Page 125 - The Story of My Lif
P. 125

INTRODUCTION




               Helen Keller’s letters are important, not only as a supplementary story of her
               life, but as a demonstration of her growth in thought and expression—the growth
               which in itself has made her distinguished.




               These letters are, however, not merely remarkable as the productions of a deaf
               and blind girl, to be read with wonder and curiosity; they are good letters almost

               from the first. The best passages are those in which she talks about herself, and
               gives her world in terms of her experience of it. Her views on the precession of
               the equinoxes are not important, but most important are her accounts of what
               speech meant to her, of how she felt the statues, the dogs, the chickens at the
               poultry show, and how she stood in the aisle of St. Bartholomew’s and felt the
               organ rumble. Those are passages of which one would ask for more. The reason
               they are comparatively few is that all her life she has been trying to be “like
               other people,” and so she too often describes things not as they appear to her, but
               as they appear to one with eyes and ears.





               One cause for the excellence of her letters is the great number of them. They are
               the exercises which have trained her to write.


               She has lived at different times in different parts of the country, and so has been
               separated from most of her friends and relatives. Of her friends, many have been
               distinguished people, to whom—not often, I think, at the sacrifice of spontaneity
               —she has felt it necessary to write well. To them and to a few friends with whom
               she is in closest sympathy she writes with intimate frankness whatever she is
               thinking about. Her naive retelling of a child’s tale she has heard, like the story
               of “Little Jakey,”


               which she rehearses for Dr. Holmes and Bishop Brooks, is charming and her
               grave paraphrase of the day’s lesson in geography or botany, her parrot-like
               repetition of what she has heard, and her conscious display of new words, are
               delightful and instructive; for they show not only what she was learning, but
               how, by putting it all into letters, she made the new knowledge and the new
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