英语
alt in the middle to look behind and weep. Slavery is the price I paid for civilization, and the choice was not with me. No one on earth ever had a greater chance for glory. The world to be won and nothing to be lost. It is thrilling to think, to know, that for any act of mine, I shall get twice as much praise or twice as much blame. It is quite exciting to hold the center of the national stage, with the audience not knowing whether to laugh or to weep.
I do not always feel colored. Even now I often achieve the unconscious Zora of that small village, Eatonville. For instance, I can sit in a restaurant with a white person. We enter chatting about any little things that we have in common and the white man would sit calmly in his seat, listening to me with interest.
At certain times I have no race, I am me. But in the main, I feel like a brown bag of mixed items propped up against a wall. Against a wall in company with other bags, white, red and yellow. Pour out the contents, and there is discovered a pile of small things both valuable and worthless. Bits of broken glass, lengths of string, a key to a door long since decayed away, a rusty knife-blade, old shoes saved for a road that never was and never will be, a nail bent under the weight of things too heavy for any nail, a dried flower or two still with a little smell. In your hand is the brown bag. On the ground before you is the pile it held — so much like the piles in the other bags, could they be emptied, that all might be combined and mixed in a single heap and the bags refilled without altering the content of any greatly. A bit of colored glass more or less would not matter. Perhaps that is how the Great Stuffer of Bags filled them in the first place — who knows?
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Why Are Women Afraid of Wrinkles
When I casually mentioned to a colleague that I was looking into skin cream that claimed to beat back the destruction that comes with age, her worries poured out. A month ago, she told me, she had suddenly noticed wrinkles all over her face. Fingering her beautiful but finely-lined features, she explained that, although she knew that her discovery had more to do with the shock resulting from the sudden end of a six-year relationship than early ageing, she just had to do something about it.
Giving her the painful facts concerning her chance to renew herself, I told her I thought the claims of such miracle cures were ridiculous. Despite my remarks, however, she begged to know where she could get the treatments I had mentioned. When it comes to beauty who wants to know the truth?
Our ability to believe what we want to has, in the past, made life easy for the beauty industry. Fuelled by the immense value attached to youth, it has made millions out of vacant promises of renewing faces and bodie
s. To give skin care scientific authority, beauty counters have now stolen a thin covering of respectability from the hospital clinic. Sales sta