From President Obama’s Inaugural Address (2009)
As for our common defense, we reject as false the choice between our safety and our ideals. Our Founding
Fathers -- (applause) -- our Founding Fathers, faced with perils that we can scarcely imagine, drafted a charter to
assure the rule of law and the rights of man -- a charter expanded by the blood of generations. Those ideals still light
the world, and we will not give them up for expedience sake. (Applause.)
And so, to all the other peoples and governments who are watching today, from the grandest capitals to the small
village where my father was born, know that America is a friend of each nation, and every man, woman and child who
seeks a future of peace and dignity. And we are ready to lead once more. (Applause.)
Recall that earlier generations faced down fascism and communism not just with missiles and tanks, but with the
sturdy alliances and enduring convictions. They understood that our power alone cannot protect us, nor does it
entitle us to do as we please. Instead they knew that our power grows through its prudent use; our security
emanates from the justness of our cause, the force of our example, the tempering qualities of humility and restraint.
We are the keepers of this legacy. Guided by these principles once more we can meet those new threats that
demand even greater effort, even greater cooperation and understanding between nations. We will begin to
responsibly leave Iraq to its people and forge a hard-earned peace in Afghanistan. With old friends and former foes,
we'll work tirelessly to lessen the nuclear threat, and roll back the specter of a warming planet.
We will not apologize for our way of life, nor will we waver in its defense. And for those who seek to advance their
aims by inducing terror and slaughtering innocents, we say to you now that our spirit is stronger and cannot be
broken -- you cannot outlast us, and we will defeat you. (Applause.)
Because I could not stop for Death (712)
Emily Dickinson, 1830 - 1886
We paused before a House that seemed
Because I could not stop for Death –
A Swelling of the Ground –
He kindly stopped for me –
The Roof was scarcely visible –
The Carriage held but just Ourselves –
The Cornice – in the Ground –
And Immortality.
Since then – ‘tis Centuries – and yet
We slowly drove – He knew no haste
Feels shorter than the Day
And I had put away
I first surmised the Horses’ Heads
My labor and my leisure too,
Were toward Eternity –
For His Civility –
We passed the School, where Children strove
At Recess – in the Ring –
We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain –
We passed the Setting Sun –
Or rather – He passed us –
The Dews drew quivering and chill –
For only Gossamer, my Gown –
My Tippet – only Tulle –
"The Story of An Hour"
Kate Chopin (1894)
Knowing that Mrs. Mallard was afflicted
with a heart trouble, great care was
taken to break to her as gently as
possible the news of her husband's
death.
It was her sister Josephine who told her,
in broken sentences; veiled hints that
revealed in half concealing. Her
husband's friend Richards was there,
too, near her. It was he who had been
in the newspaper office when
intelligence of the railroad disaster was
received, with Brently Mallard's name
leading the list of "killed." He had only
taken the time to assure himself of its
truth by a second telegram, and had
hastened to forestall any less careful,
less tender friend in bearing the sad
message.
She did not hear the story as many
women have heard the same, with a
paralyzed inability to accept its
significance. She wept at once, with
sudden, wild abandonment, in her
sister's arms. When the storm of grief
had spent itself she went away to her
room alone. She would have no one
follow her.
There stood, facing the open window, a
comfortable, roomy armchair. Into this
she sank, pressed down by a physical
exhaustion that haunted her body and
seemed to reach into her soul.
She could see in the open square before
her house the tops of trees that were all
aquiver with the new spring life. The
delicious breath of rain was in the air. In
the street below a peddler was crying
his wares. The notes of a distant song
which some one was singing reached
her faintly, and countless sparrows were
twittering in the eaves.
There were patches of blue sky showing
here and there through the clouds that
had met and piled one above the other
in the west facing her window.
She sat with her head thrown back upon
the cushion of the chair, quite
motionless, except when a sob came up
into her throat and shook her, as a child
who has cried itself to sleep continues to
sob in its dreams.
She was young, with a fair, calm face,
whose lines bespoke repression and
even a certain strength. But now there
was a dull stare in her eyes, whose gaze
was fixed away off yonder on one of
those patches of blue sky. It was not a
glance of reflection, but rather indicated
a suspension of intelligent thought.
There was something coming to her and
she was waiting for it, fearfully. What
was it? She did not know; it was too
subtle and elusive to name. But she felt
it, creeping out of the sky, reaching
toward her through the sounds, the
scents, the color that filled the air.
Now her bosom rose and fell
tumultuously. She was beginning to
recognize this thing that was
approaching to possess her, and she
was striving to beat it back with her
will--as powerless as her two white
slender hands would have been. When
she abandoned herself a little whispered
word escaped her slightly parted lips.
She said it over and over under hte
breath: "free, free, free!" The vacant
stare and the look of terror that had
followed it went from her eyes. They
stayed keen and bright. Her pulses beat
fast, and the coursing blood warmed
and relaxed every inch of her body.
She did not stop to ask if it were or
were not a monstrous joy that held her.
A clear and exalted perception enabled
her to dismiss the suggestion as trivial.
She knew that she would weep again
when she saw the kind, tender hands
folded in death; the face that had never
looked save with love upon her, fixed
and gray and dead. But she saw beyond
that bitter moment a long procession of
years to come that would belong to her
absolutely. And she opened and spread
her arms out to them in welcome.
There would be no one to live for during
those coming years; she would live for
herself. There would be no powerful will
bending hers in that blind persistence
with which men and women believe they
have a right to impose a private will
upon a fellow-creature. A kind intention
or a cruel intention made the act seem
no less a crime as she looked upon it in
that brief moment of illumination.
And yet she had loved him--sometimes.
Often she had not. What did it matter!
What could love, the unsolved mystery,
count for in the face of this possession
of self-assertion which she suddenly
recognized as the strongest impulse of
her being!
"Free! Body and soul free!" she kept
whispering.
Josephine was kneeling before the
closed door with her lips to the keyhold,
imploring for admission. "Louise, open
the door! I beg; open the door--you will
make yourself ill. What are you doing,
Louise? For heaven's sake open the
door."
"Go away. I am not making myself ill."
No; she was drinking in a very elixir of
life through that open window.
Her fancy was running riot along those
days ahead of her. Spring days, and
summer days, and all sorts of days that
would be her own. She breathed a quick
prayer that life might be long. It was
only yesterday she had thought with a
shudder that life might be long.
She arose at length and opened the
door to her sister's importunities. There
was a feverish triumph in her eyes, and
she carried herself unwittingly like a
goddess of Victory. She clasped her
sister's waist, and together they
descended the stairs. Richards stood
waiting for them at the bottom.
Some one was opening the front door
with a latchkey. It was Brently Mallard
who entered, a little travel-stained,
composedly carrying his grip-sack and
umbrella. He had been far from the
scene of the accident, and did not even
know there had been one. He stood
amazed at Josephine's piercing cry; at
Richards' quick motion to screen him
from the view of his wife.
When the doctors came they said she
had died of heart disease--of the joy
that kills.