Word: janes
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Dates: during 1950-1959
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Shirley Barger, Helen Scott Bennett, Dorothea Bourne, Amelia Riddick Brent, Ruth Brine, Marjorie Burns, Peggy Bushong, Nancy McD. Chase, Bertha Cordeiro! Lilian Davidson, Estelle Dembeck, Lois Dickert, Anne Dirkes, Kathleen Donahue, Joan Dye, Kathryn Egan, Marta Erdman, Lenora Ersner, Jane Farley, Marcelle Farrington, Dorothy Ferenbaugh, Blanche Finn, Rosemary L. Frank, Mary Elizabeth Fremd, Judith Friedberg, Marcia Gauger, Marie Kathryn Gibbons, Jean Gutheim, Dorothy Slavin Haysteafl, Harriet Heck, Robin Hinsdale, Bonnie Claire Howells, Vera Kovarsky, E. Eleanore Larsen, Sylvia Crane Myers, Helen Newlin, Amelia North, Mary Baylor Reinhart, Margaret Rorison, Deirdre Mead Ryan, Jane Darby Scholl, Ruth Silva, M. Ava Smith...
...dearest little Goody," "Best little Goodykin," "Dearest of all Jeannies," "Lovely Princess," "Lovekin." This is no moonstruck sophomore toasting epistolary marshmallows for his sweetie, but one of the finer minds of the 19th century, Thomas Carlyle, addressing his wife, Jane Welsh Carlyle. During some 40 years of turbulent married life, Carlyle gradually diluted these honeyed words with wormwood. As Editor Trudy Bliss's generous sampling of Carlyle's domestic correspondence makes plain, he used confectionery phrases to sugarcoat endless pills packed with personal neuroses...
Trigger-nerved, bilious, plagued with insomnia, Carlyle found a captivated as well as a captive audience in wife Jane, who shared all of his symptoms and capped them with migraine headaches of her own. Many a letter finds Carlyle with his ear cupped to the inner symphony of psychosomatic complaints: "Alas, alas, I am losing my eyesight (sad symptom of bile) by stooping over this flat table." In the country, a cow lowing in pasture could ruin his night's sleep. London was all "noise, unwholesomeness, dirt and fret." In Germany, all coffee resembled a "physic." Paris proved...
Avid for news himself, he was quick to chide when replies were tardy. ("No letter, Goodykin, none today yet?") He came so close to treating his talented wife like an aimless birdbrain that Jane once chided him for writing "as if I were some nice child, writing ... to its Godpapa." But occasionally, Carlyle came close to sharing an idea with his "wee wifiekin," as when he was moved by the human and physical blight of the Industrial Revolution on a South Wales town: "The town might be ... one of the prettiest places in the world...
...this cursed book is flung out from me." Some days he had "the strength of 20,000 cockneys"; on others he was "sunk as in tropical oppression" with a "base, underhand desire to lie down in everlasting leaden sleep." Sometimes the limp writing hand he held out for Jane Carlyle to pat was only slapped, and Carlyle would whimper, "You are not good to me just now." But more often she fought the literary battle out at his side, freely giving the encouragement he needed...