Heidi'sbooks

“Ay, ay; you want to coax me into thinking him a fine match." "No, indeed, father. I don't love him because he is a fine match." "What for, then?" "Oh, dear, because I have always loved him. I should never like scolding any one else so well; and that is a point to be thought of in a husband.”
― George Eliot, Middlemarch

“The dreary intercourse of daily life,
Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb
Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold
Is full of blessings, Therefore let the moon
Shine on thee in thy solitary walk;
And let the misty mountain-winds be free
To blow against thee”
― William Wordsworth

“Critical theory grew out of the Marxism of the 1800s. Karl Marx taught that all of history has been one long economic class struggle between oppressed and oppressor groups, and that the only way for the oppressed to be liberated was for them to engage in violent revolution toward socialism. In the 1930s, intellectuals of the Frankfurt School in Germany broadened Marx's analysis to apply not only to economics but also to culture and mass media. In the decades that followed, this basic framework was extended to other areas: race, gender, sexuality, physical ability, and a host of other identity markers. Like the working class in Marx's analysis, people of color, women, and those in the LGBTQ community were identified as victims of social structures that empowered their oppressors and kept them marginalized.”
― Natasha Crain

“And while he spoke of my mother often and fondly to me, he always did so incompletely, in a strangely peripheral way, so that I grew up with a picture of her that was really little more than an outline. Was this unfair, an injustice to me? It must seem so, and I suppose in a way it was. And yet we all have within ourselves those private spaces that are uniquely our own and that we cannot share. This was my father's: the heart of his grief, which he chose not to expose. It was only now, in these last months before his death, that the outline was filled in, that without preliminary or explanation, my father suddenly began to talk of my mother as he had never talked before, in words and phrases lit with a bursting lyrical warmth and love that had been stored up and held within him all this time, and that was now released because, I think, he knew his own time was so short, and because he did not for a moment doubt that very soon now he would be joined to her again...

So there was a feeling of joy here.”
― Edwin O'Connor, The Edge of Sadness