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MY MOTHER.

To be caught in the vicious circle of another's life is to revolve perilously in another's perils.

Were I to consider the conventional relationship between parent and child, these memories would become a chain of invectives both biased and unjust. Personality is more important then relationship when it exists to the degree that [[strikethrough]] it [[/strikethrough]] was realized [[strikethrough]] itself [[/strikethrough]] in my mother, and though recalling my particularly unhappy childhood, I hope to do part justice to her memory.

A certain French lady, on being asked if it was true that she disliked her son, answered: "Le naissance est une double indiscrétion". This answer, equivalent to a mutual criticism, should, by virtue of its frankness, amend what might at first seem unmendable. As soon as I could make any effort [[strikethrough]] s [[/strikethrough]] at all, I made them in this direction.

Why blame the cause of past tribulations if their effect in the present stands for a strength and individuality? It pleases me rather to survey objectively the plant that survived the storms of that atmosphere of intense and adverse feeling.

That my mother stands apart from these considerations is obvious, since her hatred like her love, built up a consciousness beyond laws and reason.

She was at the time of my birth, beautiful, autocratic, and highly cultivated. Expressing herself in the romantic lyricism of her time, she wrote: