The Story of My Life by Helen Keller (books to read for self improvement .TXT) π
Description
Helen Keller was just nineteen months old when, in 1882, she was struck with an illness that rendered her deaf, blind, and unable to communicate beyond basic signs. When she was seven, the arrival of Anne Sullivan, a partially blind teacher, catalysed Helenβs learning and created a completely new way of teaching deafblind children. In The Story of My Life, written when Helen was twenty-three, Helen recounts her childhood and the wonders of a blossoming understanding of the world around her, along with her efforts to become the first deafblind person to earn a B.A. degree.
This volume also contains many of her letters, and is substantiated by Anne Sullivanβs own writing and correspondence on Helenβs tuition, along with numerous other accounts. The story was later adapted for both theater and film on multiple occasions as The Miracle Worker, a title bestowed on Anne Sullivan by Mark Twain.
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- Author: Helen Keller
Read book online Β«The Story of My Life by Helen Keller (books to read for self improvement .TXT) πΒ». Author - Helen Keller
β¦ I am out of doors all the time, rowing, swimming, riding and doing a multitude of other pleasant things. This morning I rode over twelve miles on my tandem! I rode on a rough road, and fell off three or four times, and am now awfully lame! But the weather and the scenery were so beautiful, and it was such fun to go scooting over the smoother part of the road, I didnβt mind the mishaps in the least.
I have really learned to swim and diveβ βafter a fashion! I can swim a little under water, and do almost anything I like, without fear of getting drowned! Isnβt that fine? It is almost no effort for me to row around the lake, no matter how heavy the load may be. So you can well imagine how strong and brown I am.β ββ β¦
To Mrs. Laurence Hutton
12 Newbury Street, Boston,
October 23, 1898.
This is the first opportunity I have had to write to you since we came here last Monday. We have been in such a whirl ever since we decided to come to Boston; it seemed as if we should never get settled. Poor Teacher has had her hands full, attending to movers, and express-men, and all sorts of people. I wish it were not such a bother to move, especially as we have to do it so often!β ββ β¦
β¦ Mr. Keith comes here at half past three every day except Saturday. He says he prefers to come here for the present. I am reading the Iliad, and the Aeneid and Cicero, besides doing a lot in Geometry and Algebra. The Iliad is beautiful with all the truth, and grace and simplicity of a wonderfully childlike people while the Aeneid is more stately and reserved. It is like a beautiful maiden, who always lived in a palace, surrounded by a magnificent court; while the Iliad is like a splendid youth, who has had the earth for his playground.
The weather has been awfully dismal all the week; but today is beautiful, and our room floor is flooded with sunlight. By and by we shall take a little walk in the Public Gardens. I wish the Wrentham woods were round the corner! But alas! they are not, and I shall have to content myself with a stroll in the Gardens. Somehow, after the great fields and pastures and lofty pine-groves of the country, they seem shut-in and conventional. Even the trees seem citified and self-conscious. Indeed, I doubt if they are on speaking terms with their country cousins! Do you know, I cannot help feeling sorry for these trees with all their fashionable airs? They are like the people whom they see every day, who prefer the crowded, noisy city to the quiet and freedom of the country. They do not even suspect how circumscribed their lives are. They look down pityingly on the country-folk, who have never had an opportunity βto see the great world.β Oh my! if they only realized their limitations, they would flee for their lives to the woods and fields. But what nonsense is this! You will think Iβm pining away for my beloved Wrentham, which is true in one sense and not in another. I do miss Red Farm and the dear ones there dreadfully; but I am not unhappy. I have Teacher and my books, and I have the certainty that something sweet and good will come to me in this great city, where human beings struggle so bravely all their lives to wring happiness from cruel circumstances. Anyway, I am glad to have my share in life, whether it be bright or sad.β ββ β¦
To Mrs. William Thaw
Boston, December 6th, 1898.
My teacher and I had a good laugh over the girlsβ frolic. How funny they must have looked in their βroughriderβ costumes, mounted upon their fiery steeds! βSlimβ would describe them, if they were anything like the sawhorses I have seen. What jolly times they must have at βΈ»! I cannot help wishing sometimes that I could have some of the fun that other girls have. How quickly I should lock up all these mighty warriors, and hoary sages, and impossible heroes, who are now almost my only companions; and dance and sing and frolic like other girls! But I must not waste my time wishing idle wishes; and after all my ancient friends are very wise and interesting, and I usually enjoy their society very much indeed. It is only once in a great while that I feel discontented, and allow myself to wish for things I cannot hope for in this life. But, as you know, my heart is usually brimful of happiness. The thought that my dear Heavenly Father is always near, giving me abundantly of all those things, which truly enrich life and make it sweet and beautiful, makes every deprivation seem of little moment compared with the countless blessings I enjoy.
To Mrs. William Thaw
12 Newbury Street, Boston,
December 19th, 1898.
β¦ I realize now what a selfish, greedy girl I was to ask that my cup of happiness should be filled to overflowing, without stopping to think how many other peopleβs cups were quite empty. I feel heartily ashamed of my thoughtlessness. One of the childish illusions, which it has been hardest for me to get rid of, is that we have only to make our wishes known in order to have them granted. But I am slowly learning that there is not happiness enough in the world for everyone to have all that he wants; and it grieves me to think that I should have forgotten, even for a moment, that I already have more than my share, and that like poor little Oliver Twist I should have asked for βmore.ββ ββ β¦
To Mrs. Laurence Hutton
12 Newberry Street, Boston.
December 22, 1898.
β¦ I suppose Mr. Keith writes you the work-a-day news. If so, you know that I have finished all the
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