I was seeing what a writer can do with the tatters of truth, the unfinished stories that give us no rest.
I continued up the stairs, this time on wings, suspecting for the first time that Louisa's book might outlive us all.
She had joined that sad sisterhood called disappointed women; a larger class than many deem it to be, though there are few of us who have not seen members of it. Unhappy wives; mistaken or forsaken lo...
He had illuminated the heartbreaking cruelty of war: When men who fight become nothing, only packages of bones and blood deposited in the earth with no clarion call to memory, those they love are left...
The women who went to the field, you say... A few names were writ, and by chance live to-day;But's a perishing record fast fading away,Of those we recall, there are scarcely a score...And what would t...