Books, books, books had found the secret of a garret-room piled high with cases in my father’s name; Piled high, packed large, –where, creeping in and out among the giant fossils of my past, like some small nimble mouse between the ribs of a mastodon, I nibbled here and there at this or that box, pulling through the gap, in heats of terror, haste, victorious joy, the first book first. And how I felt it beat under my pillow, in the morning’s dark. An hour before the sun would let me read! My books!
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- Books succeed, and lives fail.
- He, in his developed manhood, stood, a little sunburn by the glare of life.
- Measure not the work until the day’s out and the labor’s done.
- A woman cannot do the thing she ought, which means whatever perfect thing she can, in life, in art, in science, but she fears to let the perfect action take her part and rest there: she must prove what she can do before she does it, — prate of woman’s rights, of woman’s mission, woman’s function, till the men (who are prating, too, on their side) cry, A woman’s function plainly is… to talk. Poor souls, they are very reasonably vexed!
- Eve is a twofold mystery.
- Let no one till his death be called unhappy. Measure not the work until the day’s out and the labor done.