Harriet Beecher Stowe cytaty

Harriet Beecher Stowe Fotografia
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Harriet Beecher Stowe

Data urodzenia: 14. Czerwiec 1811
Data zgonu: 1. Lipiec 1896
Natępne imiona:হ্যারিয়েট বিচার স্টো


Harriet Elisabeth Stowe z domu Beecher – amerykańska pisarka i działaczka społeczna, znana głównie z napisania sentymentalnej powieści Chata wuja Toma, opisującej murzyńskich niewolników zamieszkujących amerykańskie Południe. Pisała także powieści historyczne oraz powieści obyczajowe, których akcja toczy się zwykle w Nowej Anglii.

Cytaty Harriet Beecher Stowe

„Ja tego nie napisałam. Napisał to Bóg. Ja tylko pozwoliłam sobie dyktować.“

— Harriet Beecher Stowe
Źródło: przedmowa do Chaty wuja Toma, cyt. za: Timothy Perry, Harriet Beecher Stowe [w:] 501 wielkich pisarzy pod red. Juliana Patricka, tłum. Hanna Pawlikowska-Gannon, Julita Degórska, Małgorzata Koenig, wyd. MWK, Warszawa 2009, ISBN 9788361095333, s. 160.


„Soon after the completion of his college course, his whole nature was kindled into one intense and passionate effervescence of romantic passion. His hour came,—the hour that comes only once; his star rose in the horizon,—that star that rises so often in vain, to be remembered only as a thing of dreams; and it rose for him in vain. To drop the figure,—he saw and won the love of a high-minded and beautiful woman, in one of the northern states, and they were affianced. He returned south to make arrangements for their marriage, when, most unexpectedly, his letters were returned to him by mail, with a short note from her guardian, stating to him that ere this reached him the lady would be the wife of another. Stung to madness, he vainly hoped, as many another has done, to fling the whole thing from his heart by one desperate effort. Too proud to supplicate or seek explanation, he threw himself at once into a whirl of fashionable society, and in a fortnight from the time of the fatal letter was the accepted lover of the reigning belle of the season; and as soon as arrangements could be made, he became the husband of a fine figure, a pair of bright dark eyes, and a hundred thousand dollars; and, of course, everybody thought him a happy fellow.

The married couple were enjoying their honeymoon, and entertaining a brilliant circle of friends in their splendid villa, near Lake Pontchartrain, when, one day, a letter was brought to him in that well-remembered writing. It was handed to him while he was in full tide of gay and successful conversation, in a whole room-full of company. He turned deadly pale when he saw the writing, but still preserved his composure, and finished the playful warfare of badinage which he was at the moment carrying on with a lady opposite; and, a short time after, was missed from the circle. In his room, alone, he opened and read the letter, now worse than idle and useless to be read. It was from her, giving a long account of a persecution to which she had been exposed by her guardian's family, to lead her to unite herself with their son: and she related how, for a long time, his letters had ceased to arrive; how she had written time and again, till she became weary and doubtful; how her health had failed under her anxieties, and how, at last, she had discovered the whole fraud which had been practised on them both. The letter ended with expressions of hope and thankfulness, and professions of undying affection, which were more bitter than death to the unhappy young man. He wrote to her immediately:

I have received yours,—but too late. I believed all I heard. I was desperate. I am married, and all is over. Only forget,—it is all that remains for either of us."

And thus ended the whole romance and ideal of life for Augustine St. Clare. But the real remained,—the real, like the flat, bare, oozy tide-mud, when the blue sparkling wave, with all its company of gliding boats and white-winged ships, its music of oars and chiming waters, has gone down, and there it lies, flat, slimy, bare,—exceedingly real.

Of course, in a novel, people's hearts break, and they die, and that is the end of it; and in a story this is very convenient. But in real life we do not die when all that makes life bright dies to us.“

— Harriet Beecher Stowe, Uncle Tom's Cabin

„The bitterest tears shed over graves are for words left unsaid and deeds left undone.“

— Harriet Beecher Stowe, Little Foxes: Or, the Insignificant Little Habits Which Mar Domestic Happiness

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