Cervantes' eloquent feminist, Marcella the shepherdess, makes this standout speech.

 

In this passage from Ch. 13 Part 1 of Cervantes’ Don Quixote, the beautiful shepherdess, Marcela, gives a captivating speech defending a woman’s right to choose her own lifestyle after she is blamed for the suffering and death of Grisóstomo, who killed himself when she rejected him:

“I come not, Ambrosia for any of the purposes thou hast named,” replied Marcela, “but to defend myself and to prove how unreasonable are all those who blame me for their sorrow and for Chrysostom’s death; and therefore I ask all of you that are here to give me your attention, for will not take much time or many words to bring the truth home to persons of sense. Heaven has made me, so you say, beautiful, and so much so that in spite of yourselves my beauty leads you to love me; and for the love you show me you say, and even urge, that I am bound to love you. By that natural understanding which God has given me I know that everything beautiful attracts love, but I cannot see how, by reason of being loved, that which is loved for its beauty is bound to love that which loves it; besides, it may happen that the lover of that which is beautiful may be ugly, and ugliness being detestable, it is very absurd to say, “I love thee because thou art beautiful, thou must love me though I be ugly.” But supposing the beauty equal on both sides, it does not follow that the inclinations must be therefore alike, for it is not every beauty that excites love, some but pleasing the eye without winning the affection; and if every sort of beauty excited love and won the heart, the will would wander vaguely to and fro unable to make choice of any; for as there is an infinity of beautiful objects there must be an infinity of inclinations, and true love, I have heard it said, is indivisible, and must be voluntary and not compelled. If this be so, as I believe it to be, why do you desire me to bend my will by force, for no other reason but that you say you love me? Nay—tell me—had Heaven made me ugly, as it has made me beautiful, could I with justice complain of you for not loving me? Moreover, you must remember that the beauty I possess was no choice of mine, for, be it what it may, Heaven of its bounty gave it me without my asking or choosing it; and as the viper, though it kills with it, does not deserve to be blamed for the poison it carries, as it is a gift of nature, neither do I deserve reproach for being beautiful; for beauty in a modest woman is like fire at a distance or a sharp sword; the one does not burn, the other does not cut, those who do not come too near. Honour and virtue are the ornaments of the mind, without which the body, though it be so, has no right to pass for beautiful; but if modesty is one of the virtues that specially lend a grace and charm to mind and body, why should she who is loved for her beauty part with it to gratify one who for his pleasure alone strives with all his might and energy to rob her of it? I was born free, and that I might live in freedom I chose the solitude of the fields; in the trees of the mountains I find society, the clear waters of the brooks are my mirrors, and to the trees and waters I make known my thoughts and charms. I am a fire afar off, a sword laid aside. Those whom I have inspired with love by letting them see me, I have by words undeceived, and if their longings live on hope—and I have given none to Chrysostom or to any other—it cannot justly be said that the death of any is my doing, for it was rather his own obstinacy than my cruelty that killed him; and if it be made a charge against me that his wishes were honourable, and that therefore I was bound to yield to them, I answer that when on this very spot where now his grave is made he declared to me his purity of purpose, I told him that mine was to live in perpetual solitude, and that the earth alone should enjoy the fruits of my retirement and the spoils of my beauty; and if, after this open avowal, he chose to persist against hope and steer against the wind, what wonder is it that he should sink in the depths of his infatuation? If I had encouraged him, I should be false; if I had gratified him, I should have acted against my own better resolution and purpose. He was persistent in spite of warning, he despaired without being hated. Bethink you now if it be reasonable that his suffering should be laid to my charge. Let him who has been deceived complain, let him give way to despair whose encouraged hopes have proved vain, let him flatter himself whom I shall entice, let him boast whom I shall receive; but let not him call me cruel or homicide to whom I make no promise, upon whom I practise no deception, whom I neither entice nor receive. It has not been so far the will of Heaven that I should love by fate, and to expect me to love by choice is idle. Let this general declaration serve for each of my suitors on his own account, and let it be understood from this time forth that if anyone dies for me it is not of jealousy or misery he dies, for she who loves no one can give no cause for jealousy to any, and candour is not to be confounded with scorn. Let him who calls me wild beast and basilisk, leave me alone as something noxious and evil; let him who calls me ungrateful, withhold his service; who calls me wayward, seek not my acquaintance; who calls me cruel, pursue me not; for this wild beast, this basilisk, this ungrateful, cruel, wayward being has no kind of desire to seek, serve, know, or follow them. If Chrysostom’s impatience and violent passion killed him, why should my modest behaviour and circumspection be blamed? If I preserve my purity in the society of the trees, why should he who would have me preserve it among men, seek to rob me of it? I have, as you know, wealth of my own, and I covet not that of others; my taste is for freedom, and I have no relish for constraint; I neither love nor hate anyone; I do not deceive this one or court that, or trifle with one or play with another. The modest converse of the shepherd girls of these hamlets and the care of my goats are my recreations; my desires are bounded by these mountains, and if they ever wander hence it is to contemplate the beauty of the heavens, steps by which the soul travels to its primeval abode.”

With these words, and not waiting to hear a reply, she turned and passed into the thickest part of a wood that was hard by, leaving all who were there lost in admiration as much of her good sense as of her beauty. Some—those wounded by the irresistible shafts launched by her bright eyes—made as though they would follow her, heedless of the frank declaration they had heard; seeing which, and deeming this a fitting occasion for the exercise of his chivalry in aid of distressed damsels, Don Quixote, laying his hand on the hilt of his sword, exclaimed in a loud and distinct voice:

“Let no one, whatever his rank or condition, dare to follow the beautiful Marcela, under pain of incurring my fierce indignation. She has shown by clear and satisfactory arguments that little or no fault is to be found with her for the death of Chrysostom, and also how far she is from yielding to the wishes of any of her lovers, for which reason, instead of being followed and persecuted, she should in justice be honoured and esteemed by all the good people of the world, for she shows that she is the only woman in it that holds to such a virtuous resolution.”

 

Eulogy for Mom

 

Eulogy for Mom

Pansy Geraldine Davis nee Green lived not only a good life, but an exemplary one. As her children we were given unconditional love, but she thought that was the kind of love everyone deserved. She was all love in her actions, as a nurse, as a partner in life to Dad, as a sibling, as a beloved friend to many, and as our mom.

She was patient but prompt. She was kind but did not mince words when the truth was needed. She was not boastful, despite her accomplishments, although she did say that she always knew “whodunnit” having watched and read so many mystery stories. In later years she occasionally said she was proud that she didn’t raise prejudice children. She never bragged about getting straight A’s when she went back to school for her master's in nursing, or about her consummate golf and quilt-making skills.

My mother was not someone who talked much about her faith.  Yet I know of no other person who followed the teachings of Jesus more closely. That unconditional love radiated her faith in her actions and how she treated people.

A friend of mine once commented that our family was sentimental about food. Well, we were about things Mom made. I found a Mother’s Day card I made in fourth grade that said, “Thankyou for making corn bread dressing,” which she made for every holiday meal, along with beef and vegetable stew, red cake and of course the best possible cornbread.

Mom loved deserts and made great ones---from homemade peach ice cream to crem brulee, bananas foster and Tira masu.

Mom thought any drink tasted better with lime juice in it, and I inherited that taste.  For decades she had a lime tree. She also liked hummingbirds, slot machines, bright colors, making clothes and quilts and reading.

My mother gave me access to learning by answering questions I asked before I could read. The first time I heard a live orchestra, I was about 5, and they were playing Mozart’s “Jupiter Symphony.” I asked Mom what Jupiter was, and instead of just saying “it’s a big planet,” she told me about the Greek and Roman gods the planets were named after. She read a picture book of the Iliad and Odyssey to me, and I memorized the Greek alphabet in the back. Ancient Greek became my main language in college, and with it I read not only Homer, but the New Testament, and Greek drama, which was to be my specialty when I became professor of theatre history. theatre history.

She also read a whole King Arthur book to me and I still read Arthurian scholarship today, NOT fan fiction. For her 80^th birthday, I drew a picture once of my mom reading that King Arthur book to me in her white nurse’s uniform, her white shoes sticking out from beyond the edge of the book. So, she read our bedtime stories right before she went to work. And remember those complex origami looking hats? Very hard to draw.  What the picture represented was how she worked nights when we were little, and slept while we were at school. We never felt her absence. I still wonder at how she did that. I ended up becoming a Drama major and got my PHD at the UW School of Drama in Seattle.

Mother also helped me with my interest in theatre. She made costumes and puppets for the little shows I put on. My parents sent me to Saturday Drama classes at the civic theatre for almost all my school years. Both our parents are lifelong learners, and helped us learn about whatever we were interested in. For me it was playing music and writing. Mom would never interrupt me when she saw that I was practicing or writing or drawing in earnest.

We all benefitted from her sense of humor. One holiday dinner my brother was talking about how music to me was like fishing to him. You must understand this was a compliment since Barry is a fishing genius. He added, “But I understand music.” Which is very true, he does, I then said, “I understand fishing.” Mom was the only one who laughed.

I also inherited a couple of Mom’s quirks---the ability to get turned around and when coming out of a building, always choosing the wrong direction. I inherited ger tendency toward spoonerisms. She laughed at herself when she once said, “Calvin Clean Jines.” I was in a childrten’s play and once said, “Fiestas, Pound Ups, Row Wows long ago.”

She was a world traveler and loved new places and new ideas.

I look out today and I see many people who knew my mother as Pansy, a sort of different person than our mom, because she was much more than our mom. She was a boss, a hand at Bridge, a golf partner, a healer, quietly intellectual and a quick study.

    She lived a good life and she lived an exemplary life. Pansy, our mother, was all Love, and loved by everyone who knew her.

 

Helen Keller on Learning Greek to read Homer

 Helen Keller, The Story of My Life, chapter 21:

My mind opened naturally and joyously to a conception of antiquity. Greece, ancient Greece, exercised a mysterious fascination over me. In my fancy the pagan gods and goddesses still walked on earth and talked face to face with men, and in my heart I secretly built shrines to those I loved best. I knew and loved the whole tribe of nymphs and heroes and demigods--no, not quite all, for the cruelty and greed of Medea and Jason were too monstrous to be forgiven, and I used to wonder why the gods permitted them to do wrong and then punished them for their wickedness. And the mystery is still unsolved. I often wonder how

   God can dumbness keep
   While Sin creeps grinning through His house of Time.
   [Sidney Lanier, Acknowledgment, III]

It was the Iliad that made Greece my paradise. I was familiar with the story of Troy before I read it in the original, and consequently I had little difficulty in making the Greek words surrender their treasures after I had passed the borderland of grammar. Great poetry, whether written in Greek or in English, needs no other interpreter than a responsive heart. Would that the host of those who make the great works of the poets odious by their analysis, impositions and laborious comments might learn this simple truth! It is not necessary that one should be able to define every word and give it its principal parts and its grammatical position in the sentence in order to understand and appreciate a fine poem. I know my learned professors have found greater riches in the Iliad than I shall ever find; but I am not avaricious. I am content that others should be wiser than I. But with all their wide and comprehensive knowledge, they cannot measure their enjoyment of that splendid epic, nor can I. When I read the finest passages of the Iliad, I am conscious of a soul-sense that lifts me above the narrow, cramping circumstances of my life. My physical limitations are forgotten -- my world lies upward, the length and the breadth and the sweep of the heavens are mine!

My admiration for the Aeneid is not so great, but it is none the less real. I read it as much as possible without the help of notes or dictionary, and I always like to translate the episodes that please me especially. The word-painting of Virgil is wonderful sometimes; but his gods and men move through the scenes of passion and strife and pity and love like the graceful figures in an Elizabethan mask, whereas in the Iliad they give three leaps and go on singing. Virgil is serene and lovely like a marble Apollo in the moonlight; Homer is a beautiful, animated youth in the full sunlight with the wind in his hair.

How easy it is to fly on paper wings! From "Greek Heroes" to the Iliad was no day's journey, nor was it altogether pleasant. One could have traveled round the word many times while I trudged my weary way through the labyrinthine mazes of grammars and dictionaries, or fell into those dreadful pitfalls called examinations, set by schools and colleges for the confusion of those who seek after knowledge. I suppose this sort of Pilgrim's Progress was justified by the end; but it seemed interminable to me, in spite of the pleasant surprises that met me now and then at a turn in the road.