I was born to love - but none of you wanted to believe it, and that misunderstanding was crucial in forming my character. It's true that nature was strangely inconsistent in giving me a warm heart, but also a face that was like a stone mask and a tongue that was heavy and slow. She refused me what she bestowed freely on even the most loutish of my fellow men. . . . People judged my inner character by my outer covering, and like a sterile fruit, I withered under the rough husk I couldn't slough off.
George SandAbout author
- Author's profession: Novelist, Writer
- Nationality: french
- Born: July 1, 1804
- Died: June 8, 1876
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My Papa's Waltz: The whiskey on your breath. Could make a small boy dizzy; But I hung on like death: Such waltzing was not easy. We romped until the pans. Slid from the kitchen shelf; My mother's countenance. Could not unfrown itself. The hand that held my wrist. Was battered on one knuckle; At every step you missed. My right ear scraped a buckle. You beat time on my head. With a palm caked hard by dirt, Then waltzed me off to bed. Still clinging to your shirt.
Theodore Roethke