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All the Days of My Life: An Autobiography

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The Red Leaves of a Human Heart

Illustrated

(1913)

Let Amelia Huddleston grow on you. Watch her grow and change, allowing us to scrutinize along with her, the lessons life brings her. It's a long book, leisurely and thorough. Full of dignity and graciously obscured moments too private to share, she lets us into her thinking. She sees the first lead pencils, and copies by hand everything she writes for publication until the typewriter appears on the scene in her 50's. A celebration around the first box of matches her family ever sees lets you see the flares of each one lit that evening, and hear the giggles and reactions she describes. And this is only the periphery of her story; the props. We've all heard about plagues and the high childhood mortality of times past. We know now how dirt relates to disease: in her time, she and her generation did not know yet. Bad air, spooky sensations, and news of advancing epidemics were their only protection: so fragile one can hardly keep reading as she herself dances as best she can the frantic steps of her time to avert disease herself. And then to the heart of why one keeps reading: she's a great visitor. You can feel the hot tea in your throat as you take a repast with her; you can feel the tumbling of her heart as it bolts for cover as life blind sides her. You can hear her faith strong and true, and even disagreeing, let her rant because mothers can rant, and she becomes much like one's mother as the pages go by. It's hard to read for the right reasons: it's truthful, and it tells us how our own ancestors might have seen things. The suspense almost never falters all through the long life she relates to us.--Submitted by Phyllis Fajersson.

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Subscribe for ad free access & additional features for teachers. Authors: 267, Books: 3,607, Poems & Short Stories: 4,435, Forum Members: 71,154, Forum Posts: 1,238,602, Quizzes: 344 This is to be a book about myself but, even before I begin it, I am painfully aware of the egotistical atmosphere which the unavoidable use of the personal pronouns creates. I have hitherto declared that I would not write an autobiography, but a consideration of circumstances convinces me that an autobiography is the only form any personal relation can now take. For the press has so widely and so frequently exploited certain events of my life-impossible to omit-that disguise is far out of the question. Fiction could not hide me, nor an assumed name, nor even no name at all. Why, then, write the book? First, because serious errors have constantly been published, and these I wish to correct; second, there has been a long-continued request for it, and third, there are business considerations not to be neglected. Yet none, nor all of these three reasons, would have been sufficient to induce me to truck my most sacred memories through the market-place for a little money, had I not been conscious of a motive that would amply justify the book. The book itself must reveal that reason, or it will never be known. I am sure, however, that many will find it out, and to these souls I shall speak, and they will keep my memory green, and listen to my words of strength and comfort long after the woman called Amelia Huddleston Barr has disappeared forever. Again, if I am to write of things so close and intimate as my feelings and experiences, I must claim a large liberty. Many topics usually dilated on, I shall pass by silently, or with slight notice; and, if I write fully and truly, as I intend to do, I must show many changes of opinion on a variety of subjects. This is only the natural growth of the mental and spiritual faculties. For the woman within, if she be of noble strain, is never content with what she has attained; she unceasingly presses forward, in lively hope of some better way, or some more tangible truth. If any woman at eighty years of age was the same woman, spiritually and mentally, she was at twenty, or even fifty, she would be little worthy of our respect. Also, there are supreme tragedies and calamities in my life that it would be impossible for me to write down. It would be treason against both the living and the dead. But such calamities always came from the hand of man. I never had a sorrow from the hand of God that I could not tell to any good man or woman; for the end of God-sent sorrow is some spiritual gain or happiness. We hurt each other terribly in this world, but it is in ways that only the power which tormented the perfect man of Uz would incite. I write mainly for the kindly race of women. I am their sister, and in no way exempt from their sorrowful lot. I have drank the cup of their limitations to the dregs, and if my experience can help any sad or doubtful woman to outleap her own shadow, and to stand bravely out in the sunshine to meet her destiny, whatever it may be, I shall have done well; I shall not have written this book in vain. It will be its own excuse, and justify its appeal. Art of Worldly Wisdom Daily In the 1600s, Balthasar Gracian, a jesuit priest wrote 300 aphorisms on living life called "The Art of Worldly Wisdom." Join our newsletter below and read them all, one at a time. Email: Sonnet-a-Day Newsletter Shakespeare wrote over 150 sonnets! Join our Sonnet-A-Day Newsletter and read them all, one at a time. Email:

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