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Quote by Clive Staples Lewis

“About a week after this it was quite certain that Digory's Mother was getting better. About a fortnight later she was able to sit out in the garden. And a month later that whole house had become a different place. Aunt Letty did everything that Mother liked; windows were opened, frowsy curtains were drawn back to brighten up the rooms, there were new flowers everywhere, and nicer things to eat, and the old piano was tuned and Mother took up her singing again, and had such games with Digory and Polly that Aunt Letty would say "I declare, Mabel, you're the biggest baby of the three.”

Quote by Clive Staples Lewis

Work

The Magician’s Nephew

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Clive Staples Lewis

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“It's commonplace today to make fun of women-centric book clubs, where there's more wine drinking than book discussion, but for hundreds of years, the only place women could gather, drink, relax and socialize was in a neighbor's kitchen, surrounded by other wives and mothers. There is a long-standing tradition of driving women to some sort of behavior, then mocking them for it. (Sort of like making beauty a women's most powerful and important currency, then laughing about how long it takes her to get ready.)”

“There are many women who think that being a mother means contradicting a child, and later they beat them, and order them about for the sake of giving orders, to see herself obeyed, ordering the child not to run, not to jump, not to yell, in sum, a whole bunch of ignorant things, the truth is, to prohibit a child from doing all this is to prohibit them from being healthy. They act like this with girls precisely because they are girls, as if a girl's organism did not have to develop, so that they can grow up beautiful and strong, and not scrawny and pale, nor become mothers full of pains and ailments. They think that being a mother authorizes them to mistreat and order the children at whim, and oblige them to do things against their will, that is an error.”

“Nappo lo prese in mano perplesso. Ci volle un po’ perché riuscisse ad aprirlo. Era per via delle dita. Aveva dita corte e sbozzate come dei torsoli sputati da una trebbia difettosa. Quelle dita avevano deciso il suo destino. Quando, da bambino, aveva espresso il desiderio di suonare la fisarmonica, sua madre l’aveva guardato con dolcezza. “Con quali dita?” gli aveva chiesto. “Perché non provi con un altro strumento? Cosa ne pensi della roncola?”