Autobiography of Margaret Sanger. Margaret Sanger
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Margaret Sanger
Autobiography of Margaret Sanger
Account of the Fight for a Birth Control
Books
OK Publishing, 2020
[email protected] Tous droits réservés.
EAN 4064066395766
Table of Contents
Chapter One FROM WHICH I SPRING
Chapter Two BLIND GERM OF DAYS TO BE
Chapter Three BOOKS ARE THE COMPASSES
Chapter Four DARKNESS THERE AND NOTHING MORE
Chapter Five CORALS TO CUT LIFE UPON
Chapter Six FANATICS OF THEIR PURE IDEALS
Chapter Seven THE TURBID EBB AND FLOW OF MISERY
Chapter Eight I HAVE PROMISES TO KEEP
Chapter Ten WE SPEAK THE SAME GOOD TONGUE
Chapter Twelve STORK OVER HOLLAND
Chapter Thirteen THE PEASANTS ARE KINGS
Chapter Fourteen O, TO BE IN ENGLAND
Chapter Fifteen HIGH HANGS THE GAUNTLET
Chapter Sixteen HEAR ME FOR MY CAUSE
Chapter Seventeen FAITH I HAVE BEEN A TRUANT IN THE LAW
Chapter Eighteen LEAN HUNGER AND GREEN THIRST
Chapter Nineteen THIS PRISON WHERE I LIVE
Chapter Twenty A STOUT HEART TO A STEEP HILL
Chapter Twenty-one THUS TO REVISIT
Chapter Twenty-two DO YE HEAR THE CHILDREN WEEPING?
Chapter Twenty-three IN TIME WE ONLY CAN BEGIN
Chapter Twenty-four LAWS WERE LIKE COBWEBS
Chapter Twenty-five ALIEN STARS ARISE
Chapter Twenty-six THE EAST IS BLOSSOMING
Chapter Twenty-seven ANCIENTS OF THE EARTH
Chapter Twenty-eight THE WORLD IS MUCH THE SAME EVERYWHERE
Chapter Twenty-nine WHILE THE DOCTORS CONSULT
Chapter Thirty NOW IS THE TIME FOR CONVERSE
Chapter Thirty-one GREAT HEIGHTS ARE HAZARDOUS
Chapter Thirty-two CHANGE IS HOPEFULLY BEGUN
Chapter Thirty-three OLD FATHER ANTIC, THE LAW
Chapter Thirty-four SENATORS, BE NOT AFFRIGHTED
Chapter Thirty-five A PAST WHICH IS GONE FOREVER
Chapter Thirty-six FAITH IS A FINE INVENTION
Chapter Thirty-seven WHO CAN TAKE A DREAM FOR TRUTH?
Chapter Thirty-eight DEPTH BUT NOT TUMULT
Chapter Thirty-nine SLOW GROWS THE SPLENDID PATTERN
Chapter One FROM WHICH I SPRING
“‘Where shall I begin, please your Majesty?’ he asked. ‘Begin at the beginning,’ the King said, very gravely, ‘and go on till you come to the end: then stop.’”
LEWIS CARROLL
The streets of Corning, New York, where I was born, climb right up from the Chemung River, which cuts the town in two; the people who live there have floppy knees from going up and down. When I was a little girl the oaks and the pines met the stone walks at the top of the hill, and there in the woods my father built his house, hoping mother’s “congestion of the lungs” would be helped if she could breathe the pure, balsam-laden air.
My mother, Anne Purcell, always had a cough, and when she braced herself against the wall the conversation, which was forever echoing from room to room, had to stop until she recovered. She was slender and straight as an arrow, with head well set on sloping shoulders, black, wavy hair, skin white and spotless, and with wide-apart eyes, gray-green, flecked with amber. Her family had been Irish as far back as she could trace; the strain of the Norman conquerors