I'm a middle aged woman, starting over. Life is sometimes scary, often times hard, and ever so often lonely, but mostly it's fun and exciting, this new path I find myself on.
You Have Seen Their Faces by Erskine Caldwell & Margaret Bourke-White
Housekeeping by Marilynne Robinson
Invisible Man by Ralph Ellison
To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee
Tropic of Cancer by Henry Miller
Things Fall Apart by Chinua Achebe
A Seperate Peace by John Knowles
Beloved by Toni Morrison
Cry the Beloved Country by Alan Paton
Followers
Calm Intensity by Ford Smith
Sonnet XVII by Pablo Neruda I do not love you as if you were a salt rose, or topaz or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off. I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul. I love you as the plant that never blooms but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers; thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance, risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body. I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride; So I love you because I know no other way than this: where I does not exist, nor you, so close that your hand on my chest is my hand, so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.
Mary Ellen Mark
“The obsessions we have are pretty much the same our whole lives. Mine are people, the human condition, life.”
Migrant Mother by Dorothea Lang
am trying here to say something about the despised, the defeated, the alienated. About death and disaster, about the wounded, the crippled, the helpless, the rootless, the dislocated. About finality. About the last ditch. - Dorothea Lange
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