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“As I’m sure you’ve read in the papers, the States have been in a bit of a recession these last two years.” As I’m sure you’ve read in the papers. Question: Ought I read the papers more than I do? Answer: Likely. However: Books.
I’ve not yet been brave enough to look too far into that strange, internal country of my heart, to see what has battered its way through the gates, and what has not. But it feels as if there is a confirmation there, of complicated, tangled courage. Hearts are intricate stretches of land.
“Wealth, cleverness, and praise are not the same as excellence of character, Emma,”
“More importantly, what are you reading?”
“Did you think,” I asked, “that I was made of such thin metal that I would snap for the past of it all?”
There is a freedom in my body. It is so very familiar, yet long abandoned for the mandates of adulthood—womanhood, I should say. While I am under no illusions (nor is anyone else of my acquaintance) that I am the ideal execution of what a woman ought to be, I still feel like I’ve tucked my wings against myself too often. Curtailed? Perhaps trimmed?
