My cold-water response to the American man who fell in love with a Swedish woman and was happily contemplating making a life among the delightful Swedes drew a first wave of rebukes from folks who had done similar things and lived to tell about it, and then a second wave of affirmation from folks who had done likewise and come to grief. I am one of the latter. So my advice was colored by personal remorse. I recall only too well my daily walks down Fiolstrade to my Danish lessons and my joyful encounters in Danish with shopkeepers and waiters and passersby who had asked me for directions, my Danish conversations with my indulgent mother-in-law and the schoolboy's pride in success, and then the cold water of reality whenever I attended a party and was surrounded by torrents of Danish and couldn't get a grip on any of it, and realized that I already have a language, English, and a country, the United States, and that if I went back there and went to a party, I'd be having a much much better time. A valiant thing to do, and of course one does not regret the adventure, but when marriage is involved, there is a heavy, heavy price for failure. And when you're 45, as I was, and in midcareer and have good work to do and strong attachments to home, it just plain ain't possible, Jack.

One of the second-wave letters came from an American man returning from a 10-year adventure in Sweden ending in a collapsed marriage and lost career there, and it's a sad letter, of course. On the other hand, to enter into another culture and language deeply enough so you sometimes lose track of your own is a liberating experience like no other. For a young person, it's the experience of a lifetime, like a big romance but without the messy breakup at the end. (See One More Satisfied Customer Dept.) For the high school senior, for the junior in college, for anyone in their 20s who is groping and floundering, I think it's a terrific, terrific idea. It's a great idea when you do it for your own good reasons. When you enter into it through a mist of romance and sexual desire, it's like any other sort of drunkenness -- you often arrive in places you have no business being.

Dear Mr. Blue,

About three months ago, my husband told me that he didn't love me anymore, that he had never loved me and that our seven-year marriage had been dead at the beginning. I was too old, too overweight and too independent. (I'm a 45-year-old lawyer.) He said there wasn't Another Woman. He then went to a hotel for the weekend. I was prostrate. Last month, we reached an agreement, and I moved to my own apartment. I discovered, when I returned to the house to pick up a box of shoes I had left, that another (smaller) woman with an imitation lizard vest had moved into my closet. I have been able to resume work, with a fantastic support group of friends, and am determined to renew myself and make a new beginning. This past week, he e-mailed me and wanted to reconcile. We met for two hours, and without saying that he missed me, he tried to make me think he has been leading the life of a hermit. His take seems to be that our separation helped him out, and I should be glad it happened.

Mr. Blue, am I overreacting by thinking this is too little, too late? I feel like he's just reaching out to be able to say that he attempted to reconcile.

Rather Confused

Dear Rather,

Much too little and far too late. Get your life together and let him hunt lizards. The guy is clueless. Don't have any more meetings with him until he is sobbing on the telephone that he misses you and can't live without you. Real sobbing, chest sobbing, not just light sniffling, and phrases like "dumbest thing I ever did in my life." This guy is too cool for words. I hope you've gotten a lawyer working on this.

Maya Angelou reads from "The Heart of a Woman"