The Story of My Life: With her letters (1887-1901) and a supplementary account of her education, including passages from the reports and letters of her teacher, Anne Mansfield Sullivan, by John Albert MacyKeller, Helen
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The Story of My Life: With her letters (1887-1901) and a supplementary account of her education, including passages from the reports and letters of her teacher, Anne Mansfield Sullivan, by John Albert Macy
Keller, Helen
Deafblind women -- United States -- Biography; Keller, Helen, 1880-1968
Would that I could enrich this sketch with the names of all those who
have ministered to my happiness! Some of them would be found written
in our literature and dear to the hearts of many, while others would
be wholly unknown to most of my readers. But their influence, though it
escapes fame, shall live immortal in the lives that have been sweetened
and ennobled by it. Those are red-letter days in our lives when we meet
people who thrill us like a fine poem, people whose handshake is brimful
of unspoken sympathy, and whose sweet, rich natures impart to our eager,
impatient spirits a wonderful restfulness which, in its essence, is
divine. The perplexities, irritations and worries that have absorbed us
pass like unpleasant dreams, and we wake to see with new eyes and hear
with new ears the beauty and harmony of God's real world. The solemn
nothings that fill our everyday life blossom suddenly into bright
possibilities. In a word, while such friends are near us we feel that
all is well. Perhaps we never saw them before, and they may never cross
our life's path again; but the influence of their calm, mellow natures
is a libation poured upon our discontent, and we feel its healing touch,
as the ocean feels the mountain stream freshening its brine.
I have often been asked, "Do not people bore you?" I do not understand
quite what that means. I suppose the calls of the stupid and curious,
especially of newspaper reporters, are always inopportune. I also
dislike people who try to talk down to my understanding. They are like
people who when walking with you try to shorten their steps to suit
yours; the hypocrisy in both cases is equally exasperating.
The hands of those I meet are dumbly eloquent to me. The touch of some
hands is an impertinence. I have met people so empty of joy, that when
I clasped their frosty finger tips, it seemed as if I were shaking hands
with a northeast storm. Others there are whose hands have sunbeams in
them, so that their grasp warms my heart. It may be only the clinging
touch of a child's hand; but there is as much potential sunshine in it
for me as there is in a loving glance for others. A hearty handshake or
a friendly letter gives me genuine pleasure.
I have many far-off friends whom I have never seen. Indeed they are so
many that I have often been unable to reply to their letters; but I
wish to say here that I am always grateful for their kind words, however
insufficiently I acknowledge them.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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