SMother: The Story of a Man, His Mom, and the Thousands of Altogether Insane Letters Shes Mailed Him

I Left The Abuse
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As you see, a Saturday makes one talkative, because we have to be silent all the rest of the week and are accustomed to regulate the capacities of our souls according to our superior officer's word of command. That is why on Saturdays, when the eye of the master is removed, words gush forth from our lips and sentences pour out of the ink-pot—especially when the fire is crackling in the grate and outside you hear the roar of a February storm, heavy with the promise of Spring. Saturday, a storm, and a warm room—these are the best ingredients with which to brew the punch of a "letter-writing mood.

My present life, my dear friend, is really very lonely and friendless. It offers me no stimulation that I do not myself provide; none of that harmonious concord of souls which many a happy hour in Leipzig used to afford; but rather, enstrangement of the soul from itself, preponderance of obsessional influences, which draw the soul up tightly with a sense of fear, and teach it to regard things with an earnestness that they do not deserve. This is the seamy side of my present existence, and you will certainly be able to enter into my feelings about it.

Let us, however, turn it round the other way. This life is certainly uncomfortable, but enjoyed as an entremets , absolutely useful. Moreover, it helps one to become acquainted with one's own nature, as it reveals itself among strange and generally rough people, without any assistance from science and without that traditional goddess Fame which determines our worth for our friends and for society.

Up to the present I have remarked that people are well disposed toward me, whether they happen to be captains or plain gunners; for the rest I do my duty with zeal and interest. Is it not something to be proud of, to be regarded as the best rider among thirty recruits? Verily, dear friend, that is more than a philological prize, although I am not insensible even to the kind of encomiums that the Faculty of Leipzig thought fit to bestow upon me. Ah, my dear friend, what a child of misfortune is a field artilleryman when he has literary tastes into the bargain.

Our old god of War loved young women, not shrivelled old Muses. A gunner who often enough in his barrack room sits upon a dirty stool meditating upon Democritean problems, while his boots are being polished for him, is really a paradox on whom the gods must look with scorn. When I tell you that I am on duty every day from 7 in the morning to 5 in the evening, and that in addition I have to attend lectures given by a lieutenant and a vet respectively, you can imagine what a sorry plight I am in.

At night the body is limp and tired and seeks its couch in good time. And so it goes on without respite or rest, day after day. What becomes of the reflection and contemplation necessary for scientific cogitation in the midst of it all? Even for things which are still more dear to me than my literary needs, for the delights of a friendly correspondence and for art, I so seldom have a free moment.

Just let me be once more in full enjoyment of my time and my strength—. Si male nunc, non olim sic erit.

I am still particularly fond of riding, and my zeal for it is kept alive by the praise I receive on all sides. From the officers I hear that I have a good seat and thus make a good display. Believe me, old man, I never thought I should have an opportunity of growing vain about this sort of thing. Suffice it to say that my desire to perfect myself in this fine but difficult art is very strong indeed. If you should happen to come to Naumburg for the Pforta School Festival, you will be able to appreciate my achievements. I am afraid you will have a good laugh when you see me shouting my orders.

But I still have a good deal to learn before I can pass the officers exam. They are on the way to Magdeburg for gun practice. So I am about the only gay-coated creature within the walls of Naumburg—an abandoned broken-winged stork that with envy in its heart has seen all its more powerful fellows fly right away. Yes, old man, the rumour that has already reached you by many a tortuous path is for the best i.

I had survived the winter and also the most difficult and unpleasant half of my year's service; they had made me a bombardier and were well pleased with my behaviour. When the fine weather came and I was able to ride my horse round the huge parade ground I too was beginning to breathe more freely. Towards the end I was riding the most restive and fiery animal in the battery.


It should be remembered that is the fourth successive year of drouth and crop failure through a great part of the high plains region, and the hopelessly low prices for the crop of gave no chance to build up reserves for future needs. He afforded a fine example of that insolence of bearing which seems natural to the victorious soldier. Was a spirit trying to contact me at all? I just think even narcissists should not be judged, as we all were one at one point. I am not questioning the legal right of these companies to take over the title of the farms for their own security or that of the people whose money they have invested.

One day I failed in attempting a smart spring into the saddle; I gave my chest a blow on the pommel and felt a sharp rend in my left side. But I quietly went on riding, and endured the increasing pain for a day and a half. On the evening of the second day, however, I had two fainting fits, and on the third day I lay as if nailed to my bed, suffering the most terrible agony and with a high temperature.

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The doctors declared that I had torn two of the muscles of my chest. In consequence of this the whole system of chest muscles and ligaments was inflamed, and severe suppuration had supervened owing to the bleeding of the torn tissues. A week later, when my chest was lanced, several cupfuls of matter were removed. From that time onward, three whole months , the suppuration has never ceased, and when at last I left my bed, I was naturally so exhausted that I had to learn to walk again.

My condition was lamentable; I had to be helped in standing, walking and lying down, and could not even write.

An overprotective mother and pen pal

Gradually my health improved, I enjoyed an invigorating diet, took plenty of exercise and recovered my strength. But the wound still remained open and the suppuration scarcely abated. At last it was discovered that the sternum itself had been grazed and this was the obstacle to recovery. One evening I got an undeniable proof of this, in the form of a little piece of bone which came out of the wound with the matter.

This has happened frequently since, and the doctor says it is like to occur frequently again.

Should a large piece of bone be detached a slight operation would be imperative. The trouble is by no means dangerous, but it is exceedingly slow. The doctors can do nothing but help nature in her work of elimination and fresh growth. In addition to this I make frequent injections of camomile tea and silver nitrate every day and take a warm bath. Our staff doctor will shortly pronounce me "temporarily disabled," and it is not improbable that I may always suffer from some weakness round about the wound. As soon as I was able to wield a pen again I plunged once more into my studies, of which I send you a sample in the enclosed little Dance Song.

The day before yesterday at noon I reached the pretentious little village spa called Wittekind. It was raining hard and the flags that had been hung out for the spa festival were looking limp and dirty. My host, an unmistakable rogue with opaque blue spectacles, came forward to meet me and conducted me to the apartment I had engaged six days before.

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Everything about this room, including an absolutely mouldy sofa, was as desolate as a prison. I very soon realized too that this same host employed only one servant maid for two houses full of visitors which probably means from twenty to forty people. Before the first hour had elapsed I had a visit, but so disagreeable a one that I was only able to shake it off by means of the most energetic courtesy.

In short the whole atmosphere of the place I had just entered was chilly, damp and disagreeable.

by Guy de Maupassant

Yesterday I took stock a bit of the place and its in habitants. At table I had the good fortune to sit near a deaf-and-dumb man and a number of extraordinary-shaped females. The place does not seem bad, but one can go nowhere and see nothing owing to the rain and the damp. Volkmann called and prescribed the local baths for me. He also spoke of an operation in the near future.

How grateful I am to you for having given me Ehlert's book.

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Unkind tongues might say the book is written in an agitated and inferior style. But the who uses his eyes in art. At bottom it is music though it happens to be written not in notes but in words. A painter must experience the most painful sensations on beholding all this confusion of images crowded together without any method.

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The best books for expecting mothers, curated by Amazon Book Review editor and working mom, Sarah Gelman. Adam Chester works as a professional composer and singer-songwriter who is employed as the official "surrogate Elton John." His mom lives about 20 minutes away and still writes. S'Mother: The Story of a Man, His Mom, and the Thousands of Altogether Insane Letters She's Mailed Him (Audible Audio Edition): Adam Chester.

But unfortunately I have a weakness for the Paris feuilleton , for Heine's Reisebilder , etc. What pains it has cost me to pull a scientific face in order to write down a jejune train of thought with the requisite decency and alia breve. Your husband can even sing a song about this not to the tune it is true of " Ach lieber Franz, noch " [27] , etc. But perhaps I shall one day discover a philological theme that will permit of musical treatment, and then I shall splutter like a suckling and heap up images like a barbarian who has fallen asleep before an antique head of Venus, and still be in the right in spite of the "flourishing speed" [28] of the exposition.

And Ehlert is almost always right.

But to many men truth is irrecognizable in this harlequin garb. To us who hold no page of life too serious to allow of our sketching some joke in fleeting arabesque upon it, this is not so. And which of the gods can feel any surprise if we occasionally behave like satyrs and parody a life that always looks so serious and pathetic and wears buskins? If only I could manage to conceal my weakness for dissonance from you! Answer me frankly have you not already a terrible sample of it?

Here you have a second. Wagner's and Schopenhauer's club feet are difficult to conceal. But I shall improve. And if ever you should allow me to play you something again, I shall embody my memory of that beautiful Sunday in tones, and then you will hear what you only read today, to wit, what a tremendous deal that memory means to a bad musician, etc.

The Entire Original Maupassant Short Stories, by Guy de Maupassant

A few days ago I returned quite recovered from the baths at Wittekind, where I went in order to place myself in the able and experienced hands of Prof. Volkmann, the distinguished Halle surgeon. My regimental doctors were good and candid enough to advise me to consult this specialist, and after three weeks of the Wittekind cure, the somewhat painful healing process developed so favourably that Volkmann congratulated me and said I should now recover very quickly.