The only charge I could bring against the Fellows and Scholars of whatever the college might happen to be was that in protection of their turf, which has been rolled for years in succession they had sent my little fish into hiding. Stroll on the meadows? Hence the libraries and laboratories; the observatories; the splendid equipment of costly and delicate instruments which now stands on glass shelves, where centuries ago the grasses waved and the swine rootled.
Even the door of the hotel sprang open at the touch of an invisible hand--not a boots was sitting up to light me to bed, it was so late.
I countered his negative view, pointing out that today many of the Latin American countries once under totalitarian rule are democratic, partly due to the spirit of reform he exemplified nearly half a century before.
I am looking forward to living on my own—away from our overprotective, over-scrutinizing family.
Lighthearted me hangs upside-down, off the back of my recliner. To the right and left bushes of some sort, golden and crimson, glowed with the colour, even it seemed burnt with the heat, of fire. The gardens of Fernham lay before me in the spring twilight, wild and open, and in the long grass, sprinkled and carelessly flung, were daffodils and bluebells, not orderly perhaps at the best of times, and now wind-blown and waving as they tugged at their roots.
Why, if it was an illusion, not praise the catastrophe, whatever it was, that destroyed illusion and put truth in its place? He acknowledged the progress made but remained adamant that the nations were still not free of foreign intervention. Women do not write books about men--a fact that I could not help welcoming with relief, for if I had first to read all that men have written about women, then all that women have written about men, the aloe that flowers once in a hundred years would flower twice before I could set pen to paper.
It amazes me that we all squeezed into the same person. It was very beautiful, very mysterious in the autumn moonlight.
Want to know more? Even the sorrow of Christianity sounded in that serene air more like the recollection of sorrow than sorrow itself; even the groanings of the ancient organ seemed lapped in peace. These personal statements have one other thing in common: The admissions process has checks and balances, and the essay is part of that system.
And as it went on I set it against the background of that other talk, and as I matched the two together I had no doubt that one was the descendant, the legitimate heir of the other.
For youth Here was my soup. And to answer that question I had to think myself out of the room, back into the past, before the war indeed, and to set before my eyes the model of another luncheon party held in rooms not very far distant from these; but different.
I must have opened it, for instantly there issued, like a guardian angel barring the way with a flutter of black gown instead of white wings, a deprecating, silvery, kindly gentleman, who regretted in a low voice as he waved me back that ladies are only admitted to the library if accompanied by a Fellow of the College or furnished with a letter of introduction.
What idea it had been that had sent me so audaciously trespassing I could not now remember.[* This essay is based upon two papers read to the Arts Society at Newnharn and the Odtaa at Girton in October The papers were too long to be read in full, and have since been altered and expanded.].
Some are emotional, some are cerebral, and some are a combination of the two. Others are funny, serious, philosophical, and creative.
They are as different as the personalities of the people who wrote them, but what these essays all have in common is their honesty and the effort put into creating them.Download