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Quote by Jessica Marie Baumgartner

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Reclaiming Femininity: Saving Women's Traditions & Our Future

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Jessica Marie Baumgartner

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“Beyond my final breath,” she muttered to the wailing skies remorsefully. Those four words stayed with Harper her whole life. First, they were spoken words of love from her father to her mother, like a promise of forever, a promise to last long beyond their end. Then it became a motto of affection and love to their children, and now, now she felt she had broken the promise of that love.”

“Perhaps it is only someone who has experienced first-hand what family can and should mean who can be so ruthless when they write about those who fall short of producing the ideal for their offspring.”

“The idea of a child (of whatever age) forgiving a bad parent, and the unthinkableness of a happy ending without it, is very modern and not one that has much to do with Roald's world view at all. It is idealistic and sentimental, and is more concerned with relieving adult anxieties (there is nothing we can do so bad that it cannot ultimately be undone) than entertaining child viewers/readers or slaking their thirst for natural justice.”

“He is certainly of an age to die.’ The sadness of the old; their banishment: most of them do not think that this age has yet come for them. I too made use of this cliché, and that when I was referring to my mother. I did not understand that one might sincerely weep for a relative, a grandfather aged seventy and more. If I met a woman of fifty overcome with sadness because she had just lost her mother, I thought her neurotic: we are all mortal; at eighty you are quite old enough to be one of the dead… But it is not true. You do not die from being born, nor from having lived, nor from old age. You die from something. The knowledge that because of her age my mother’s life must soon come to an end did not lessen the horrible surprise: she had sarcoma. Cancer, thrombosis, pneumonia: it is as violent and unforeseen as an engine stopping in the middle of the sky. My mother encouraged one to be optimistic when, crippled with arthritis and dying, she asserted the infinite value of each instant; but her vain tenaciousness also ripped and tore the reassuring curtain of everyday triviality. There is no such thing as a natural death: nothing that happens to a man is ever natural, since his presence calls the world into question. All men must die: but for every man his death is an accident and, even if he knows it and consents to it, an unjustifiable violation.”

“Work brought my family to Tennessee. I was just a kid. We lived in a green house off Old McClure Road. A big mimosa tree in the yard. Fern-like leaves and summer blooms. It reminded me of Florida. The mimosa was an invasive species there. State wanted them cut down. But we left ours alone. A tree growing where it should not be. Like my family. We were invasive too.”