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She knew there was another world—the world—and sometimes she thought she wanted that world.
She would become angry over the “emptiness of a woman’s life”
She enjoys thinking, only she doesn’t know it.
“People have a right to their lives,” she says quietly.
“I’m jealous,” my mother blurts at me. “I’m jealous she lived her life, I didn’t live mine.”
She hadn’t understood that going to school meant I would start thinking:
contempt poured into those words “afraid of a woman like me.”
I felt sufficiently superior to risk tenderness.
“You know, of course, that motivation is life,” he says. “Life itself. Taken from the Latin motus, it means to move, set in motion, engage …”
