CHAPTER I Are there any women today, I wonder, like the girl wife of Jacopone da Todi, who are found in the midst of worldly brilliance wearing the hair shirt of piety and devotion over their spotless hearts? I doubt it. It is no wonder that Jacopone, that "smart" thirteenth-century Italian lawyer, became a great saint when he made that discovery, after his beautiful young wife's accidental death. It would make a saint of anybody. I am quite sure Gertrude is not like that. But then Gertrude is not my wife-as yet. Nor am I Jacopone. I am nothing more, I fear, than a contented voluptuary of a bookworm. Like King James, I feel that were it my fate to be a captive, I should wish to be shut up in a great library consuming my days among my fellow-prisoners, the blessed books. To distil the reading of a lifetime into a little wisdom for my poor wits, that has been all my aim and my ambition, if by any name so dynamic as ambition I may call it. An old young man is what I have been called, and Gertrude seems propelled by some potent urge to change me-God knows why. I have just been talking with-I mean listening to-Gertrude. We are to be married, she says, in three weeks. Time out of mind we have been friends, Gertrude and I, as our mothers had been before us. She, the highly modern spinster and I, such as I am, have been linked for years by an engagement which is not an engagement in the old sense at all. It is a sort of entente cordiale. An engagement in the conventional meaning of the word would be as abhorrent to Gertrude as the old-fashioned marriage. As soon would she think of "being given in marriage" with bell, book and orange blossoms as of calling herself "Mrs. Randolph Byrd"-or anything but Miss Bayard. That is what we have been discussing this gloomy afternoon in my snug little apartment before a garrulous fire. For Gertrude is not so absurd as to hesitate to call on me at my apartment any more than I would hesitate to call on her in Gramercy Park.
From war-torn Sierra Leone to the US, to dancing for the Dutch National Ballet, this is a heartwrenching, life-affirming true story of a young girl orphaned by war and saved by ballet.
Mollie Peace was a woman of her time, one of a generation that saw the most extraordinary changes. Born in poverty, she lived through the hardship of the early twentieth century, and experienced the tragedies of war. She witnessed the birth of the motor car, the atom bomb, the computer and the Internet. A loyal wife and mother, she raised a family and knew the joy of great-grandchildren. To have experienced all this was no ordinary life. But like so many other women of her time, she nurtured a private desire that was always denied her. She wanted to be a writer. That was her real identity and she was a talented poet. But there was no opportunity for her. Until now. This collection is both a tribute to her and an encouragement to everyone who believes in their own purpose and desires. Never give up. Your words will live on.
Get to know the women of Jeme, a Christian enclave in Egypt that existed from 600 to 800 C.E.Using texts documenting the women's activities, the physical remains of their possessions, and the writings of the local religious leaders, T. G. Wilfong traces the lives and careers of individual women and, through them, arrives at an understanding of the reality of women's lives in this place and time.
Gus and Ted climbed up to their trapeze . . . Santa saw very little, for she was so afraid Gus would fall . . . Peter and Santa live a rather dull existence with their Aunt Rebecca, but when she dies they face the awful prospect of life in separate orphanages. In desperation they run away to find their only living relative, Uncle Gus, who works in a circus as a clown. Gus will only let them stay if they promise to work hard, and so the children plunge headlong into the circus world where they soon discover skills they never knew they had! But life is so different - will they ever truly belong?
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