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Darkness cannot shut me in again. I have had a glimpse of the shore, and can now live by the hope of reaching it.

My optimism, then, does not rest on the absence of evil, but on a glad belief in the preponderance of good and a willing effort always to coöperate with the good, that it may prevail.

In the midst of my perplexity I read an essay of Stevenson which made me feel as if I had been "outing" in the sunshine, instead of losing heart over a difficult task. I tried again with new courage and succeeded almost before I knew it.

But during the first nineteen months of my life I had caught glimpses of broad, green fields, a luminous sky, trees and flowers which the darkness that followed could not wholly blot out.

Then comes hope with a smile and whispers, "There is joy in self-forgetfulness." So I try to make the light in others' eyes my sun, the music in others' ears my symphony, the smile on others' lips my happiness.

When I find my work particularly difficult and discouraging, she writes me letters that make me feel glad and brave; for she is one of those from whom we learn that one painful duty fulfilled makes the next plainer and easier.

I can say with conviction that the struggle which evil necessitates is one of the greatest blessings. It makes us strong, patient, helpful men and women.

I am never discouraged by absence of good. I never can be argued into hopelessness.

I, too, can work, and because I love to labor with my head and my hands, I am an optimist in spite of all.

If happiness is to be so measured, I who cannot hear or see have every reason to sit in a corner with folded hands and weep.

It lets us into the soul of things and teaches us that although the world is full of suffering, it is full also of the overcoming of it.

My share in the work of the world may be limited; but the fact that it is work makes it precious.

Once I knew the depth where no hope was, and darkness lay on the face of all things.

Children who hear acquire language without any particular effort; the words that fall from others' lips they catch on the wing, as it were, delightedly, while the little deaf child must trap them by a slow and often painful process.

Every struggle is a victory.

Had it not been for the persistent encouragement of Miss Sullivan, I think I should have given up trying to write altogether.

But I did not dream that that interview would be the door through which I should pass from darkness into light, from isolation to friendship, companionship, knowledge, love.

At the beginning I was only a little mass of possibilities. It was my teacher who unfolded and developed them.

I slip back many times, I fall, I stand still, I run against the edge of hidden obstacles, I lose my temper and find it again and keep it better, I trudge on, I gain a little, I feel encouraged, I get more eager and climb higher and begin to see the widening horizon.

Their life seems an immense disparity between effort and opportunity.