Anne Sullivan Quotes

The best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen or even touched. They must be felt with the heart

Great poetry needs no interpreter other than a responsive heart.

I am conscious of a soul-sense that lifts me above the narrow, cramping circumstances of my life. My physical limitations are forgotten- my world lies upward, the length and the breadth and the sweep of the heavens are mine!

Obedience is the gateway through which knowledge enters the mind of the child.

I began my studies with eagerness. Before me I saw a new world opening in beauty and light, and I felt within me the capacity to know all things. In the wonderland of Mind I should be as free as another [with sight and hearing]. Its people, scenery, manners, joys, and tragedies should be living tangible interpreters of the real world. The lecture halls seemed filled with the spirit of the great and wise, and I thought the professors were the embodiment of wisdom... But I soon discovered that college was not quite the romantic lyceum I had imagined. Many of the dreams that had delighted my young inexperience became beautifully less and "faded into the light of common day." Gradually I began to find that there were disadvantages in going to college. The one I felt and still feel most is lack of time. I used to have time to think, to reflect, my mind and I. We would sit together of an evening and listen to the inner melodies of the spirit, which one hears only in leisure moments when the words of some loved poet touch a deep, sweet chord in the soul that until then had been silent. But in college there is no time to commune with one's thoughts. One goes to college to learn, it seems, not to think. When one enters the portals of learning, one leaves the dearest pleasures – solitude, books and imagination – outside with the whispering pines. I suppose I ought to find some comfort in the thought that I am laying up treasures for future enjoyment, but I am improvident enough to prefer present joy to hoarding riches against a rainy day.

People seldom see the halting and painful steps by which the most insignificant success is achieved.

I am beginning to suspect all elaborate and special systems of education. They seem to me to be built up on the supposition that every child is a kind of idiot who must be taught to think.

Too often, I think, children are required to write before they have anything to say. Teach them to think and read and talk with self-repression, and they will write because they cannot help it.

There are times when I long to sweep away half the things I am expected to learn; for the overtaxed mind cannot enjoy the treasure it has secured at the greatest cost. ... When one reads hurriedly and nervously, having in mind written tests and examinations, one's brain becomes encumbered with a lot of bric-a-brac for which there seems to be little use. At the present time my mind is so full of heterogeneous matter that I almost despair of ever being able to put it in order. Whenever I enter the region of my mind I feel like the proverbial bull in the china shop. A thousand odds and ends of knowledge come crashing about my head like hailstones, and when I try to escape them, theme goblins and college nixies of all sorts pursue me, until I wish – oh, may I be forgiven the wicked wish! – that I might smash the idols I came to worship.

Children require guidance and sympathy far more than instruction.

It was my teacher's genius, her quick sympathy, her loving tact which made the first years of my education so beautiful. It was because she seized the right moment to impart knowledge that made it so pleasant and acceptable to me. She realized that a child's mind is like a shallow brook which ripples and dances merrily over the stony course of its education and reflects here a flower, there a bush, yonder a fleecy cloud; and she attempted to guide my mind on its way, knowing that like a brook it should be fed by mountain streams and hidden springs, until it broadened out into a deep river, capable of reflecting in its placid surface, billowy hills, the luminous shadows of trees and the blue heavens, as well as the sweet face of a little flower. Any teacher can take a child to the classroom, but not every teacher can make him learn. He will not work joyously unless he feels that liberty is his, whether he is busy or at rest; he must feel the flush of victory and the heart-sinking of disappointment before he takes with a will the tasks distasteful to him and resolves to dance his way bravely through a dull routine of textbooks. My teacher is so near to me that I scarcely think of myself apart from her. How much of my delight in all beautiful things is innate, and how much is due to her influence, I can never tell. I feel that her being is inseparable from my own, and that the footsteps of my life are in hers. All the best of me belongs to her--there is not a talent, or an aspiration or a joy in me that has not been awakened by her loving touch.

I cannot see the lovely things with my eyes, but my mind can see them all, and so I am joyful all the day long.

At another time she asked,'what is a soul?' ' No one knows,'I replied; 'but we know it is not the body, and it is that part of us which thinks and loves and hopes'...[and] is invisible...'But if I write what my soul thinks,'she said, 'then it will be visible, and the words will be its body.

There is nothing more beautiful, I think, than the evanescent fleeting images and sentiments presented by a language one is just becoming familiar with—ideas that flit across the mental sky, shaped and tinted by capricious fancy.

I thought. I thought of the slow yellow autumn in the swamp and the high honey sun of spring and the eternal silence of the marshes, and the shivering light on them, and the whisper of the spartina and sweet grass in the wind and the little liquid splashes of who-knew-what secret creatures entering that strange old place of blood-warm half earth, half water. I thought of the song of all the birds that I knew, and the soft singsong of the coffee-skinned women who sold their coiled sweet-grass baskets in the market and on Meeting Street. I thought of the glittering sun on the morning harbor and the spicy, somehow oriental smells from the dark old shops, and the rioting flowers everywhere, heavy tropical and exotic. I thought of the clop of horses' feet on cobblestones and the soft, sulking, wallowing surf of Sullivan's Island in August, and the countless small vistas of grace and charm wherever the eye fell; a garden door, a peeling old wall, an entire symmetrical world caught in a windowpane. Charlestone simply could not manage to offend the eye. I thought of the candy colors of the old houses in the sunset, and the dark secret churchyards with their tumbled stones, and the puresweet bells of Saint Michael's in the Sunday morning stillness. I thought of my tottering piles of books in the study at Belleau and the nights before the fire when my father told me of stars and butterflies and voyages, and the silver music of mathematics. I thought of hot, milky sweet coffee in the mornings, and the old kitchen around me, and Aurelia's gold smile and quick hands and eyes rich with love for me.

autobiography

Cheer up, the worst is yet to come.

How strange that the bully, unmasked, is always awash in self-pity.

As bellhop closes the door behind him, you are left with a feeling of security and relaxation. Your mind starts to drift, and you wonder to yourself, who else has stayed in this room?

Is it not true, then, that my life with all its limitation touches at many points the life of the World Beautiful? Everything has its wonders, even darkness and silence, and I learn, whatever state I may be, therein to be content.

In attempting to determine how Adolf Hitler had taken control, the US Office of Strategic Services commissioned a report in 1943 that explained his strategy: “Never to admit a fault or wrong; never to accept blame; concentrate on one enemy at a time; blame that enemy for everything that goes wrong; take advantage of every opportunity to raise a political whirlwind.”8 Soon hyperbole, extremism, defamation, and slander become commonplace and acceptable vehicles of power.

It would be incorrect in every sense to say that so near the end of his life he had lost his faith, when in fact God seemed more abundant to him in the Regina Cleri home than any place he had been before. God was in the folds of his bathrobe, the ache of his knees. God saturated the hallways in the form of a pale electrical light. But now that his heart had become so shiftless and unreliable, now that he should be sensing the afterlife like a sweet scent drifting in from the garden, he had started to wonder if there was in fact no afterlife at all. Look at all these true believers who wanted only to live, look at himself, cling onto this life like a squirrel scrambling up the icy pitch of a roof. In suggesting that there may be nothing ahead of them, he in no way meant to diminish the future; instead, Father Sullivan hoped to elevate the present to a state of the divine. It seemed from this moment of repose that God may well have been life itself. God may have been the baseball games, the beautiful cigarette he smoked alone after checking to see that all the bats had been put back behind the closet door. God could have been the masses in which he had told people how best to prepare for the glorious life everlasting, the one they couldn't see as opposed to the one they were living at that exact moment in the pews of the church hall, washed over in stained glass light. How wrongheaded it seemed now to think that the thrill of heartbeat and breath were just a stepping stone to something greater. What could be greater than the armchair, the window, the snow? Life itself had been holy. We had been brought forth from nothing to see the face of God and in his life Father Sullivan had seen it miraculously for eighty-eight years. Why wouldn't it stand to reason that this had been the whole of existence and now he would retreat back to the nothingness he had come from in order to let someone else have their turn at the view. This was not the workings of disbelief. It was instead a final, joyful realization of all he had been given. It would be possible to overlook just about anything if you were trained to constantly strain forward to see the power and the glory that was waiting up ahead. What a shame it would have been to miss God while waiting for him.

Not moving, and barely

Fascism counts on people's credulity, on their craving to believe, on their fear that there is nothing to believe.

Having kids is the best kind of ‘out of control’ there is.

Nothing had just happened to her, she had made a choice, and then she had made another and another after that. Taken together, the small choices anyone made added up to a life. J. Courtney Sullivan

The Netherlands in 1940 was like a petri dish in which one can examine how people brought up in freedom react to catastrophe when it is brought to their door: It is a questions still worth asking today.

Neither Doyle nor Sullivan had ever been to visit him at Regina Cleri, and Tip had only come one time and then left after five minutes. To Father Sullivan it was as if this part of his family, these people whom he loved, had all packed up and gone to Africa.

Tomorrow was Sunday. Sunday was a good day to be born. I was born on Sunday, although I didn’t remember it. Sometimes, when Mama talked about it, I thought I could remember being afraid, high in the air, rocking in a little flannel blanket, clutched in a stork’s beak. What would Aunt Betty’s baby remember? If only babies could talk, they could tell us what God was like, before they forgot. If I asked Aunt Betty’s baby easy questions about God, questions you could answer yes or no, maybe she could give me a sign. Maybe God sent babies into the world without words, precisely so they wouldn’t reveal Him while they still remembered.

Life itself had been holy. We had been brought forth from nothing to see the face of God and in his life Father Sullivan had seen it miraculously for eighty-eight years. Why wouldn't it stand to reason that that this had been the whole of existence and now he would retreat back to the nothingness he had come from in order to let someone else have their turn at the view?

Somewhere along the line Teddy’s love for his mother had become his love for Father Sullivan, and his love for Father Sullivan became his love for God. The three of them were bound into an inextricable knot: the living and the dead and the life everlasting. Each one led him to the other, and any member of the trinity he loved simply increased his love for all three. The question wasn’t did he ever think of his mother. The question was did he ever think of anything else.

As far as she had seen, Maggie explained, what made people and pleased them, and threatened to ultimately ruin them, was love. Not romantic love necessarily, but the love of something, the thing that defined your life. Her mother was in love with booze. While other people might have a glass or two of wine with dinner because they liked it well enough, Kathleen loved the stuff, and so it destroyed her. Her uncle Patrick and aunt Ann Marie loved status, money, appearance—that would wreck them one day, if it hadn’t already. Maggie

minced 4 dashes Worcestershire sauce 1 (2.25 ounce) can green olives 1/2 cup chopped pecans DIRECTIONS Mix three cheeses, onion, garlic and sauce in a blender. Process mixture until well blended. Add olives, and pulse into small chunks. Ball mixture, and coat with chopped pecans. Wrap in plastic, and chill 4 hours in refrigerator.

filled with flawed characters, and brimming with emotion. Set in Sullivan’s Island, South Carolina, this book takes me home and is both deeply personal and intensely satisfying, in terms of pushing the storytelling envelope. In a sense, I’ve opened a vein with Zoe’s story. I hope you’ll enjoy her and pull for her as

Flocksdale Files trilogy, Horror High series, Searching for Sullivan, 13, 13: Deja Vu, Grayson’s Ridge, Shattered Time, Things Only the Darkness Knows, Shades and Shadows, and This Is Not About Love. She resides in Floyds Knobs, Indiana

Sometimes she thought she would have been better off procreating at twenty-two than thirty-two. Back then, she had thought she wanted four or five kids someday. She was still young and dumb enough to think it possible. Maybe that’s how mothers like Anne Marie were made — they plunged headlong into the whole endeavor before they knew any better. They weren’t selfish or greedy with their time because as adults they had never spent several Saturdays in a row lying in bed watching Meg Ryan movies on cable. They had never passed an entire weekend indoors, just because they felt like it.

What happens when people cannot trust the institutions that are supposed to protect them? What happens when the fundamental laws that constitute and protect decent behavior crumble? The Netherlands in 1940 was like a petri dish in which one can examine how people brought up in freedom react to catastrophe when it is brought to their door. It is a question still worth asking today.

Anti-Semitism there was mild in comparison to that in many other European countries. Yet the Netherlands transported more Jews to their deaths in extermination camps in the east than any other country in Western Europe. Of the 140,000 Jews living in the Netherlands, 107,000 were deported and only 5,500 returned.

To those who encountered Otto at the time, he seems to be a man purged by fire, walking through Amsterdam as though in a strange dream, searching for news of his children. Finding out that he was his family's sole survivor must have sent him to a very dark place. Vince hypothesized that Otto's grief had eventually turned into a mission to find the people responsible for the Annex raid, although his motive was not vengeance; he was seeking accountability and justice.

12 Excitement of the hunt! It’s an astonishing phrase. Coerced by fear for her life, then seduced by power. Is it possible that one thing we can learn from Ans van Dijk is that totalitarian regimes achieve their power not just through repression but through the seduction of insiderism, which turns people into craven sycophants?

Adjusting herself, she doesn’t feel any different. Not really. And now what? Is she supposed to go back to Ben? Are they going to do it again? Was she good? Was he good? Who defines ‘good’ anyway? Is he going to tell everyone? What will he tell them?

Realizing he doesn’t have any clothes on, James does a covert ninja move to retrieve his boxer shorts and is caught mid-roll as Penny emerges from the bathroom.

What?” Ann asked. “I didn’t say anything.” “I know. You’re just standing there staring. What are you thinking?” “I was wondering if you loved me.” She smiled at the mirror, the magical world between the two swans. Amrath imagined it was a beautiful place, a pretty country where troubles never found entry. “I bore you two wonderful children.” She kissed the crown of Arista’s head. “That was your duty as queen, but do—” “Really?” She paused with the brush still holding on to a few strands of Arista’s hair to look at him. “A duty? Is that how you found it?” “Not for my part—of course not.” She returned to the mirror and the brushing. “Then why would you think I saw it that way? Did I appear to be suffering? Do I now? It’s such a hardship being your wife. Perhaps you should summon the guard to whip me, lest I stop brushing my daughter’s hair.” Arista laughed and covered her face with her hands. Amrath scowled at her. “I could have sworn we had a dozen servants whose job it is to see to Arista’s grooming.” “There, you see? What more proof do you need? I do this because I want to.” “That just proves you love your children.” “Actually it just proves you love me,” Arista whispered. Ann gave her a gentle slap on the head that caused her to giggle again. “Quiet, you.

Set in Sullivan’s Island, South Carolina, this book takes me home and is both deeply personal and intensely satisfying, in

more thrilled to see its publication. In my twenty-six years of publishing, it’s my first major hardcover release and brings me full circle to work with Lou Aronica, whom I first had the pleasure of working with while at Avon Books. It’s also my very first non-genre novel, although you will find it a signature Tanya Anne Crosby read, filled with flawed characters, and brimming with emotion. Set in Sullivan’s Island, South Carolina, this book takes me home and is both deeply personal and intensely satisfying, in terms of pushing the storytelling envelope. In a sense, I’ve opened a vein with Zoe’s story.

Zoe Rutherford wasn’t sure what she was expecting when she returned to Sullivan’s Island. The house on Sullivan’s hadn’t represented home to her in decades. It was the place where she endured her father’s cruelty. It was the place where her mother closed herself off from the world. It was the place where her sister disappeared. But now that her parents are gone, Zoe needs to return to the house, to close it down and prepare it for sale. She intends to get this done as quickly as possible and get on with her life, even though that life seems clouded

Who Stayed is also a book of the heart and I couldn’t be more thrilled to see its publication. In my twenty-six years of publishing, it’s my first major hardcover release and brings me full circle to work with Lou Aronica, whom I first had the pleasure of working with while at Avon Books. It’s also my very first non-genre novel, although you will find it a signature Tanya Anne Crosby read, filled with flawed characters, and brimming with emotion. Set in Sullivan’s Island, South Carolina, this book takes me home and is both deeply personal

whom I first had the pleasure of working with while at Avon Books. It’s also my very first non-genre novel, although you will find it a signature Tanya Anne Crosby read, filled with flawed characters, and brimming with emotion. Set in Sullivan’s Island, South Carolina, this book takes me home and is both deeply personal and intensely satisfying, in terms of pushing the storytelling envelope. In a sense, I’ve opened a vein with Zoe’s

The Girl Who Stayed is also a book of the heart and I couldn’t be more thrilled to see its publication. In my twenty-six years of publishing, it’s my first major hardcover release and brings me full circle to work with Lou Aronica, whom I first had the pleasure of working with while at Avon Books. It’s also my very first non-genre novel, although you will find it a signature Tanya Anne Crosby read, filled with flawed characters, and brimming with emotion. Set in Sullivan’s Island, South Carolina, this book takes me home and is both deeply personal and intensely satisfying, in terms of pushing the storytelling envelope. In a sense, I’ve opened a vein with Zoe’s

The merciful Providence - or whatever power there is in the universe - has so ordained things that our little world will go on without us. Indeed, it will not miss us for long. It is a comfort to know that the waters close over us quickly. Only a few remember the splash and struggle, and fancy it important, really....I daresay we are making all this fuss for nothing.

In attempting to determine how Adolf Hitler had taken control, the US Office of Strategic Services commissioned a report in 1943 that explained his strategy: “Never to admit a fault or wrong; never to accept blame; concentrate on one enemy at a time; blame that enemy for everything that goes wrong; take advantage of every opportunity to raise a political whirlwind.

Define success on your own terms, achieve it by your own rules, and build a life you’re proud to live.” –Anne Sweeney, American businesswoman and former co-chair of Disney Media

After they were liberated at the end of the war, many survivors founded impossible to put what they'd experienced into words. It took the author Elie Wiesel ten years before he could right Night. He asked, "how was one to rehabilitate and transform words betrayed and perverted by the enemy? Hunger-thirst-fear-transport-selection-fire-chimney: these words all have intrinsic meaning, but in those times, they meant something else." How could you write without usurping and profaning the appalling suffering in that "demented and glacial universe where to be inhuman was to be human, where disciplined, educated men in uniform came to kill?

Another survivor of Bergen-Belsen, a young girl who knew Anne, commented, "There it took superhuman effort to remain alive. Typhus and debilitation-well, yes. But I feel certain that Anne died of her sister's death. Dying is so frightfully easy for anyone left alone in a concentration camp.

While someone with the first person knowledge is still alive, while records are still available, while relatives of witnesses can come forward, the stories must be told.

When her friend Cor Suijk asked her directly if she knew the name of the betrayer, she asked, "Cor, can you keep a secret?" Very eagerly he answered, "Yes, Miep, I can!" And she smiled and said, "Me, too.

The fact that Otto survived the horror of the concentration camps demonstrated his profound will to live.

Fellow-graduates: Duty bids us go forth into active life. Let us go cheerfully, hopefully, and earnestly, and set ourselves to find our especial part. When we have found it, willingly and faithfully perform it; for every obstacle we overcome, every success we achieve tends to bring man closer to God and make life more as He would have it.

Helen’s discovery of language with the help of Anne Sullivan captures the essence of a therapeutic relationship: finding words where words were absent before and, as a result, being able to share your deepest pain and deepest feelings with another human being. This is one of the most profound experiences we can have, and such resonance, in which hitherto unspoken words can be discovered, uttered, and received, is fundamental to healing the isolation of trauma—especially if other people in our lives have ignored or silenced us. Communicating fully is the opposite of being traumatized.

Zoe Rutherford wasn’t sure what she was expecting when she returned to Sullivan’s Island. The house on Sullivan’s hadn’t represented home to her in decades. It was the place where she endured her father’s cruelty. It was the place where her mother

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