Anita Yezierska (1882-1970) was born in Poland and came to the Lower East Side of New York with her family in
1890 when she was nine years old. By the 1920’s she had risen out of poverty and became a successful writer of stories, novels, all autobiographical and an autobiography.
Her stories truly inspired that we look -evaluate and re-evaluate our own lives today.
“Hungry Hearts” is a collection of nine short stories 164 pages long (free kindle).
I could feel the author through her characters—struggling — fighting for her dream —
I experienced her longing, indignation, despair, her restlessness, desperation—her fight for herself.
She had a charming personality…. a little precocious — less naïve — than others thought of her…..
I loved her expression—which showed through her prose.
“My heart chokes in me like in a prison! I’m dying for a little love and I got nobody—nobody!”
So dramatic she was at a young age….but there was truth.
Or….
“It was all a miracle—his coming, this young professor from one of the big colleges. He had rented a room in the very house where she was janitress so as to be near the people he was writing about. But more wonderful than all was the way he stopped to talk to her, to question her about herself, as though she were an equal. What warm friendliness had prompted him to take her out of her dark basement to the library were there were books to read!”
Anita’s stories were candid and passionate—she wanted to come to America to go to school - to learn - to think - to make something beautiful from her life. (not be stuck in a factory or cleaning forever).
“Just as there ain’t no bottom to being poor, there ain’t no bottom to being lonely. Before, everything I’ve done was alone, by myself. My heart hurt with hunger for people. But here, in the factory, I feel I am with everybody together. Just the sight of people lifts me on wings in the air”.
The longing for a friend - a great friend — was felt —
“I felt sometimes that I was burning out my heart for a shadow, an echo, a wild dream. But I couldn’t help it. Nothing was real to me but my hope of finding a friend”.
The odor of herring and garlic—the ravenous munching of food—laughter and loud vulgar jokes…
There were family stories of her parents - and stories of obsessively wanting love.
Like hunger for bread, (or potato lotkes) was her hunger for love.
Questions explored >
were immigrants happy with their slavery?
Or…
why wasn’t there more rebellion against the galling grind?
“What do I got from living if I can’t have a little beautifulness in my life? I don’t allow for myself the ten cents to go to a movie picture that I’m crazy to see. I never yet treated myself to an ice-cream soda even for a holiday. Shining up the house for Aby is my only pleasure”.
What do any of us have without ‘allowing’ ourselves pleasure?