Contrary to anyone who thinks I might have in fact never returned from England (wouldn’t that be awesome?!…unless it meant I died…in which case, not awesome), I have actually left that glorious island and am again in the States, presumably being productive and very much alive. 672 more words
Tags » 19th Century Literature
I have a confession: I’m a feminist, and I love Dickens.
Truthfully, I’m not entirely sure which part of that sentence is supposed to constitute the real admission, since God knows people hate the word “feminist.” That said, I’ve met several women who are quick to write off Dickens’ entire oeuvre as patriarchal nonsense, and it pains me a little. 1,783 more words
by Charlotte Perkins Gilman
It is very seldom that mere ordinary people like John and myself secure ancestral halls for the summer.
A colonial mansion, a hereditary estate, I would say a haunted house, and reach the height of romantic felicity – but that would be asking too much of fate! 6,180 more words
A few years ago, my mother asked me, rather plaintively, “Don’t you have any happy memories from your childhood?”
I get the feeling that most of my friends, to say nothing of the readers of this blog, will be surprised to hear this, but I think that as a kid I was happy more often than I wasn’t. 949 more words
She was a great-great granddaughter of the King of Poland, Augustus II the Strong. Her father was the king’s great-grandson, Maurice Dupin.
Her mother, Sophie Delaborde, the daughter of a bird fancier, was, said George, of the ‘vagabond race of Bohemians’. 587 more words