east to west.“A BLOODY WONDERFUL BOOK” (ERNEST HEMINGWAY): WEST WITH THE NIGHT, SIGNED IN THE YEAR OF PUBLICATION BY AVIATION PIONEER BERYL MARKHAM She spent her childhood playing with native Maruni children and apprenticing with her father as a trainer and breeder of racehorses. Born in England in 1902, Markham was taken by her father to East Africa in 1906. Whatever the mood or the circumstance, the essence of its quality may linger in the silence that follows. Its voice may be melancholy, but it is not always so for the chair may have been left by a laughing child or the last notes of the piano may have been raucous and gay. There is a certain silence that can emanate from a lifeless object as from a chair lately used, or from a piano with old dust upon its keys, or from anything that has answered to the need of a man, for pleasure or for work.
There is the silence of emptiness, the silence of fear, the silence of doubt.
There is silence after a rainstorm, and before a rainstorm, and these are not the same. There is the silence that comes with morning in a forest, and this is different from the silence of a sleeping city. One of the most beautifully crafted books I have ever read, with some of the most poetic prose passages I could imagine, such as the following, resonating with a stately and timeless quality so absent in our modern life: There are all kinds of silences and each of them means a different thing.
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