Letters to my Fanny

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endorsed by my mother as follows: -- "Letters from Aunt Jane to Aunt Cassandra at different periods of How much more fun in life could I have had if I'd just stopped worrying so much and stopped beating myself up? Some lines I read the other day are continually ringing a peal in my ears: To see those eyes I prize above mine own There’s a stigma attached and people link them to one night stands or lots of sex. If I tell someone I have a UTI they look at me as if to say, ‘Ooh, did you have an interesting weekend?’ but that’s a complete myth.

Letters To Fanny Keats, 26 October 1819 John Keats Letters To Fanny Keats, 26 October 1819

Forgive me if I wander a little this evening, for I have been all day employ'd in a very abstract Poem and I am in deep love with you two things which must excuse me. I have, believe me, not been an age in letting you take possession of me; the very first week I knew you I wrote myself your vassal; but burnt the Letter as the very next time I saw you I thought you manifested some dislike to me. If you should ever feel for Man at the first sight what I did for you, I am lost. Yet I should not quarrel with you, but hate myself if such a thing were to happen—only I should burst if the thing were not as fine as a Man as you are as a Woman. Why may I not speak of your Beauty, since without that I could never have lov'd you? I cannot conceive any beginning of such love as I have for you but Beauty. There may be a sort of love for which, without the least sneer at it, I have the highest respect and can admire it in others: but it has not the richness, the bloom, the full form, the enchantment of love after my own heart. So let me speak of your Beauty, though to my own endangering; if you could be so cruel to me as to try elsewhere its Power. Both – I’m a green-juice and yoga girl in the week (although I’m writing this on a Wednesday afternoon with a huge glass of prosecco) and then a cheesy nacho and vodka girl at the weekends. They did an ultrasound and discovered because I had left it so long, my kidneys were permanently damaged; they will always be scarred from the infection.”

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When you're just thinking about what you wish you could change about yourself, it's hard to think about what your body actually does do and what it has achieved in all the years you have been with it. This book does exactly that. If you want to start getting into self-love books, and just feminist loving books in general, I really would recommend this as a beginners book. I hadn't read many full on feminist books before, I only tried to read fantasy books hoping they had a badass feminist storyline towards it, but naturally, most of them have the typical storyline trope which isn't exactly what I have in mind. I never knew before, what such a love as you have made me feel, was; I did not believe in it; my Fancy was afraid of it, lest it should burn me up. But if you will fully love me, though there may be some fire, 'twill not be more than we can bear when moistened and bedewed with Pleasures.

Fannying about - Mother Pukka Fannying about - Mother Pukka

urn:lcp:letterstomyfanny0000heal:epub:6a99b31b-9cf9-40f2-a4d6-7877a10c2b07 Foldoutcount 0 Identifier letterstomyfanny0000heal Identifier-ark ark:/13960/t8ch2fk1t Invoice 1652 Isbn 9781405919791 Fanny and John remained engaged and in love until his tragically untimely death of tuberculosis at the age of twenty-five. The three years of their betrothal were among the most poetically productive for Keats. Do not accuse me of delay—we have not here any opportunity of sending letters every day. Write speedily.Ask yourself my love whether you are not very cruel to have so entrammelled me, so destroyed my freedom. Will you confess this in the Letter you must write immediately, and do all you can to console me in it—make it rich as a draught of poppies to intoxicate me—write the softest words and kiss them that I may at least touch my lips where yours have been. For myself I know not how to express my devotion to so fair a form: I want a brighter word than bright, a fairer word than fair. I almost wish we were butterflies and liv'd but three summer days—three such days with you I could fill with more delight than fifty common years could ever contain. But however selfish I may feel, I am sure I could never act selfishly: as I told you a day or two before I left Hampstead, I will never return to London if my Fate does not turn up Pam or at least a Court-card. Though I could centre my Happiness in you, I cannot expect to engross your heart so entirely—indeed if I thought you felt as much for me as I do for you at this moment I do not think I could restrain myself from seeing you again tomorrow for the delight of one embrace. I have been, I cannot tell why, in capital spirits this last hour. What reason? When I have to take my candle and retire to a lonely room, without the thought as I fall asleep, of seeing you tomorrow morning? or the next day, or the next—it takes on the appearance of impossibility and eternity—I will say a month—I will say I will see you in a month at most, though no one but yourself should see me; if it be but for an hour. I should not like to be so near you as London without being continually with you: after having once more kissed you Sweet I would rather be here alone at my task than in the bustle and hateful literary chitchat. Meantime you must write to me as I will every week for your letters keep me alive. My sweet Girl I cannot speak my love for you. You say you are afraid I shall think you do not love me—in saying this you make me ache the more to be near you. I am at the diligent use of my faculties here, I do not pass a day without sprawling some blank verse or tagging some rhymes; and here I must confess, that, (since I am on that subject,) I love you the more in that I believe you have liked me for my own sake and for nothing else. I have met with women whom I really think would like to be married to a Poem and to be given away by a Novel. I have seen your Comet, and only wish it was a sign that poor Rice would get well whose illness makes him rather a melancholy companion: and the more so as so to conquer his feelings and hide them from me, with a forc'd Pun. Letters from Miss Cassandra Austen to her niece Miss Knight, after the death of her sister Jane, July 18, 1817.

Keats’s Exquisite Love Letter to Fanny Brawne – The John Keats’s Exquisite Love Letter to Fanny Brawne – The

Image of a letter to her brother Frank in the form of a poem (congratulating him on the birth of a son, and looking forward to the Austen women's move to Chawton) Letters from Fanny Fowler, Lady Bridges, announcing the engagement of her three daughters, Elizabeth, Fanny, and Sophia. In Poetry I have a few Axioms, and you will see how far I am from their Centre. 1st I think Poetry should surprise by a fine excess and not by Singularity—it should strike the Reader as a wording of his own highest thoughts, and appear almost a Remembrance—2nd Its touches of Beauty should never be half way therby making the reader breathless instead of content: the rise, the progress, the setting of imagery should like the Sun come natural natural too him—shine over him and set soberly although in magnificence leaving him in the Luxury of twilight—but it is easier to think what Poetry should be than to write it—and this leads me on to another axiom. That if Poetry comes not as naturally as the Leaves to a tree it had better not come at all.

This book is the story of how I've come to understand some vital life lessons, and started to love being a woman. I hope you enjoy it. Except you, Mum and Dad. You should stop reading now. It's for the best. I promise." They can happen if I’m too hot, get dehydrated, go on a long haul flight, if I’m overtired; so many different reasons. As I’ve got older they have become more regular and they have peaked since the birth of my second child, Bear, who is five. I’ve had dozens,” says Cherry, who also has a daughter, Coco, nine. This book is a love letter, to my body. In fact it's several letters - to every part from my brain to my belly. I spent most of my life hating by body. I forced it to survive on a diet of ham; I squeezed it into asphyxiating support pants; I accidentally cut my delicate area whilst trimming my lady garden. But now I've realized that it deserves some well overdue TLC. This wonderfully warm, funny and candid book is a collection of hopeful dispatches from the frontline of girlhood - an impassioned plea to stop piling pressure on girls and young women and allow them to get on with their lives without having to mind the thigh gap . . .

Cherry Healey: Letters To My Fanny Podcast - SoundCloud Cherry Healey: Letters To My Fanny Podcast - SoundCloud

As someone who is in their late teenage years, I fully feel the pressure and stress that comes with the media in portraying the 'perfect body' and the sadness when you realise you 'don't fit' with it. Well, this book encourages people to embrace their flaws and to turn them into something they love about themselves. I find that I cannot exist without poetry—without eternal poetry—half the day will not do—the whole of it—I began with a little, but habit has made me a Leviathan—I had become all in a Tremble from not having written any thing of late—the Sonnet over leaf did me some good. I slept the better last night for it—this Morning, however, I am nearly as bad again—Just now I opened Spencer, and the first Lines I saw were these.— I’m fastidious about it now. I know what to look out for. If I’ve been for a wee and it’s a bit shorter than normal that’s usually the first sign. I’ll then get this strange ache in my pelvic area which grows and grows if you don’t do anything about it, until next time you go to the loo you’ll get the trademark sting when you wee.” But I am running my head into a Subject which I am certain I could not do justice to under five years study and 3 vols octavo—and moreover long to be talking about the Imagination—[ . . . ] I am certain of nothing but of the holiness of the Heart’s affections and the truth of Imagination—What the imagination seizes as Beauty must be truth—whether it existed before or not—for I have the same Idea of all our Passions as of Love they are all in their sublime, creative of essential Beauty—In a Word, you may know my favorite Speculation by my first Book and the little song I sent in my last—which is a representation from the fancy of the probable mode of operating in these Matters—The Imagination may be compared to Adam’s dream—he awoke and found it truth. I am the more zealous in this affair, because I have never yet been able to perceive how any thing can be known for truth by consequitive reasoning—and yet it must be—Can it be that even the greatest Philosopher ever arrived at his goal without putting aside numerous objections—However it may be, O for a Life of Sensations rather than of Thoughts! It is ‘a Vision in the form of Youth’ a Shadow of reality to come—and this consideration has further convinced me for it has come as auxiliary to another favorite Speculation of mine, that we shall enjoy ourselves here after by having what we called happiness on Earth repeated in a finer tone and so repeated—And yet such a fate can only befall those who delight in sensation rather than hunger as you do after Truth—Adam’s dream will do here and seems to be a conviction that Imagination and its empyreal reflection is the same as human Life and its spiritual repetition. But as I was saying—the simple imaginative Mind may have its rewards in the repetion of its own silent Working coming continually on the spirit with a fine suddenness—to compare great things with small—have you never by being surprised with an old Melody—in a delicious place—by a delicious voice, felt over again your very speculations and surmises at the time it first operated on your soul—do you not remember forming to yourself the singer’s face more beautiful that it was possible and yet with the elevation of the Moment you did not think so—even then you were mounted on the Wings of Imagination so high—that the Prototype must be here after—that delicious face you will see—What a time! I am continually running away from the subject—sure this cannot be exactly the case with a complex Mind—one that is imaginative and at the same time careful of its fruits—who would exist partly on sensation partly on thought—to whom it is necessary that years should bring the philosophic Mind—such an one I consider your’s and therefore it is necessary to your eternal Happiness that you not only drink this old Wine of Heaven which I shall call the redigestion of our most ethereal Musings on Earth; but also increase in knowledge and know all things.

In this hilarious and candid memoir about twenty-first-century womanhood, Cherry Healey shares outrageous, poignant and eye-wateringly funny confessions. The title of the book is there to grab attention. What the book actually does is to describe her life using various body parts as a starting point. I doubt this is an unique way of telling a story but it is effective in this case.