I remember distinctly the suddenness
with which a key turned in a lock
and I found I could read .. All a
long summer holiday I kept my secret,
as I believed: I did not want anybody
to know that I could read. I suppose
I half consciously realized even then
that this was the dangerous moment.
I expunge the stain of
remembering the Little
Father and his Czarina
beneath the White House
Christmas trees, toying
with children's dreams -
as I recall a fragment
from an essay in plain
sight of every visitor
to my home, every day -
who lets one trust the
lessons we must learn.
The Lost Childhood
and Other Essays
Viking, 1951©
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