I wanted to write about my mother as she should have been if she had not been messed up by World War I.
My mother died happily of a stroke in her seventies.
My mother was a woman who was very frustrated. She had a great deal of ability, and all this energy went into me and my brother.
Mother's room, and mother's need for privacy become a valuable lesson in respect for other people's rights.
[On her mother:] I was in nervous flight from her ever since I can remember anything, and from the age of fourteen I set myself obdurately against her in a kind of inner emigration from everything she represented. Girls do have to grow up, but has this battle always been so implacable?
All my friends' mothers were appalling women.
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