The clarity of my memory seems to improve in direct proportion to the intensity of shock I underwent!

It is a fact, a fact-o-fact, universally acknowledged, that, a single-o-single cup of coffee with the right-o-right people, can do the greatest of wonders, the most marvelous of miracles and the most remarkable of feats beyond compare! And this we know!

Yes, this we quite know - through the times and climes, across the ages and through the sages of the past-o-past! And as the amazing tag line to Café Coffee Day rightly points out, A lot can happen over a coffee’! Queen Anne's coffee houses of the days of yore, which were respectfully considered 'an alternate sphere, supplementary to the university' are a case in point! 

In fact, the essence of meeting up for a casual convy over a cuppa is not only to indulge ourselves over a hot gourmet cocoa or a filter kaapi, or a kaapi nirvana, but also to open our hearts out over a delightful conversation on some lively-o-lively, lovely-o-lovely topic, that goes on and on and on and on with no bell or brake!

Audie Bock

Now, moving one step ahead, gently ahead, into the literary, well, it was over one such passionate conversation that went on and on, and on and on, over a cuppa coffee with the legendary Akira Kurosawa that Audie E. Bock resolved with gusto that she would translate the legend’s autobiography into English! 

And thus was born Akira Kurosawa's Something Like An Autobiography, in the year 1983, on its vibrant English avatar!

Thanks to the cuppa, we’ve got Akira Kurosawa’s mind and heart on a platter in English!

Ladies and gentlemen, please join me in thanking the noble cuppa, for God’s plenty that came down to us, swaing from Japanese to English! All over a cuppa! Ain’t it?

Audie Bock’s ‘Translator’s Preface,’ appeals to us with such an amazing impact, thanks to her spontaneity and felicity in pouring out her thoughts over the myriad events that led up to this great endeavour!

Let’s hear Audie Bock speak -

Six months went by, and my Fulbright year in Tokyo was drawing to a close. I was packing my bags and distributing my household goods among my friends in preparation for departure the next morning when the telephone rang. Matsue was calling to say Kurosawa and he would have coffee with me that very afternoon.

Now let’s listen in rapt attention to the legendary Kurosawa’s heartspeak!

If I were to write anything at all, it would turn out to be nothing but talk about movies. In other words, take "myself," subtract "movies" and the result is "zero."

Akira Kurosawa

There is one more person I feel I would like to resemble as I grow old: the late American film director John Ford. I am also moved by my regret that Ford did not leave us his autobiography. Of course, compared to these two illustrious masters, Renoir and Ford, I am no more than a little chick. But if many people are saying they want to know what sort of person I am, it is probably my duty to write something for them. I have no confidence that what I write will be read with interest, and I must explain that I have chosen (for reasons I will discuss later) to bring my account to a close in 1950, the year in which I made Rashōmon.

Some more snippets from Kurosawa’s Something Like An Autobiography, for us all –

I was in the washtub naked. The place was dimly lit, and I was soaking in hot water and rocking myself by holding on to the rims of the tub. At the lowest point the tub teetered between two sloping boards, the water making little splashing noises as it rocked. This must have been very interesting for me. I rocked the tub with all my strength. Suddenly it overturned. I have a very vivid memory of the strange feeling of shock and uncertainty at that moment, of the sensation of that wet and slippery space between the boards against my bare skin, and of looking up at something painfully bright overhead.

It is Time...

I’m Building A Set of Stairs that Leads to the Stars...

From Esther Greenwood aka Sylvia Plath let’s move on to Elizabeth aka Bessie Head!

Like Em Zee, and like Esther, Elizabeth is the fictive persona to Bessie Head in this, her hugely successful autobiographical novel, A Question of Power, published in the year 1973.

Bessie Head is one of the prominent novelists from South Africa, and in this, her autobiographical novel, titled A Question of Power, Elizabeth/Bessie Head, the protagonist, struggles with depression, and the repressive societal outlook towards her, as a result of the oppressive social conditioning! In this highly autobiographical novel, Elizabeth was born to an interracial couple – her mother being a wealthy and white South African lady, and her father, a black African servant! In short, her precarious predicament is that, she is a love-child, conceived out-of-wedlock! And promptly enough, as per the 'dictates' of the oppressive social norms that forbid the birth of a child out-of-wedlock, Elizabeth’s mom is sent to a mental asylum, for reasons known only to the so-called ‘powers-that-be’! Hence it is anybody’s guess whether Elizabeth/Bessie’s mother was really 'insane' or situations so 'necessitated' it! 

Sample this –

“Your mother was insane. If you’re not careful you’ll get insane just like your mother. Your mother was a white woman. They had to lock her up, as she was having a child by the stable boy who was a native.”

And because of this, her mother’s ‘mental illness’ Elizabeth  lives with her adopted parents where she takes her schooling, and then goes on to become a teacher! 

After a failed marriage, Elizabeth moves with her young son to rural Botswana, all alone by herself! Here she has to battle severe financial crisis, and a mental breakdown as well! Adding salt to injury, the rural people in Botswana are really suspicious of her mannerisms, which adds to her mental woes. Elizabeth thus faces a deprivation both physically and intellectually! She also teaches at a local school, and soon after, gets involved in a local cooperative farming venture that was meant to promote the local economy of the village.

This autobiographical novel sharply contrasts the daytime world of Elizabeth’s drudgery, her routines at school, and at the cooperatives, with her night-time chaotic world of mental breakdown!

Her first novel When Rain Clouds Gather that happened in 1969, discusses threadbare on this, her life as a refugee in a refugee camp in rural Botswana. And with highly favourable reviews to authenticate and reassure the writer within her, Bessie moves ahead courageously in her literary career, with her subsequent books!

When Rain Clouds Gather is a pioneering novel in many ways. In fact, it is through this intensely descriptive novel that outsiders the world over could read and know for themselves the gory effects and horrific consequences of apartheid in South Africa. Moreover, the novel is based on her lived experiences as a refugee at the Bamangwato Development Farm!

Makhaya Maseko, the young South African refugee flees his land because of the racially-charged atmosphere, and settles in Botswana, in the fictional village of Golema Mmidi. Soon, Makhaya is involved in a cattle cooperative, as part of a local agricultural endeavour, and he gets hired as a worker on the farm. Gilbert is impressed with Makhaya and soon starts training him on basic skills in agricultural farming, and driving a tractor.

Makhaya, who is adept in the use of the Tswana language, begins to share enriching ideas in agriculture with the local community women in Golema Mmidi. No spoilers though!

Just some snippets that I loved reading through, from the novel, for y’all –

“Oh, so you have no complaints about the white man?” the old man said, struggling to pry some information out of the tightly shut mouth.

The young man only turned his face slightly, yet the light of laughter danced in his eyes.

“Ha, I see now,” the old man said, pretending disappointment. “You are running away from tribalism.

But just ahead of you is the worst tribal country in the world. We Barolongs are neighbours of the Batswana, but we cannot get along with them. They are a thick-headed lot who think no further than this door. Tribalism is meat and drink to them.”

The young man burst out laughing. “Oh, Papa,” he said. “I just want to step on free ground. I don’t care about people. I don’t care about anything, not even the white man. I want to feel what it is like to live in a free country and then maybe some of the evils in my life will correct themselves.”

'Book fests certainly make you humble no matter who you are!'

‘CHENNAI BOOK FAIR 2019’ - A Report

Hisham Mohamed , II MA English

The ‘Chennai Book Fair 2019’ turned out to be my second consecutive visit to a book exhibition in back to back years. This may not seem that much of a thing that is worth mentioning, but then the fact that I spent all the days of my schooling either in Riyadh or in Madurai made it harder for me to have frequent visits to such places.

Chennai has really opened up a whole new world for me to explore and learn new things and being a student of literature only makes it even more exciting. I, personally am not a hardcore reader of books but I love to write, which obviously demands a lot of reading. 

This is why I feel I haven’t read a book from cover-to-cover but rather a few pages of a lot of books that really interests me through the kinds of words being used or the way in which the author views certain things in a completely different manner.

Now, being a student of literature for almost 5 years, a lot of professors have influenced me to read but none more than Dr. Samuel Rufus and it goes without saying that no matter how life leads me from here, into my future, I definitely owe him a lot. Even though I couldn’t read books apart from a few prescribed ones as in these 5 years, I have definitely developed the thirst for books and knowledge and that for me is the greatest positive that I could take from this M.A. course.

I may have left it a little too late, had I not visited the book fair on the 19th of January along with my sister, who is also a student of literature, doing her bachelor’s degree in Stella Maris College. The entire road leading to the YMCA grounds was filled with heavy traffic and the street vendors who sold used books, only added to the slowing down of traffic even further.

My sister and I had to get down from the car and walk quite a bit to enter into the campus, in order to escape the delay caused by the unusually busy road. We both were thrilled when we had our first sight of the parking area, which was almost full and understandably so, since it was the last day of the fair. It was indeed heartening to see people crowded to seek knowledge. The hot and humid condition could’ve been overcome with a centralized AC facility which I thought would improve the next year’s book fair.

Book fests certainly make you humble no matter who you are and that I think is one among the many perks of being a student of literature, i.e. no matter how much ever you know, you still realise that you’ve a lot to learn. Students, professors, teachers, readers, writers, business men, techies all fell under the same roof in the book fair, which by itself conveyed a huge message for any of us to take. Book stalls ranging from medicine, cookery, technology to literature, religion and culture were all spread out for us to go and explore.

One crucial thing that I realised from the visit was that it was important for me to take someone who was actually a bookworm, so that he/she can suggest me books that may perhaps be closer to my area of interest. Myself being not that much of a bookaholic and my sister still trying to find her feet in the vast field of literature, I felt it would’ve been even more apt to take a friend along with us to give us leads.

I also met Mr. Syed Ahmed sir, who was one of my professors in my UG course which I did in The New College. This, I thought was another huge advantage of going to such places, where you get to meet new people and also people who might have played a crucial role in your life. My sister and I, bought around 6-7 books, including Wonder, I am Malala, A Brief History of Time, Mein Kampf, English Literature for Competitive Examinations, Rich Dad Poor Dad. I opted to buy Hitler’s autobiography in order to get a clearer understanding of Germany’s perspective at the time of World War-I and with an aim of relating it to the literary history and literary movements that prevailed at that point of time. As for Stephen Hawking’s book, one of my professors urged me to buy it stating that it would definitely suit my interest. Malala Yousafzai and R.J. Palacio’s books were my sister’s picks, which she says were the recommendations of her friends in college.

I also bought a few DVDs dealing with software such as Adobe Photoshop, Premier, etc. to improve my skills in fields other than literature as well and even more so because I have a keen interest towards video editing and content creation and I am sure these materials would definitely be of great use.

The Book fest would certainly transform not just me, but anybody for that matter, and frequent visits to exhibitions like these and libraries can only make someone humble and more understanding of the world and different people that one might come across in his/her life.

The book Wonder by R.J. Palacio primarily deals with a boy who was born with a facial difference that had prevented him from going to a mainstream school.

I am really excited to start reading the book, (now that I’m done with my thesis) and look at the work from different theories and perspectives that I’ve learnt thus far.

Theatre Fest @ UoM

I couldn’t make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest...

On a whirlwind tour through some of the impactful, inspiring and immortal autobiographical reads from off Benji and Proust, to Butler and Teddy, to Kate and Stein, to Em Zee and Lammy, let’s now have a stopover at Sylvia Plath aka Esther Greenwood!

Of Em Zee, who was part of the Serapion Fraternity, we could get a glimpse, through his  autobiographical novella, into his lived experience, on the remarkable ways in which he battled his depression, melancholy and sadness and came out triumphant.

Sylvia Plath and Ted Hughes

Like Em Zee, Esther Greenwood also, [or Sylvia Plath as she’s quite popular amongst the literati,] in her autobiographical fiction titled, The Bell Jar battles depression, much of which she candidly details with such intense descriptors in the course of this long fictional read. However, Esther/Sylvia is not able to get enough of support from her family members, nor from her friends and classmates, nor from her society, nor from her professors, nor from her doctors, all of which proves ample foregrounding to her precarious predicament!

Well, quite interestingly, from a bird’s eye view of the entire gamut of American Literature, it could be gauged, with a certain amount of conviction that, thus far, there had been a huge dearth or a lacuna of female protagonists in works of art, created by women, who spoke their minds from off their own perspectives!

In this backdrop, Sylvia Plath proves a great hit, an instant hit amongst the sorority of the American literati and from across the globe, for her gut feelings, her frankness, her forthrightness and her lack of restraint in addressing the issues that bothered her mind in all its poignant intensity.

In short, Bell Jar, published under the pseudonym “Victoria Lucas” in 1963, proved that valuable receptacle for her mind’s outpourings!

But… Before reading her autobiographical work of fiction, it is pertinent on our part, to bear in mind a kutty little backdrop to the American mindscape of the early 50’s when Sylvia Plath lived, and wrote!

Esther’s America, ooopy oops! - Sylvia’s America - in the 1950s was an America which had a huge list of conformities up its sleeve to be strictly adhered to! Women had to succumb with graceful ‘elegance’ to the ‘socially conditioned realities,’ to the ‘normatives,’ to the ‘basic givens’, to the ‘patriarchal givens’ of society, where gender roles were very rigid, and crossing this highly ‘sacred’ lakshman rekha meant inviting trouble, and hence was anathema to women in general!

American women of the 1950s were categorized into two groups as such! One group was the goody-goody girls who were torch-bearers to this rigid social fabric, married promptly, begat children by the number, kept houses remarkably well, did the dishes, made the beds, and were dutiful as housewives, and were matronly in their demeanour! The other group of women were the ones who were typecast as the bad-o-bad girls, who did not succumb to the filial roles expected of women in society. Their ideal of success was never the ideals of the family, housekeeping or the related drudges and burdens of life! In contrast, the so-called ‘bad girls’ were the ones who were so raring to go, so wanting to enjoy their lives, to live their own sweet moments, according to their own dictates, and thereby come out of the confines of a doll’s existence! At the same time, there was, in American society, a third group as well! A group of women who were out there on the liminal space, who were never included under the ambit of women at all! They were the spinsters, or the maids, or the social-conscious women who, although highly intelligent and highly skilled, were termed the unfortunate, les miserables, or the doomed! And well, they weren’t part of the duality-mode, as they did not intend to seek the attention of men! They rather played the game for game’s sake!

And Sylvia has one reppy-sampy each for the ‘good girl,’ ‘bad girl’ and the liminal girl in this, her autobiographical read, The Bell Jar! An ensample to the ‘good girl’ type, is the character of Doreen! So now, let’s have a glimpse into the daily grind of Doreen from what Sylvia would tell us all –

Sylvia, as a student of Smith College, April 1954

I’d never known a girl like Doreen before. Doreen came from a society girls’ college down South and had bright white hair standing out in a cotton candy fluff round her head and blue eyes like transparent agate marbles, hard and polished and just about indestructible, and a mouth set in a sort of perpetual sneer. I don’t mean a nasty sneer, but an amused, mysterious sneer, as if all the people around her were pretty silly and she could tell some good jokes on them if she wanted to.

Doreen singled me out right away. She made me feel I was that much sharper than the others, and she really was wonderfully funny. She used to sit next to me at the conference table, and when the visiting celebrities were talking she’d whisper witty sarcastic remarks to me under her breath.

Her college was so fashion conscious, she said, that all the girls had pocketbook covers made out of the same material as their dresses, so each time they changed their clothes they had a matching pocketbook. This kind of detail impressed me. It suggested a whole life of marvelous, elaborate decadence that attracted me like a magnet.

The only thing Doreen ever bawled me out about was bothering to get my assignments in by a deadline.

“What are you sweating over that for?” Doreen lounged on my bed in a peach silk dressing gown, filing her long, nicotine-yellow nails with an emery board, while I typed up the draft of an interview with a best-selling novelist.

That was another thing - the rest of us had starched cotton summer nighties and quilted housecoats, or maybe terrycloth robes that doubled as beachcoats, but Doreen wore these full-length nylon and lace jobs you could half see through, and dressing gowns the color of skin, that stuck to her by some kind of electricity. She had an interesting, slightly sweaty smell that reminded me of those scallopy leaves of sweet fern you break off and crush between your fingers for the musk of them.

And what does Esther, ooopy oops, Sylvia have to say about herself? Let’s follow her words rightaway, to know more about her disposition –

I was supposed to be having the time of my life.

I was supposed to be the envy of thousands of other college girls just like me all over America who wanted nothing more than to be tripping about in those same size-seven patent leather shoes I’d bought in Bloomingdale’s one lunch hour with a black patent leather belt and black patent leather pocketbook to match. And when my picture came out in the magazine the twelve of us were working on - drinking martinis in a skimpy, imitation silver-lame bodice stuck on to a big, fat cloud of white tulle, on some Starlight Roof, in the company of several anonymous young men with all-American bone structures hired or loaned for the occasion - everybody would think I must be having a real whirl.

The colonial experience of my generation was almost wholly without violence. It was a terror of the mind!

A relentless rebel to the likes of Shelley, and a fierce satirist to the likes of Marston and Hall – sums up Soviet writer Mikhail Zoshchenko [Em Zee] and his impactful oeuvre of sorts. 

And we – this once – shall call him Em Zee for short!

Well, Em Zee was part of the renowned literary group titled, “The Serapion Brothers,” which had such a sway over a vast majority of the literati of the era. Yes! Victor Shklovsky was also part of this august group!

He was a rebel, no doubt! But again, because of his constant ‘exposays’ in the realms of poor housing, sanitation, clothing and shelter, he was pressurized heavily to conform! Yesss! The Soviet regime wanted him to conform to their socialist brand of realism! Hence it was, that he, from then on, started writing children’s books which soon became immensely popular with the masses. Then came up his famed and controversial autobiographical novella titled, Before Sunrise, that was published in 1943 and was banned quite promptly enough! Very soon, and sadly at that, he was also expelled from the Soviet Writers’ Union.

In this, his autobiographical novella, Before Sunrise, Em Zee throws light on his battle with melancholy, his depression, and his nagging fear of life. He feels that he has always had a wonderful childlike disposition on him - all of the time - with an amiable, cheerful and vibrant world-view that has always been his forte! And it was highly unfortunate, as he adds, that the fear and sadness that have cropped up onto his very consciousness were nayver his domain at all! Hence the title Before Sunrise could also infer to mean, ‘before consciousness’! It was just a mental illness from which he was sure he would recuperate and sprightly bounce back yet again, to resume on his vibrant joie de vivre and josh there is to his life and living!

Therefore, in order to regain his child-like vibrancy yet again, he feels that it’s necessary for him to get rid of some of his harsh memories from the past - the saddy-gloomy memories of his youthful life! That includes the suicide of a classmate, the first gas attack that he had witnessed, his broken love-life, and a host of such gloomy memories.

But quite interestingly, in spite of all these irreconcilable struggles within himself, that’s been grappling his mind and heart for this long, Em Zee had taken a resolve of sorts! A noble resolve at that! He convinces himself that, come what may, he can and he should love people around him at all costs, by all means! This he feels is of paramount importance, to advance boldly ahead on his beautiful outlook towards life - A healthy lifestyle coupled with a healthy worldview!

Yesss! A healthy lifestyle coupled with a healthy worldview!!! And that’s how Em Zee managed to come out so triumphantly, from off his depression, he says! Well, and that’s when your sweet, positive attitude towards life helps you overcome any kinda depression, and that too, with such suave elegance and gusto!

The noblest of lifestyles, and the noblest of worldviews! Ain’t it! That’s why we say, Em Zee rocks!

Next, in our tryst with the autobiographical novel, shall we move ahead to yet another landmark read from the pen of George Lamming, titled, In the Castle of My Skin.

In this profound autobiographical novel, published in 1953, Lamming explores with such intense detail, his experience of growing up in a West Indian village under colonial rule. Sandra Pouchet Paquet in her insightful book, Caribbean Autobiography: Cultural Identity and Self-Representation, describes In the Castle of My Skin as ‘an autobiographical novel of childhood and adolescence written against the anonymity and alienation from self and community the author experienced in London at the age of twenty-three.’

This autobiographical novel was greatly appreciated by famous literary minds including the likes of the legendary Sartre and Wright. The story spans nine years of the narrator G’s life from the ages of nine to seventeen! Hence an autobiographical bildungsroman it is!

At a time when G (the writer’s persona) is much inclined to proceed to Trinidad, his buddy Trumper returns from his studies abroad in America and shares with G about his life and experiences there across the Atlantic! He tells him about some of the wonderful luxuries that America afforded him, like electric fans, telephones et al and convinces him on the need to leave the island once and for all, in order to have an impactful understanding about his race and heritage as such, and to achieve for himself an identity of his own! And thus Lammy (Lamming) set sail to England!

Reminiscing on this, his intense autobiographical novel, Lammy says: When I sailed with other West Indians to England in 1950, we simply thought we were going to an England that had been painted in our childhood consciousness as a heritage and a place of welcome... It was not a physical cruelty. Indeed, the colonial experience of my generation was almost wholly without violence. It was a terror of the mind; a daily exercise in self-mutilation. This was the breeding ground for every uncertainty of self!

Interestingly, as he’s done many a time, Derek Walcott lends the title for Lamming’s autobiographical novel, from one of his awesome collection of poems titled, Epitaph for the Young: XII Cantos which he had published as a young lad of nineteen years, in 1949. One of his mighty lines from his Epitaph for the Young goes thus: “You in the castle of your skin / I the swineherd.”

Added grace to Lamming’s autobiographical read of sorts!

To be continued…

All images are from amazondotcom

The moment a life begins to blossom into beautiful words and deeds, that moment a new standard of conduct is established...

From Benji to Proust, to Butler to Teddy, on this little, delightful autobiographical sojourn of ours, let's  now move on, with exuberance, to Kate and Stein on this post!

And on Kate we begin!

Kate Douglas Wiggin is a proud pioneer in the field of children’s education, with such a noble claim to fame for having started the first free kindergarten in San Francisco in 1878. 

At a time, when child labour was so intense, so rampant, and so widespread, and children had been forced to work at very young ages, Kate took upon herself the noble initiative of starting the Silver Street Free Kindergarten in San Francisco. And quite interestingly, to help raise funding for her kindergarten school, she took to writing. This helped her publish some of her most famous books, including The Story of Patsy, The Birds’ Christmas Carol and Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm, etc.

Her autobiography My Garden of Memory: An Autobiography of an Advocate for Early Child Education published in 1923, gives a glorious glimpse into her meaningful life filled with such dynamic commitment in the interests of children’s education. Personally, I haven’t read this book as yet, but I’ve had the good luck of reading my way through her amazingly admirably adorably awesomey children’s novel Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm! What a way with words she’s got! And ooh boy! How elegantly she oozes such positive vibes through her words, her phrasings, her lines, her sentences, each page of this 288 page- classic!

Well, when we read through this children’s novel, Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm, the protagonist Rebecca Rowena Randall spontaneously reminds us of the free-spirited Maria, the youngy Austrian lady, with such a vibrant joy of living (joie de vivre), who with her love of music, love of life, love of nature and her love of mountains, her youthful dynamism and her amazing enthusiasm transforms the lives of everyone around her!

Rebecca is one such impish rebel, a mischievous imp, a sweetie little brat, in the beautiful fictional village of Riverboro! At the beginning to the novel, Rebecca is shown journeying her way from her impoverished family’s little farm to Riverboro to join her two aunts. 

Although Rebecca is from a very poor background, she has such a positive attitude to life (Remember Anne Frank?), with a wonderful wild and imaginative spirit within her! Very often, when people around her are sad or cast down, she spontaneously composes lovely little poems and songs to entertain them. It sure is a memorable unputdownable read! Would love to give y’all glorious snippets from this amazing children’s classic, that has oodles of memorable lines for all of us – young and old alike! So yess! Wherever there’s Rebecca, there’s adventure on the tracks for us all! That makes this read so precious and so dear!

Here goes snippets from Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm!

The best lines exclusively for y’all –

The soul grows into lovely habits as easily as into ugly ones, and the moment a life begins to blossom into beautiful words and deeds, that moment a new standard of conduct is established, and your eager neighbors look to you for a continuous manifestation of the good cheer, the sympathy, the ready wit, the comradeship, or the inspiration, you once showed yourself capable of. Bear figs for a season or two, and the world outside the orchard is very unwilling you should bear thistles.

The effect of the Burches' visit on Rebecca is not easily described. Nevertheless, as she looked back upon it from the vantage ground of after years, she felt that the moment when Mr. Burch asked her to "lead in prayer" marked an epoch in her life.

If you have ever observed how courteous and gracious and mannerly you feel when you don a beautiful new frock; if you have ever noticed the feeling of reverence stealing over you when you close your eyes, clasp your hands, and bow your head; if you have ever watched your sense of repulsion toward a fellow creature melt a little under the exercise of daily politeness, you may understand how the adoption of the outward and visible sign has some strange influence in developing the inward and spiritual state of which it is the expression.

It is only when one has grown old and dull that the soul is heavy and refuses to rise. The young soul is ever winged; a breath stirs it to an upward flight. Rebecca was asked to bear witness to a state of mind or feeling of whose existence she had only the vaguest consciousness. She obeyed, and as she uttered words they became true in the uttering; as she voiced aspirations they settled into realities. As "dove that to its window flies," her spirit soared towards a great light, dimly discovered at first, but brighter as she came closer to it. To become sensible of oneness with the Divine heart before any sense of separation has been felt, this is surely the most beautiful way for the child to find God.

Miranda Sawyer had a heart, of course, but she had never used it for any other purpose than the pumping and circulating of blood.

Her face was without color and sharp in outline. As to features, she must have had the usual number, though Mr. Cobb's attention never proceeded so far as nose, forehead, or chin, being caught on the way and held fast by the eyes. 

Rebecca's eyes were like faith, - "the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen." Under her delicately etched brows they glowed like two stars, their dancing lights half hidden in lustrous darkness. Their glance was eager and full of interest, yet never satisfied; their steadfast gaze was brilliant and mysterious, and had the effect of looking directly through the obvious to something beyond, in the object, in the landscape, in you. They had never been accounted for, Rebecca's eyes. The school teacher and the minister at Temperance had tried and failed; the young artist who came for the summer to sketch the red barn, the ruined mill, and the bridge ended by giving up all these local beauties and devoting herself to the face of a child,--a small, plain face illuminated by a pair of eyes carrying such messages, such suggestions, such hints of sleeping power and insight, that one never tired of looking into their shining depths, nor of fancying that what one saw there was the reflection of one's own thought.

"You wear a ring on your engagement finger, don't you, aunt Jane? Did you ever think about

getting married?"

"Yes, dear, long ago."

"What happened, aunt Jane?"

"He died--just before."

"Oh!" And Rebecca's eyes grew misty.

"He was a soldier and he died of a gunshot wound, in a hospital, down South."

"Oh! aunt Jane!" softly. "Away from you?"

"No, I was with him."

"Was he young?"

"Yes; young and brave and handsome, Rebecca; he was Mr. Carter's brother Tom."

"Oh! I'm so glad you were with him! Wasn't he glad, aunt Jane?"

Jane looked back across the half-forgotten years, and the vision of Tom's gladness flashed upon her: his haggard smile, the tears in his tired eyes, his outstretched arms, his weak voice saying, "Oh, Jenny! Dear Jenny! I've wanted you so, Jenny!" It was too much! She had never breathed a word of it before to a human creature, for there was no one who would have understood. Now, in a shamefaced way, to hide her brimming eyes, she put her head down on the young shoulder beside her, saying, "It was hard, Rebecca!"

The Simpson baby had cuddled down sleepily in Rebecca's lap, leaning her head back and

sucking her thumb contentedly. Rebecca put her cheek down until it touched her aunt's gray hair and softly patted her, as she said, "I'm sorry, aunt Jane!"

The girl's eyes were soft and tender and the heart within her stretched a little and grew; grew in sweetness and intuition and depth of feeling. It had looked into another heart, felt it beat, and heard it sigh; and that is how all hearts grow.

That’s for some lovely teasers from Kate Douglas Wiggin’s children’s classic!

Now let’s move ahead on our autobiographical sojourn, to yet another wonderful autobiographical read of sorts from the pen of the mighty Gertrude Stein!

How could we easily forget that memorable line from Gertrude Stein, ‘Rose is a rose is a rose is a rose.’ How much of a profound impact it has had on our sensibilities, and how much of twentieth century literary theory could so easily connect with this wonderful dictum! Well, Gertrude Stein had composed this immortal line as part of her 1913 poem “Sacred Emily”.

Added, Gertrude has also written an inspiring autobiography! It’s titled, The Autobiography of Alice B. Toklas and was published in the year 1933. Well, although penned by Gertrude Stein herself, it is written in the guise of an autobiography authored by Alice B. Toklas, her life-partner. This autobiography brought instant world-wide recognition for the author.

Her unconventional style of writing has not only fetched her rave reviews, but also a lot of fans and admirers from all walks of life.

Among those Men Whom I Have Known, the Love of Books and the Love of Outdoors, have Usually Gone Hand in Hand...

"There are men who love out-of-doors who yet never open a book; and other men who love books but to whom the great book of nature is a sealed volume, and the lines written therein blurred and illegible. Nevertheless among those men whom I have known the love of books and the love of outdoors, in their highest expressions, have usually gone hand in hand. It is an affectation for the man who is praising outdoors to sneer at books." - Teddy Roosevelt

We continue further along on our lovely sojourn into the world of autobiographical reads of diverse hues and shades, from off various times and climes! Indeed, autobiographical novels have been such a rage and sensation across time and place for ages! Right from Angelou’s to Baldwin’s, to Charlotte Bronte’s to Dickens’s, to George Eliot’s to Fitzgerald’s, to Greene’s, to Hemingway’s, fictionalizing of events by authors, albeit on autofiction mode, have had their own charm and their sway on the readers.

Samuel Butler’s autobiographical novel The Way of All Flesh is a case in point! A well-known English writer and a notorious iconoclast of the first quarters, from the Victorian age, Samuel Butler vehemently attacked the hypocrisy of the Victorian age, and gave a scathing portrayal of family life in Victorian England. For this and for other political considerations, this explosive autobiographical novel, though written as early as 1873, was published only in 1903. Upon its publication, praise and fame came to him from all quarters. George Orwell was especially profuse in his praise of The Way of All Flesh! He called Butler a courageous and truly independent observer! He added to say that, ‘Butler would say things that other people knew but didn't dare to say. And finally there was his clear, simple, straightforward way of writing, never using a long word where a short one will do.’ What’s more! George Bernard Shaw hailed it as ‘one of the summits of human achievement’! Such is the power, such the charm of this endearing read for us all!

Sample this, from Butler –

Butler speaks! Please go ahead and listen to him below –

I will give no more of the details of my hero’s earlier years. Enough that he struggled through them, and at twelve years old knew every page of his Latin and Greek Grammars by heart. He had read the greater part of Virgil, Horace and Livy, and I do not know how many Greek plays: he was proficient in arithmetic, knew the first four books of Euclid thoroughly, and had a fair knowledge of French. It was now time he went to school, and to school he was accordingly to go, under the famous Dr. Skinner of Roughborough.

The walls were covered with book shelves from floor to ceiling, and on every shelf the books stood in double rows.

That’s for a sample from Samuel Butler!

And next we come to the Teddy-Bear-fame Teddy Roosevelt aka Theodore Roosevelt’s autobiography titled, Theodore Roosevelt: An Autobiography.

Even while he was still a student at the famed Harvard, Roosevelt felt his flair for writing deep within him, and surrendered to this delightful call! The result is a whopping 35 wonderful reads from off his pen! He went on to become the 26^th President of the United States. Apart from being a writer, he also commanded great respect from all his subjects for his gift of the gab! He was also a naturalist and an explorer of the Amazon basin.

Teddy is known especially for his famed hunting expeditions. It’s no great wonder then that one of his bear hunting trips in 1902, under the invitation of the Mississippi Governor, fetched him the honorific Teddy that would be etched in people’s hearts even more than a century later, today!

His Autobiography published in the year 1913, also contains exciting, thrilling and fascinating descriptions of his hunting skills, whose beauty lies in the dexterous way in which he connects them with life-values and life-skills for everyday life.

Just excerpts for y’all, from one of his shooting adventures, from off his Autobiography, and the life-skills he imparts to the reader, through them all. Every word and every line of Teddy’s in his Autobiography, is so amazing and enthralling. Please please go through these lines to breathe into your very being the essence of good, descriptive writing. Teddy speaks of his hunting skills, the books that he so loves to read, the books-birds combo, acquiring fearlessness amongst a range of absorbing topics! Read on…

Teddy Roosevelt speaks –

Buck fever means a state of intense nervous excitement which may be entirely divorced from timidity. It may affect a man the first time he has to speak to a large audience just as it affects him the first time he sees a buck or goes into battle. What such a man needs is not courage but nerve control, cool-headedness. This he can get only by actual practice. He must, by custom and repeated exercise of self- mastery, get his nerves thoroughly under control. This is largely a matter of habit, in the sense of repeated effort and repeated exercise of will power. If the man has the right stuff in him, his will grows stronger and stronger with each exercise of it--and if he has not the right stuff in him he had better keep clear of dangerous game hunting, or indeed of any other form of sport or work in which there is bodily peril.

After he has achieved the ability to exercise wariness and judgment and the control over his nerves /which will make him shoot as well at the game as at a target/, he can begin his essays at dangerous game hunting, and he will then find that it does not demand such abnormal prowess as the outsider is apt to imagine. A man who can hit a soda- water bottle at the distance of a few yards can brain a lion or a bear or an elephant at that distance, and if he cannot brain it when it charges he can at least bring it to a standstill. All he has to do is to shoot as accurately as he would at a soda-water bottle; and to do this requires nerve, at least as much as it does physical address. Having reached this point, the hunter must not imagine that he is warranted in taking desperate chances. There are degrees in proficiency; and what is a warrantable and legitimate risk for a man to take when he has reached a certain grade of efficiency may be a foolish risk for him to take before he has reached that grade.

A man who has reached the degree of proficiency indicated above is quite warranted in walking in at a lion at bay, in an open plain, to, say, within a hundred yards. If the lion has not charged, the man ought at that distance to knock him over and prevent his charging; and if the lion is already charging, the man ought at that distance to be able to stop him. But the amount of prowess which warrants a man in relying on his ability to perform this feat does not by any means justify him in thinking that, for instance, he can crawl after a wounded lion into thick cover.

I have known men of indifferent prowess to perform this latter feat successfully, but at least as often they have been unsuccessful, and in these cases the result has been unpleasant. The man who habitually follows wounded lions into thick cover must be a hunter of the highest skill, or he can count with certainty on an ultimate mauling.

I need hardly say that all the successes I have ever won have been of the second type. I never won anything without hard labor and the exercise of my best judgment and careful planning and working long in advance. Having been a rather sickly and awkward boy, I was as a young man at first both nervous and distrustful of my own prowess. I had to train myself painfully and laboriously not merely as regards my body but as regards my soul and spirit.